Blue Jail-house Rock Christmas

I am sitting here, looking around at our home which is finally starting to look like our home. Our huge artificial pre-lit tree with one section not working. Christmas decorations from our fifteen year marriage. Not many decorations from my mother-in-law's collection this year, I have phased many of those out, saving them for anyone in the family who may want them. Furniture that has mostly been brought in by my husband and myself. It's starting to look and feel like it's ours.

So anyway, totally unrelated, but when I don't blog for a few weeks stuff just comes out like mental and emotional vomit, like a confusing, muddled stream of consciousness. Yeah.. Anyway, there was this one Christmas I spent in prison. Thanksgiving, too! See, my mom married a guy who, previous to meeting her, had committed a crime in Arizona. Yes, this is how I came to be in Arizona when I was fourteen. My douchebag step-dad. He was arrested for DUI here in Virginia, at which time they discovered he was wanted in Arizona for armed robbery. Get this- he robbed a priest! Where do I start?? First of all, what kind of sick sonofabitch robs a priest?! And second, I'm pretty sure they don't carry much money around. But we are not necessarily talking about a smart man here. Anyway, extradition to Arizona, wife and step-kids follow. That is how I got to the desert. And we would go visit my douchebag step-dad in prison, especially on holidays. I have spent more than one Thanksgiving and probably more than one Christmas in the confines of a men's prison, at the age of fourteen or fifteen, and yes they noticed me. (That's a mild way of saying I was fucking creeped out by the lascivious looks and things they said to me.)

Now you may be thinking at this point, "What kind of mother....?!". Don't. This isn't about my mom or the mistakes she now undoubtedly regrets. Nothing on my blog is about anything but me and my experiences. And besides, I have many interesting stories to tell, much like this one. If you read my stories already thinking my mom is a terrible mother, you won't read them the same. So just leave her out of it.

Are you sad? Don't be. As I share more and more of my life, I want to also share some hope and inspiration. I should be dead. I should be on "skid row", with a houseful of illegitimate, neglected brats, living on welfare. I should be an alcoholic, or a drug addict. I should be a lot of unhappy, unhealthy, miserable things based on patterns and statistics. But I'm not. And I know why. Or rather, I know how. I may not be sure of why just yet.

So I am sharing more and more here. I am not promoting my blog, or posting it on Facebook, or telling friends and family, "Hey, read my blog." I figure people will find it if they are meant to, and will possibly be inspired or helped by it if they are meant to. Or at least learn more about me that they never knew. Or maybe someone will simply find me relatable. Certainly I am not the only one who has things to talk about that I "just don't talk about".

Welp, I'm talking now.