Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Dear God or whatever the hell your name is

Dear God,
First of all I hate the name.

I mean no disrespect, God.  It's just that I believe in something more aptly named UNIVERSE.

But when I say UNIVERSE it makes me sound all hippie dippie and with the Lesbian Leftist Radical stance I've taken lately I don't want to push it....too far down the path, Katie K...come on back, girl.

God sounds too Christian and all "I believe in the father" and all that, and y'all know how bristly I am when it comes to patriarchy.

'Goddess' sounds entirely too pagan chubby white girl polyamorist with dreads...I ain't there yet.

SO I guess I'll call you 'SOURCE ENERGY'

That still doesn't feel right.

I'll work on it.

Anyhoo, Source Energy, I am writing because I have these very large things coming up in my life that I need to put in your hands.

I mean, I will take responsibility as much as I can but at some point I need to let go...let God...

So that's what I'm doing.

I've got large epic Homerian battles coming on. Big G.

I need help, not in winning these battles but in accepting whatever the outcome of these battles are.

I hid my head in the sand for so long, G.

I was afraid that I could never ever 'win' without giving thought to the fact that at least TRYING to win was so much better than folding and giving up.

Here I am.  trying. asking you for your divine guidance while I methodically get my ducks in a row and do my part.

I'm not looking for JUSTICE in the conventional sense.

Rather, I am looking for strength without anger.  method without emotion.  a matter of fact way of fighting the fight and accepting the outcome, knowing that all the while you got my back.

I've stepped out of victim mode, G.

Recognizing that I was the one that kept me there.

Now I am in Woman Warrior mode, not in a way to fuck anybody over, just in a way to stand up for myself.

Guide me.  Watch over me.  Help me to know when to hold them, and know when to fold them.
Help me to know when to walk away, and know when to run.

(Thanks for Kenny Rogers, God...he's all SORTS of awesome.)

In closing, I want to thank you for showing up for me in a form that makes me feel like it's okay to swear and have bad grammar and eat cookies in bed.

I feel you, G.

I know you feel me.

Let's do this.

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Dear Kids: There will be no Christmas this year

At least not at your mom's house.

I tried.

I had big plans...big plans...

but life comes up on you and sometimes it bites you in the ass and you can't get ahead, no matter how hard you try.

You can present so well for just a short while...like yeah, she's got it together, going on dates and applying to UC Berkeley and wearing those Frye boots that make her hips sway.

Then someone rips off the child support check and cashes it fraudulently

Then the car that you were so proud of buying all by yourself takes a dive...not just a 200 dollar repair dive, but a 2000 dollar repair dive..

Then the job that you love goes to hell and business is bad and you cannot please your boss no matter what you do so going to work sucks and
you vow to get another job...polish your resume...
but you are paralyzed with the voice in the back of your head that says
you are nothing, you are nothing...
watch 14 episodes of Breaking Bad and stay in your pajamas all day and overeat like a mofo because
 says the voice.

You recognize that the Universe puts adversity in front of you for a reason and most of the time you think you handle it with grace and class but today you feel like saying
Haven't I had enough?

Apparently not.

Your divorce lawyer quits because he has not been paid and the IRS wants 300 grand and your license is suspended and all of your motherfucking Christmas ornaments are with wounded man at that house you left in the hills and yes...I said motherfucking and Christmas in the same sentence...fuck it.  I give up.

You want so bad to get out of this victim consciousness state because you hate it and yet you are a ball of bitterness and resentment...you cannot break free.

You hate.

You hate your stepfather...still you hate him.

You hate wounded man...still you hate him.

Why they would let you suffer...why they would let your  kids suffer...I am dumbfounded and still in disbelief at times.


Things are just things.

I really don't know how I am going to get you to school and back again...let alone buy you things for Christmas.

That's just where we are at right now.

