Crying in the closet.

Not the closet, but whatever.  It’s been a while.  Hi.

I have never felt my aloneness so keenly as I do now and so I cried in the fucking closet.

I am alone with all the fear for the future, I am alone in my struggle to keep all the balls in the air, I am alone in homeschooling a defiant, confused, and sad pre-teen, and – as usual – I am alone in love.

I sat on the floor with my laptop set on my giant fuzzy pillow.  My therapist’s wizened face watched me with kind eyes as I wept into my hands.  I wondered what she thought of the clothes organized behind me, hung neatly and in order of type of dress.  I did that the first week of quarantine.

Two weeks after I made the heartbreaking decision to cancel my trip to London on March 11th my ex texted to suggest that I keep our baby because there were so many families in our broken-home chain that I guess they had all decided it’d be safer for the kids to shelter in only one place separately.

I didn’t hesitate, “YES ABSOLUTELY I’LL DO IT.”

I have now had Peyton every minute of every day since school shut down 6 weeks ago and the world screeched to a halt.

I knew it’d be hard, but I also knew it’d be incredible. I hadn’t been able to be a mother uninterrupted since nearly 10 years ago. Yes, yes, yes, of course my baby will stay with me. I’m the kind one, the unselfish one, the smart one, the better, stronger, more capable parent. Yes, I’ll do it.

My child has no memory of only one stable home where the rules remained the same, the love the same, the bed and pillows unchanging.  I wanted to do this.

What I didn’t account for was the complete overwhelm.

I’m working more than ever and am buried under never-ending demands while constantly dealing with the world coming to a mother fucking end.  The heartbreaking injustices, the Sophie’s Choice of daily decisions to survive for so many.  Are there even words to describe the existential crises and trauma we are all experiencing together?  Things will never be the same and my soul is mourning.

Plus, while it’s a beautiful, honorable thing to be solely responsible for another’s well being, I feel like I am barely surviving myself.  Am I a good enough mother right now?  I fucking hope so.

I cried in the closet because I’d had yet another battle about school work and fuck is that English teacher for real?? Does she think I have nothing else to do but sit on my child all fucking day to make sure her need to make students work X amount of time is met?? Why haven’t they just called it already??

School’s out, take a break, mourn the end of life as we know it, parents. Make sure your kids are safe and happy. We’ll make it up next year/over the course of their lives because who really needs to know how to find the area of a fucking trapezoid anyway?  Jesusfuckingchrist.

I can’t talk to my ex – he’ll blame me and push to take Pey away; I have no partner to lean on –  my friends are sympathetic, but can’t understand; my family watch helplessly – they trust me, but have no solutions, either.

I get up early to write down assignments and scour the school site for information, but my child has been lying for weeks despite my best efforts and now I’ve moved my old iMac two feet from my little work station at the dining room table so I can support and help throughout the school day.

At night, after work, I tell myself I’ll work more on the school work, but I’m ignoring work that I need to do for myself and so say Fuck it instead and watch Gilmore Girls and have a glass of wine, make dinner, and cuddle with my sweet, angry, sad one.

We talk and laugh and the dog and cat pile on us.  For a moment all seems normal.  Of course I’m home on the couch on a Friday night because Pey is here.  And then I remember that even if I were childless, I’d still be alone because that hasn’t changed and it’s not safe to leave the fucking house.

And Peyton has been sleeping with me again this week; mothering has literally become something I do in my sleep.

As the years have ticked by it naturally happened less and less and when we moved to our new apartment in November we stopped entirely.  At my ex’s, the rule is no children allowed in the master bedroom for any reason.  Bad dreams, rough day, nothing, no, no, no.

Pey accepted it, was stoic about it, but at my house it was always, “Hey mommy? Can I sleep with you tonight?” and I would melt because, Of course, baby. Anything you need. They won’t always want to be close to us like this; what’s the rush to make it stop?

Then this week my ex refused to let Peyton come stay with him for just a weekend.  He wanted a full two weeks.  All or nothing.

“Would you like to sleep with me tonight?” Yes, my baby said. Yes.  Because this fragile, little baby human was rejected by a father who’s more interested in what he wants rather than what his child wants.

So yes, honey, of course you can sleep with mommy because your little heart is being broken. Your school is closed, your friends are just a bunch of idiot kids too and don’t call anyone either, you can’t have play dates or play your favorite sports, you can’t see your coaches or your teammates, your grandparents, your father won’t let you come see him because he’s mad you won’t stay longer, and you’re trapped in the house with a 45 yo woman who works full time, makes you do distance learning against your will and let’s not forget all the chores and bedtimes that are still enforced. Yes, sleep with me, baby. Forever if you need to. Forever.

Then my loneliness kicks back in as I strive to meet and solve that of my little love’s.  Fuck, the loneliness.

It’s so acute, like a knife in my heart, and it makes me panic to think about when Pey will finally go back to my ex.  I will be so so alone then – and I don’t do alone.

