Day 1

Day one: A recent picture of you and five interesting facts about yourself.

1. I am rarely ever 100% happy so when I am, I either talk a lot or don't talk much at all. Then people think I'm mad.

2. Sometimes I get goosebumps when we kiss.

3. I will do anything for my friends. Even if they sometimes drive me crazy.

4. I never clean my room. Because I don't feel like it.

5. There are a bunch of books in my room that I have never read. I bought them and just never got around to reading them.

After almost a year and a half...

I FINALLY got a job.

I'm very excited because I'm basically making the same amount I made working for the bookstore that I was laid off at.

I don't have to wear a uniform - this is the first place of employment where I won't be wearing any kind of uniform so you can imagine how freakin' excited I am.

I get to use the cash register and I get to hang out with dogs all day. There's even a dog that stays in the store that I kind of got attached to; he belongs to the owner and he's kind of old, you can see the gray in his face, but he's really sweet and for some reason, during the interview, I was the only one who was willing to pet him.

I don't know what it was that got me the job but it was a group interview and I was...myself. I told everyone about my dad and how ever since he's died, I promised to live my life as much as I can. I talked about my work ethic and how I always try to find more things to do.

I'm nervous about how tomorrow is going to go (tomorrow's my first day). I don't want to disappoint my boss or make her regret hiring me. I want to do well and keep this job FOR A VERY LONG, LONG, LONG, LONG TIME.

Since I now have a job, I can start blogging about food again.

I know that I'm going to have to manage my time even more now and spend less time with Ian, more time with my mom (this isn't a choice) and my friends.

I'm looking forward to having a job again because I won't feel so useless.

One thing that's always been hard to explain to my friends and my mom is that not having a job means not having stable income. Not having stable income means not having money to put on my bus pass. Not being able to put a lot of money on my bus pass means not a lot of traveling, which means I can't go here, there and everywhere to be with my friends.

I know one friendship has definitely been strained since I started dating Ian and this person will never know how difficult it is to manage everything when you're in a relationship, or when you've gotten into a relationship after such a long time until he's in one.

My relationships with all of the people in my life are really important and I don't want to lose any of my friends or damage my friendships so I'm going to work even harder to spend time with them. Even if that means sacrificing time with Ian. The only thing I worry about is him hanging out with someone I really do not like based on things I've heard and things I've seen. I think what bothers me even more is that even though I've told Ian I think this person is a bad influence or has the possibility of being a bad influence, he still hangs out with him. He doesn't have many friends so I can't really blame him but when I put myself back in my shoes, I always wonder what they're doing when they're together and what horrible things Ian might be saying about me.

I try not to think about it because this is the kind of crap that could start unnecessary arguments.

A happy ending.

What's currently keeping me going is my future.

One day, I'll get out of here.

One day, I'll have a life of my own.

One day, I'll have a life with Ian.

My mom and I are arguing yet again...not so much arguing as it is me crying, sobbing and pleading with her, begging her to talk to a therapist or even go to a family counselor with me.

My mom is depressed.

She's been depressed ever since my dad died more than three years ago.

She won't talk to anyone and constantly says, "there's nothing wrong with me."

And I always reply, "not everyone who talks to a therapist has to have something wrong with them."

She won't get help. She doesn't want help. Not even from me. She doesn't care about me and has made that very clear when I asked her to go and talk to someone, for my sake and she wouldn't budge.

Right now, all she's thinking about is herself. She doesn't think about all of my aunts and uncles who care about her, she doesn't think about all of my cousins who worry about her and most of all, she doesn't think about the fact that I am still here. I'm still alive. I still have a beating heart. My dad may be gone but I am still in this house and I am still living my life.

My mother has not always made the best choices in bringing me up, she's made plenty of mistakes and I'll admit that I have definitely said too much when I shouldn't have said anything at all but I don't think that this is the life that God had planned for me. I'm not a real religious person but in recent days, I have been praying or talking to my dad, asking him to help me get through this difficult time. It's funny, I used to get a sense of clarity after asking him for help and now things just get worse. He's not listening anymore.