I am sorry.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012


Just little things, an update of sorts for those of you who don't 'know' me or know me in the biblical sense.  And if it was biblical I apologize:
I was drunk and I'm a lesbian now.
I did that podcast way back in June...remember?


and I was surprised that Paul Gilmartin even aired it.  I had let go of the outcome, assumed that it was crap and moved on...no harm no foul.
When he contacted me last month and told me it was going up I kinda panicked...like: what the fuck did I say?  Was I incriminating?  Did I tell the truth?  Did I present well? 
Blah Blah Blah, the voices in our heads may be quiet for a spell, but they are always there, waiting for the next insecure thought to catch a ride in on.
I listened to myself.  I was OK.  heck, I was better than OK.  I did good.  I presented my life in a linear fashion.  It made sense.  I was funny, kind of. (COME ON, I WAS FUNNY!)  Shoot, I even think my voice sounded a bit sexy.  Yeah, I said it.  Fuck y'all, voices in my head.
Pretty soon I was sick of listening to myself, and I sincerely thank those who did, in its' hour and a half mess of therapizing.
That was some cathartic shit.  Yeah, I am so eloquent, but it's true.
I want this for everyone: an opportunity to figure out why we are the way we are, with someone wonderful like Paul actually listening and encouraging us.
Dope beyond belief.
Seriously...when am I going to start talking like I am 42.  Uh.....NEVER.
I have been continuing in the 'big things' department.
Paying my own bills.  Cleaning my own house (have you ever been rich?  it's fabulous on many counts, but the best is the housekeeper.  I miss that shit waaaay more than the Bahamas). 
I applied to UC Berkeley and UC Santa Cruz, where I will be majoring in Feminist Studies. 
Don't give me the snide stare.
Don't give me the blank stare.
Don't pity me or have opinions behind your hand or my back.
I know what the fuck I am doing with this major.
Imma change the world, yo. 
One injustice at a time.
I started dating women...not such a big deal, no coming out moment.
Nobody baked me a rainbow cake though, and I feel a little sad about it.
My kids are so lacksadaisical about this shit.
Little Wise Woman is supportive as always.
Little ones want to know why my chick looks like a boy...
Somehow, I managed to put my filter on and not say "Cause my tomboy femme ass needs a DADDY, children...that's why.)
I am casually dating, which is hard, what with working, kids, school and the like.
I have some hilarious stories from this online dating thing that I am not quite ready to tell, but I want parents of high school age kids to know that SOMEWHERE IN AMERICA their kids' 24 year old American Government teacher is sexting with a suburban mom while teaching the class.
It was a lapse in judgement folks.
Because 24 year olds are crazy.
Like, texting me 42 times crazy.
Life is awesome.  I never forget the depression, or the rape, or the dysfunctional family, or the fucked up ex husband, or the abuse, or the nervous breakdown (Epiphany: this should be my OKCupid ad...thoughts?)
I just don't lead with those things anymore.
God/Universe/Goddess/Mother Mary bless each and every one of you.
Don't be strangers.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

A year ago today...

I dragged my depressed psychotic ass to a rehab in Dickson Tennessee.

I roomed with a 25 year old heroin who was angry...dang, she was angry cause she had to protect her mama from all those bad men mama chose.

sometimes she could, sometimes she couldn't, all her life she lived in that shallow breath PTSD state where she never knew what was coming... heightened alert, fight or flight, the central nervous system cannot perpetually exist in that state, so she did what we all did...

go crazy.


beat someone up.

go to jail.

pop a dozen oxy, wait for the pain to go away...via the high or the overdose, either one she didn't fucking care...JUST GO AWAY, PAIN. I don't wanna feel anymore.

Ghetto Barbie.

She was a trapped panther in that house in the country.

Constantly pacing, pacing pacing...

A little fireball of street smarts and pain.

There we were.

I needed to relearn my mothering, she needed a mama...there we were.

She showed up on my second day, she was wary and wry, this wasn't her first rodeo, she knew the game.

Relapse, one month out and back she was again.

Her mama had gotten her shit together finally and was throwing hard earned money at the problem that wouldn't go away.