I feed my demanding extroversion through dating and men; they’re how I survive myself and the abandonment I experience every other week when my little one leaves me.

Abandonment. That’s what I’ve discovered during this quarantine: sharing custody  is akin to full blown abandonment to my nervous system – every other week – and I never get to recover or work it out or even feel it for what it is because then we are reunited and I’ve spent a week working longer hours and filling my time with men and wine and deep dreams about nothing.  I anchor my feelings at the bottom of all things, an ocean of nothingness, hidden from myself so I can start all over again in another 7 days, just so I can get out of fucking bed and look normal.

That era of distraction and distancing from myself is irrevocably over and I will have to feel my loneliness and face it head on.  The Universe wants me to notice.

The world is molting, shedding its layers of abuse and misuse and slowing down. The earth is breathing more deeply, people are waking the fuck up, we’re all crying for the loss, the injustice, the fear, the calamity.

This much I know for sure from crying in my closet: I want to love.  I want to love myself.  Better and more than ever before.  I want to be able to weather watching my child leave me over and over without dying inside, without craving stupid fucking dick.  I want to keep empty, greedy men away from me and my most precious parts.  I want to grow and fly and soar above the destructive decisions I ordinarily make.  And most importantly, I want to help my little one’s heart to heal alongside mine.

I’m looking forward to crying in my closet again and highly recommend it.  Everyone should go have a good cry in theirs.

 

I’m fragile.

A cute boy likes me.  I feel good because he likes me.
A cute boy ignores me.  I feel bad because he doesn’t want me.
A cute boy fucks me.  I feel good because he wants me.
A cute boy likes me.  I feel good because I’m amazing.
A cute boy ignores me.  I feel good because I’m amazing.
A cute boy fucks me.  I feel good because I’m amazing.
Take a guess at which one I am.
February Photofest

Be mine.

Be mine.

It’s motherfucking Valentine’s Day today.  Ugh.  What a load of shit.

February Photofest

The source is here.

Between there and there it all begins. The dip and the curve, the swell and the swerve.

It enchants us all with its mystique, it’s from whence we came and where we peak.

We seek its source throughout our life and return back through the afterlife.

It’s everything and everyone, my greatest power and my biggest gun.

 

February Photofest

Appreciating the little things.

Meow.

Like when you become a cat for just one magical moment.

 

February Photofest
Sinful Sunday

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It sucks.

Hy on her hands and knees
Ugh.

It just does.

 

 

February Photofest

Coming back.

Two years ago during February Photo Fest a similar picture nearly made me cry, but I posted it anyway because it was still me.  Not “sexy,” but alive and worn in the best possible way.  It made me feel honest to a fault and closer to you all.  It also challenged me and my idea of what was allowed for my body.

This photo is similar: my silvery stretch marks form a little constellation on my hip, my pooch pools just a little in my lap, the crease in my back cuts a dark slash across the pillowy cream of my skin.

Now I’m sounding like a dessert.

And it’s real and vulnerable, a photo I might have hesitated to text to a man once upon a time, but today I wouldn’t. I’d send it with an air of defiance.  I dare you to not love this, dicknose!

The older I get the more I think about the back half of the mountain and how I want to feel in my own skin.  Strong, worthy, virile.  Nothing about looking 25 again because I’m not 25 – I’m nearly twice that age now – and because of that I have no interest in turning back the hands of time.  I’d rather clasp them in my own and do the waltz all the way to the beautiful end.

 

February Photofest

Friday, August 2nd, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

I’m in San Francisco this morning, hence my lack of getting this together last night.  I fell asleep on the plane and was barely functional once at my sister’s.  It’s 55º this morning and I think I’m in heaven.

Believe it or not I actually took some pics this week – for my Irish friend I’d mentioned last week.  I was feelin’ it for some reason so decided to document.  Who knows when I’ll feel that again.

Ok, I gotta run.  Children everywhere and I have things to do.

xx

Hy

 

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:

All the workout clothes leaving marks.

 

NOT my tits

Lola has fanzzzzz.

A fan submission of her getting off to my pics.

 

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It’s time for quiet now.

The Golfer ignored this.

Just a few things running through my mind today:

Working out for three months, moving, shopping for new furniture, my career, friends, Mens, sex and losing it, drinking, loneliness, excitement, determination, hope, warmth, longing, anger that I keep seeing my fucking ex-boyfriend everywhere I go on my apartment property, why I care that The Golfer won’t text me back and why Peter is being a dipshit, my dog might be too fat like me, how I caught two women at the party saying complimentary things about my looks so I must not be a troll, smoking again a little, the married British man trapped on a Fourth of July holiday hahaha, becoming friends with The Vet, chatting with my mom like a normal person, missing my baby who’s so far away, only one more week to go!, tomorrow is the beginning of the second half, a fresh start, that curry makes my belly ache, I can’t wait to be done with Cheers and move on to Frasier, I am both lonely and ok.

Thank you for being here with me and for me, guys. Internet Boyfriends are really the only boyfriends worth having anyway.

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Click here to enter