Type 2 Gurl

Yesterday driving in the car I saw these beautiful dear just enjoying life and a 65° day.

I pulled over and got out of the passenger seat. I sat down on a big rock and patiently took a little video.

But inside of my mind it was spinning and spinning and spinning....

All I kept doing was worrying about who was driving by, walking by, riding by, are they laughing at me, do they think I'm goofy looking, do I think I'm fat, do they think I'm ugly, do they think I'm stupid for taking a video of the deer?

it got so overwhelming in my brain that I ran back to the car , and I said "never again".

Never again will I get out of the car in that spot. I will just sit in the car, and take a little video, or picture, if I ever see the deer again.

Part 1:

One can only imagine the pain of having your child forcefully pried from your arms.

You know that the police, the DCF worker, will not hurt the baby, so you hold on tight, but not tight enough to hurt your precious child, you turn your back, you close your eyes, you rest your chin ever so gently on top of that beautiful smelling head, apologizing for getting her head wet, with your nonstop tears.

So many voices forcefully insisting to “make it easy on yourself“ and just let go..

But why?

Being told that they are just preventing the “what if’s” was heart wrenching and insulting.

“What if you take those pills or worse & drop your child?”

“What if..what if..what if...”

At this point you are begging God, Satan, Buddha, every God and Goddess known to man and then some, to intervene on your behalf, and stop this from happening.

It feels as if somebody is literally pulling your heart and your soul out of your chest one agonizing centimeter at a time.

You are begging. Rambling. Hoping and praying that something you say will sink in and change this person’s mind.

You are told impatiently “don’t compare yourself to others, you don’t know the whole situation, you don’t know what we are doing with that family”

Your “what if” is their daily reality.

They. Those people who still have their children. Those people who live in filth, drug dealers and users in and out of the house, exposing their children to waking nightmares.

But DCF is not inside of their house. DCF is inside of your house. It feels like a sick sad joke.

You are watching the DCF worker go through your dresser drawers, your cabinets, your closet, under your bed, in your freaking garbage, making notes, saying “yes, I see the house is kept clean” “yes, you have plenty of diapers, formula, changes of clothing for the child” “ isn’t this a cute crib set?” Looking at the female cop, as if they really expect her to answer.

The DCF worker keeps looking at her watch, fidgeting.

Keeping your back turned, your eyes shut, hoping this is a nightmare, that you will wake up from. So much anger bubbling up inside. Trying to figure out who to blame, who to lash out on, going through every stage of grief and loss in less than a minute.

When they threatened to “physically restrain you and physically remove the child from your arms” is when your eyes pop open. You take a deep breath, whisper to your child, apologize, promise you will be back together soon.

Kiss her head repeatedly, rub the top of her head gently with your hand, pull her little dress down and twist it so it fits correctly and comfortably, put her little booties on, glare at them as you gently lower her into an ugly, stained, car seat.

That ugly stained car seat. Even your child wrinkles her nose at the smells coming from it.

You look at the worker, grab a small blanket to wrap your child up in, to protect her from whatever may be lurking on that ugly stained car seat.

All the while whispering and soothing and promising you will be back together soon

You try to be composed, you try not to cry, you try not to sob, you try not to rip that child out of her arms and run and run and run.

Where were you 25 years ago? April 8, 1994? Were you born? Were you too young to remember?

Kurt Cobain died on April 5, 1994. The world did not find out until Friday, April 8, 1994.

For three days he lay alone, already gone from his mortal coil, an electrician called a local radio station, looking to get some type of compensation for the scoop of the century..

Of course he was scoffed at.

Some rando calls a radio station claiming to be staring at the dead , still MIA, body of the worlds biggest rock singer – Kurt Cobain..

What would unravel over the next few hours, while I was attending classes in high school, a senior, would shock the world, create conspiracy theories, cause people to argue until blood vessels burst, and they lost their voices- in person and online, would cause people to commit suicide, cause people to use heroin, cause a mass exodus to the state of Washington, People standing outside of his house, the last place he was alive, hoping for a glimpse, wanting just a piece of this icon, this spokesperson for a generation, this person that gave all of us angsty gen x’ers a voice, etc.

But we did not know the real him.

We did not know the struggle, the depression, the inner voice that guided him, the struggle that led him to commit suicide, that caused him to try to commit suicide countless other times, the reckless heroin abuser, the father, the husband, the brother, the son..the martyred icon of a generation

We did not feel the pain: physically spiritually, emotionally, that drove him day after day.

And as much as we are fans, as much as we relate, as much as we put ourselves in his shoes, we didn’t know jackshit...

We thirst for any news, to this very moment, anything about Kurt

When the police department released previously unseen pictures from the crime scene, while so many were shocked and shaken, so many secretly yearned to see these images – including the people proclaiming how “intrusive and disgusting” and “gruesome and macabre” it all was. For all of the bluster, those pictures were viewed and shared and shared again until peoples fingers bled.

His life, his death, his addiction, his relationship, have all been romanticized. And I believe that would make him sick to the core.

Thankfully not everybody romanticizes his drug addiction.

But the amount of people that actually tried heroin -just because he did it -was unbelievable.

I met people who admitted to me that they did heroin because of kurdt and they wanted to “be closer to him“

these are just random thoughts RUNNING 🏃🏼‍♀️ around in my head as I go about my day.

Do not Take any of them as gospel.

We all have opinions, we all have assholes, that’s that, LOL

ANGRY F^CKING BITCH

...It’s really sad that at my age I have to say what I am about to say. At my age – early 40s less than 45-I should be focused on so many other things. But I’m not.

I have 20+ years of anger, and hurt feelings, built up so intense, so overwhelming, that it bursts out of me like a fucking nuclear bomb. On occasion.

When I have to lock myself in a room, and hurt my property, hurt myself, to avoid hurting other people, there’s a problem.

I learned recently that a lot of people with PTSD have bad anger control problems. I never realize that. I’m pretty passive in a lot of ways..

I’m a bleeding heart hippy dippy animal/victim advocate. I will do nearly anything to protect & nurture: animals, children, elderly, adults of any age who are true victims..

I’m scared to even attempt to unravel what causes me to lash out so violently...against myself, others, inanimate objects, etc.

One of the reasons why I was terrified to be a mother :(

I WANT DESPERATELY to be a mother to my daughter – but she doesn’t want me & I cannot blame her, but that’s a whole other story for a whole other situation-