We were an odd combination: me, the chubby mama from suburbia who melted into a puddle of depression way back in Cali, and she: Ghetto Barbie, tiny white girl using on the streets of Atlanta/Richmond/Nashville, wherever she could hook it up.

I loved her, and I wanted her to get better, change, see the light, come to Jeezus, you get the gist:

I didn't want her to die.

I wanted her to stop hurting.

She was never going to see her Mama getting beaten again, although the memories haunted her and made her into the taut sinewy animal I came to know.

Well, I was perfect for her in this sense: I was codependent to a fault, and if Ghetto Barbie knew how to work her own mama she sure as hell knew how to work me.

Pretty soon I was cooking her meals for her cause...fuck, I don't know why.

I needed to mother.  She needed a mama.  Problem solved.

Except, as with any codependent relationship, she didn't do what I thought she needed to do.

She did not participate in the therapy, talked shit about anyone and everyone, projected like a mad women onto all that crossed her path, and she avoided the reason for coming in the first place: she avoided the pain.

She smoked, and laughed, smoked and laughed, smoked and laughed,
but when the doc's light went on she stared at the ground, for two hours every day.

And afterward, everyday, it was the therapist's fault for not drawing her out.

We were rebels together too.

Anyone who knows me knows that my inner child is 15 years old, and she's a rule breaker...

Hand in hand, we were a perfect storm.

We hid in closets during AA meetings, broke into houses on the property that were off limits and drank coffee with sugar: contraband!

When I discovered a vicodin and a viagra left in the crevices of my cosmetic bag instead of flushing them down the toilet we giddily swallowed them together....no effect, what a shock.

We hiked down roads that were off limits, hated the same girls together, frustrated the 'adventure' therapist with our appallingly rude lack of interest in his sessions. (presenting Star Wars as Recovery to a bunch of women for two hours?  Fuck you, Bobbie, I'm still pissed.)

So it is only know that I have been back for a year and I write this shit down that I realize that while I was helping her she was helping me.

I was her mama, yes...her rehab mama.

but she was the companion to that 15 year old girl who was me, the one who felt so alone after the rape, the one who needed to be a kid and not a warrior and yet felt she did not have a choice.
See here:
i was a teenage slut

She helped me to be a kid again, free to poke snakes and laugh hysterically and smoke until we were green.

As I reflect back on all that I learned in rehab, I realize that although the therapy was top notch (and I mean top fucking notch...Karen, I am forever indebted to you for saving my life), a large part of the experiences that I had there in Dixon, Tennessee that helped heal me had to do with the community of women that I was among.

Today, it is Ghetto Barbie that I am grateful for.

She helped save my life as well.

Rehab is like summer camp for fucked up people.

You vow that you will stay in touch, but it never turns out like that.

GB and I have spoken a few times, and I know she has had some setbacks (Say this to yourself in a southern drawl: :"APPARENTLY, popping a few of my Gramma's Percocet was not APPROPRIATE")

I call her, she never answers, I assume she is using, it's the codependent in me that keeps me on the hook.

A year ago today I started to change my life.  But I couldn't have done it without everyone that I did it with, and today, I want to acknowledge my rehab daughter, my partner in crime, Ghetto Barbie.
Thank you, chica.
Deuces ;)
Keep your nose clean, stay away from the pills, the heroin, and the bad people.
Take deep breaths, keep yourself grounded and watch your anger.
Call me when you can, visit if you want, and NO, I will not make you another quesadilla, I thought I taught you how to make those yourself.
I love you, GB.
Stay safe.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Lesbian Drama?

It's been a while since I've written, folks.  That's how it usually goes: get happy, get complacent, stop writing.
At least for me that's how it goes.
And then there's this:

Get a job, a job you like, where you cannot possibly write about your co workers or your bosses or the customers because you actually like all of the above, and somewhere, in the back of your addled brain there exists tact.  I know, right? Crazy...is this me?

I have been doing big things, big things for me.  Which is strange, because my life was so small before I left wounded man way back when.