I'm thinking about what my life will be like in 10 or 15 years. I'm thinking about living in a big apartment or even a house with Ian and just...being with him and having our own lives together. A place where we can paint the walls, have furniture, sit at the kitchen table while he goes online and reads his latest gamer news (eh...) and I read the newspaper (if they're still around). Eventually kids will come into the picture. And they'll run around the house, they'll probably drive me nuts, but they'll be my kids and no one will be there to hold me back or tell me how to raise them and I know that I will NOT treat them the way my mother has treated me. If I ever have children, they'll grow up in a house filled with love and honesty. They'll be brought up with strong morals and I'll always let them know that making mistakes is a big part of life, as long as they learn from them. I won't place blame on them when they get lower grades the way my mother and grandmother did...when I was nine years old. They'll play outside and I'll plant flowers. They'll help me do the laundry and they won't be embarrassed of Ian and I until they're around that weird 15-17 year old phase.

And my mother will not be around to throw anything in my face, to hurt me, to hurt my family or to hold any of us back.

This is what's keeping me going.

I have better things to do than cry over her. Where does it get me? After 23 years of fighting and pain, where has it gotten me? Nowhere.

An escape presents itself.

I don't know why I couldn't figure it out sooner.

My form of escape from my mother is imaginary.

I use music to drown out her yelling.

I put my headphones on and I close my eyes and I pretend that I'm actually there singing that piece of music.

And it never fails, even if I'm not arguing with my mom. Even if it's just a bad day. Music helps.

On nights like tonight...when I can't figure out what I did to deserve her screaming and yelling and crying, I just want to listen to music and forget about all of it, even if it's just for three and a half minutes.

I'm at a point where I get tired of hearing myself complain or whine about how she's acting or what she's done to me this time...because it occurs so frequently these days.

It's unbelievable. It's literally...UNBELIEVABLE.

Ian doesn't get it. His solution is always to just ignore her...as if that is going to make all of this mess go away. Then I get angry at him for not being the sympathetic person I know he can be. But I know that no one understands what I'm going through because I am the only person dealing with this shit on a daily basis.

I'm being punished for living my life...for leaving her here on the weekend. I asked Colin what I'm supposed to do. Am I supposed to sit here with her all day and night, every day of the week and be alone like her when I actually have a choice in the matter? He basically said it's okay for me to put myself first for once. She doesn't even talk to me. She doesn't want to talk to me. She just wants to punish me and make me feel sorry for her, while at the same time screaming at me for things I did not do.

I am so tired of paying for my father's death....I would give anything to bring him back so that I could live my life without guilt.

One day, I'll write a book about a girl who had a terribly hurtful mother, who beat her, verbally abused her, pretended to call police on her when she was 5, made her pack her bags just to scare her, threw her outside in the middle of winter, trashed her room thinking her daughter was doing drugs (when she wasn't)....and nobody will ever know that it's my autobiography. It'll remain a piece of fiction to the world and it will be a moment of closure to my awful life with her.

I'll never understand my mother.

And she will never understand me.

At this point, I'd rather be all alone.

We talked for about two hours tonight.

I don't think we've ever talked as much as we did tonight.

We had the lights and t.v. off and ended up discussing the way our lives were before the other one came around.

I talked about my bad relationships.

He talked about his bad dates.

We talked about the things we like each other and the things we don't like about ourselves.

Well, for me it was more like pulling teeth because I don't wanna talk about my imperfections with someone who I want perfection with.

At one point, I cried and said, "I wish I was prettier."

I won't go into details with what he said but he couldn't have said anything better.

We're trying to work on our communication with each other because we're realizing that without it, our relationship is doomed for failure. We do do a lot of not talking because I think we just kind of, or maybe I, kind of grew adjusted to being comfortable in the silence.

He's sleeping and I think he has all of the pillows.

And I have had an earache for two days.

Today.

TODAY IS THE DAY I STOP TAKING PEOPLE AND THINGS FOR GRANTED.

Tomorrow I'm babysitting my "nephew" and I'm not getting paid.

This is the short version of my Mexican family.

Before I was adopted, my mom had a job with social security downtown with my godmother Carmen.

Carmen has a sister named Martha.

"Barb (my mom) meet Martha. Now you're friends," my Tia Carmen said.

I get off the plane. I am three months old.

"When I go back to work, can you babysit my daughter five days a week? My husband works every day as well," Barb said.

"Sure," Martha replied.

I am now six years old, still being watched by my "aunt" Martha who I call Mami Martha. I call her husband Papi.

Her four kids watch me, helped raise me, play with me, yell at me, just like older brothers and sisters do.

At age six, I was speaking spanish fluently [I don't anymore.]