If you recall, I had a nervous breakdown, went to rehab in Dickson Tennesee, strightebned my shit out, came home, tried to work on my marriage, attented SLAA meetings in basements where I was the only female surrounded by creeps in elastic waist sweatpants and tiny boners, contacted Mr. Normal, had a emotional affair, started to get depressed again and realized that
Fuck, it was my marriage that was keeping me sick.

So, just to remind y'all: I left, went to stay in a Domestic Violence shelter for a month, where I learned about welfare, food stamps, THU (transitional housing units), and how to survive with no money, which it turns out is possible if you put your life on blast.  People start showing up for you in all sorts of ways: dentists offering their services for free, Republicans sending you checks, old high school friends buying you the favorite brownie pan you left behind.

In this past year, I have grown exponentially, and have been graced countless times with the kindness of strangers, friends, lovers and family...did I leave anyone out?

Rehab.  DV Shelter.  THU.  Job.  School.
 And now.  My own apartment, again due to the kindness of an acquaintance who saw the good in me, who saw the fight in me, who saw that I was providing for my children...making it happen, one fucking tiny step at a time.

This year has taught me that people are mostly good, and just, and kind.
Deep Breath.
 I am wallowing in the gratefulness I feel, and really, this should be the end of this post.

But wait.

There's just this little thing, it's not a big deal.

I started dating a woman who acted like a man better than most men that I know and she seemed perfect for me and I fell in love with her like never before and why is it that butch women look so good in that white wife beater...

WHY, GOD...WHY????

She was so comfortable in her own skin.  She was existing outside the norms of society and she was fucking rocking it!

She was broken, I was broken.  She was butch, I was femme.  She was a mother.  I was a mother.  She had been to rehab.  I had been to rehab.  She was a case manager.  I was the client (stop freaking out...she does not work anywhere near the place where I was staying...she's not stoopid)

She had SWAGGER.  It was the weirdest thing to me that I was attracted to this person imitating  a gender, but she was doing it so naturally that I fell for it.

Dear Fellow Lesbians, Please stop rolling your eyes at all the gushing.  This is new to me.  Thanks.

We explored a Daddy/girl relationship, which is hot beyond belief, don't knock it till you've tried it.
Ok, maybe you will never try it, but don't judge me or her, cause it was working for us.

At first, she was emotionally unavailable.  You know that saying that when people show you who they are, BELIEVE THEM?
I heeded no such warning.
My heart was leading.  My honey pot was in a close second, and every impulse control behavior modification technique that I had learned in rehab flew out the fucking window because I was in love, she was great, I don't want to pay attention to the nagging feeling that this is obsession and not intimacy because IT FEELS GOOD, DAMMIT!!

I have been told by Mr. Normal that I am a walking errogeneous zone.  It's a card that I play, and I play it well.
It's not the healthiest card.
In fact, in verges on sex/love addiction issues, but hey: I was horny.  I was needy.  She was hot.  The end.

But Wait....

Somehow I reeled her in or she reeled me in I dunno, I can't remember.

Suddenly, Mrs. Handsome was calling, emailing, texting incessantly, as was I.

Suddenly, there was the unhealthy freaky obsession that LLC (lesbian life coach) had warned me about.

I ignored the fact that she was private and I was an open book.

I ignored the fact that she and her ex wife had a trauma bond that was probably impossible to break or penetrate, and besides that, it was looking like she wasn't really ready to do that anyway.

I ignored the fact that she reminded me of Wounded Man.

Yes.  Hold that thought for a second.

My new 'Daddy' reminded me of my ex husband.

Fuck, serious back peddling there.

How was that 20,000 grand worth of therapy working for ya, Katie??

Mrs. Handsome stirred in me a femininity that had never seen the light of day.  I was buying lacy bras and looking sideways at her coquettishly and cooking!

I was fucking cooking for her.

I need a class on gender roles...right fucking now.

I think this is so interesting, because I am a feminist at heart, and yet...here was this woman, playing a man, which made me want to play at being a woman more.

Keep up, folks.  I ain't got alot of time left.

Mrs. Handsome and I shared a few glorious weeks together.  It was some teenage dream shit alright, which I thoroughly enjoyed, obsessive energy or not.

And then.

She pulled some borderline personality pranks on me, which my little butch boi in Nashville calls "come here, go away."

I learned alot of shit in rehab, and am self aware to a fault.

Annoyingly, this makes me aware of other people's freaky psych idiosyncrasies as well.

We all know that I am a little cray cray.

It makes me spicy...interesting...(help me out here)

But to have cray cray pulled on me makes me a bad fucking poker player, period.

And, it gives me a taste of what I have done to other people, which makes me feel shamed and grateful all at the same time.

She was obsessed with me on monday morning.

By monday evening she was done with me, goodbye Mrs. Handsome, it's been a great ride.

Wha happen?

Hold up, Scully.  I got a theory I'm working on.

Ex wife and she spend time together.  Ex wife finds out Mrs. Handsome is dating someone else and is happy.  Ex wife starts batting her eyelashes again, "I miss us", rescue me, rescue me.

So there's that.

Oh yeah, and she might be dating other people...


I want my panties back...RIGHT NOW!

Here's what I have learned from this:

My honesty and communication skills that I have honed with Mr. Normal these past nine months are precious to me.

If you say you are a 'private' person, that means you still got shit to hide, girl...and we are not compatible.

I am over the fact that she went all cold shoulder-y on me right quick.

I am grateful to have dodged the bullet of the 'come here, go away' shit.

but that doesn't mean she still doesn't make my spine tingle.  Shoot, she makes the front of my spine tingle.

But the most important lesson I have learned here is what I am willing to accept and what I am not willing to accept.

And...I am not willing to accept 'privacy' as a thinly veiled attempt at 'dishonesty'

If I am calling myself out as well, which I am willing to do, I now know that I cannot also charm the pants (panties?) off someone in 24 hours.

You were right, LLC...these things take time.

So, I am giving myself time.

I am taking care of myself, being held in the hands of great friends, a super cool compassionate set of bosses, and the butch lesbian that I stopped on the street last night to ask her if this was normal.

Next year, I will be in Lady Love capital of California, AKA UC Santa Cruz, where the world will be my oyster (no jokes, too easy, too obvious.)

In the meantime... if y'all happen to run across a butch lady who looks fantastic in a wife beater and is willing to be honest with no ex wife trauma bond attachments or no piece on the side, hit me up.

Oh, and this isn't lesbian drama.  This is just drama, period. That was just a ploy to get you to read this long soliloquy about me.

You got played :)

Welcome to the club.

Friday, July 13, 2012


A steam of consciousness post about fear, lack of money and that little voice in the back of my head that tells me I can never make it on my own.