I'm 23 and my parents and myself were in a way...ADOPTED by these Mexican people. I still understand spanish and I know a lot about the Mexican foods and I plan on carrying on a lot of the traditions that were started when I was little.

My cousin, who's like an older brother to me but often times knocked my head into the coffee table from rough housing too much, has a son named Julian.

Julian usually calls me "Tia Vicki/Karina." For some reason, he thinks I'm another relative but he does this with a lot of people so it's fine and he always corrects himself.

I DON'T KNOW HOW IT HAPPENED...but I am watched this little jerk (lovingly) from TEN IN THE MORNING till AT LEAST 7 p.m.

What?

"HEY VICKI! GUESS WHAT?! MY DAD SAID I CAN COME OVER TOMORROW AND WE CAN SWIM AND PLAY VIDEO GAMES!!"

Oh.

YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!?!!!

He's a handful. My mom and dad used to watch him a bit a few years ago, three days a week I think, and I was working and going to school at the time but on the days I was home, I just wanted to pull my hair out after a few hours. He's a little older now, 7 or 8 I think, so all he wants to do is play video games and sit in the house. My main focus for tomorrow is to stick him in the pool for like...five hours and just get him really tired so that he ends up falling asleep or something lol

My mom just took a big ass portion of these chips that are mine.

Okay, I don't have any problems at all sharing food with Ian or even letting him eat my food or finishing it. I really don't care.

When my mom does it...I just get SO irritated because she doesn't WANT food until I AM EATING IT OR COOKING IT.

GO EAT OR COOK YOUR OWN FOOD. PLEASE.

She specifically said "this is your bag. the other one is mine." Okay...then stay the F away from my stuff.

I'm just mad because I'm thinking about all of the other times I've made food. I ask her ahead of time if she wants some so that I can make enough for two people. "No, thanks for asking though." But then when she sees me cooking, she just...TAKES it. I'm sorry. That was mine. Now I have to make more for myself since you took what I was making for myself. :/

It's frustrating. She's been doing this to me ever since I was old enough to use the stove...so 10 years is kind of the breaking point?

In the past, I have had to resort to keeping things in my room while I'm eating just so she leaves me alone.

She never cooks dinner for us. I mean...once in a freakin' BLUE MOON, maybe. Jesus.

But when her boyfriend comes over (that she thinks is dispensable), she goes through all of this trouble for him.

Where's my chicken??

...How come you don't sit down to eat with me?? Why aren't you this nice ALL of the time?

There are a lot of things that I don't tell many people about my mother. I won't go into details on this public blog but I know I sound like a crazy person for going off about my mom and a bag of chips.

Don't ever mess with a fat girl's snack.

....I guess that's all I was trying to say.

Tonight I touched my cousin Yoli's stomach. She's nearly nine months pregnant. I told Ian that she was due this Wednesday...she's not. She's due at the end of this month and she's...HUGE, and I don't mean this in a bad way. She said that she's not scared at all and she's ready to take care of the baby. She put my hand to her stomach and I felt her moving around. It was very 1979's Alien.

I don't understand a lot about having a child or taking care of one, which is why I'm afraid to have children of my own. I don't want the responsibility. I don't want to raise a child and resent it or have it resent me for my bad parenting skills. I just don't think I'm fit to be a mother. Ian thinks I'm good with kids and that he likes seeing me hold my "niece" Grace. She and I are kindred spirits. We both love food. She's a really happy baby, which is odd considering her brother is always really serious and grumpy. I want kids but I don't want to be one of those embarrassed mother in a Target, trying to calm down her bratty child who just knocked over a display or threw a bunch of toys on the floor during a temper tantrum.

If my child does that to me, I will threaten to leave them in the store forever.

See? You don't tell a kid that. I know that's wrong but that would be my first instinct.

I don't want to change diapers...I don't want to wake up in the middle of the night to screaming child...I don't want to feel tired all of the time. I don't want the kid to fall and get hurt because that will scare the living CRAP out of me. I don't want it to end up in the hospital or have an illness that will always make them feel like...they're not normal. But it would be so cool to know that Ian (or whoever. kidding.) and I made this little person who's amazing and smart and talented and beautiful and isn't afraid of anything and is just...THE coolest kid ever, but I know all parents think this of their kids.

Children can wait.

Most days, I still act like a child and so does Ian.

Right now, time is my friend. I think...