I live in two worlds.
Rather, I live in my present world, in which I am a waitress making $8 an hour, sharing a room with my two kids at a transitional housing unit, trying to hold onto a relationship with the eldest child, existing financially because of loans, kindness, the government and sheer will.
And I keep trying to resurrect the world that I used to live in, in which I took vacations to the Bahamas, walked around in $200 jeans and carried around thousand dollar handbags.
The jeans don't fit me anymore, and the Bahamas were really just another set of beaches, and I hang onto that Bottega Veneta handbag because it was my mother's, and I loved her, and carrying it around makes me happy sometimes.
I don't miss the statusy-ness of it all, and I appreciate the call to humility above all else.
What I miss is the freedom from worry.
because I worry.
all the time.
I am now gainfully employed, doing what I am qualified to do at this stage in my life.  I serve people.  This former upper class business owner house wife privileged Cinderella complex 42 year old woman serves people.
I am in school.  I study and I study and I study and I endure sub par teachers because I feel 'less than' because I am a high school drop out WAITRESS who has no right to feel or be intelligent or deserving of success.
Shit.  That was some stream of consciousness alright.
Y'all can probably see my internal organs by this time.  I feel naked.
The bottom line is, I am panicking.
I'm panicking because I've run my numbers, and it doesn't add up.
The way I envisioned my little life costs too much money.
I can't seem to make enough to make a living for myself and my children.
I have not made smart choices all the time while I have been in welfare woman land.
I would like to acknowledge this.
Borrowing money from my ex husband to take my child to a Broadway show in the city was not the best idea.
I just wanted to spend time with her, I just wanted to trap her in a car, a hotel room, a restaurant and enjoy her.
I know.
Beyond my means.
And not worth the consequence of his wrath when I could not pay him back when I said I would.
He is taking me to small claims court to get the $450 I borrowed from him back.  He will garnish my wages, he says.
I guess owing me back child and spousal support to the tune of $10,000 (thus far) plus who knows what else to be determined does not factor into the equation.
I try to live my life not needing that money that is owed, not knowing if it will ever be paid, not having faith that he will ever do the right thing.
And occasionally I fall.
I make mistakes.
I spend money that I don't have to try to pretend to my children that our lives are normal.
$100 at great america.
Dippin' dots, shitty carny food, $12 soda.
Life is normal, kids.
We are going to be just fine.
I go to look at places that I can afford to rent and I am crushed, kicked to the ground, I can't breathe, God...I can't breathe.
On his side, the two little ones go to Disneyland, they go to Cabo, they come back with suntans and unbrushed teeth and they have another woman's name in their vocabularies, gosh Daddy has lots of new friends.
Yet...when I bring my children around the man in my life once in a blue moon I am a 'trainwreck'.  I am acting out.
I call myself train wreck now.  I own it, I love it, because if being away from wounded man makes me a train wreck then so be it...call me a train wreck.
I write the letter to the private school, full of shame and TMI, begging them for yet another year of financial aid.
She will go to that school.
I will live in a studio apartment, I don't fucking care.
She will go to that school.
The money that I do have to pay is reduced, and I am grateful, but it is still 25% of my take home pay.
She will go to that school.
She will go to that school.
She will go to that school.

This is not a pity post.
Please don't feel sorry for me.
I believe this is the lesson I am on this earth to learn, and most of the time I accept it willingly.

But today.
I worry.

Saturday, May 12, 2012

A letter to my children on Mother's Day

Little Wise Woman.  Wild Thing.  Little Man.
This is a conversation I've been meaning to have with you for awhile.
Thia is a conversation about how much your unconventional free spirit mother loves you.
This is a conversation about us as a family.
We are 4.
I need to apologize to each of you for the mother that I was not during the most crucial years of your lives.
I need to tell you that there are no excuses.
I need to ask you for your forgiveness.
I need to ask you.
14, 7, and 5 years old.
I can't ask you in person so I ask you on this thing I use as therapy, this blog of emotional barf:
Forgive me.
There I was, stuck in a depression from the years of a controlling abusive marriage, from the years of grieving my mother's death, from the years of not dealing with my own shitty childhood.
And there you were: needing a mother.  Needing me.
I failed you then.
I can't take it back.
I own it.  I carry it.  I bear it.
I damaged you all.

Deep Breath.

Here we are.

If you knew how much I adored each of you you would roll your eyes to the heavens above.

If you knew how much I admired you, was proud of you, was inspired by you, you might barf a little on the inside.

We are a family, us 4.

I don't own you.  You are not extensions of me.  You will live your own lives when the time comes, and I will do my damnedest not to interfere.

But you must know....

I smell your heads when you are sleeping.

I am in awe of your magic.

The happiest I have ever been is to watch the three of you interacting with each other.

I took precious time away from your childhoods because of the choices that I made in my life.  I can never make that up to you.

But what I can do is to love you.

Unconditionally.  Unequivocally.  Uninterrepted.

I'm back, babies.

I'll never be the mom in the poster.  Please don't expect the norm, I think we all know this has never been a possibility.

What I will be is sane.  What I will be is your champion.  What I will be is your mother.

So on this day that Hallmark created and we all fell for, I say to you:

Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to be your mother.

The universe has truly blessed me.