For Girls and Grief | Abigail Staub

I once stood in the same place. Her words moved me, I love this.

VAGABOND CITY

The first girl I ever kissed had a mouthful of luring words and veins full of Percocet.
I wore the potent perfume of pineapple vodka on my breath and wilted forward into her lap,
all curled up at the edges like a water-logged book.
We were perched on the end of a leather couch in someone’s basement and the television flickered and buzzed to mask the
piercing pounding of my heartbeat against the rib cage.
Her voice lilted softly in my ear, “Do you want to kiss me or not?” but my skinned, purple knees quivered as I questioned what people would think
when they saw me tangled up in the limbs of some Venus,
and not softly swallowing the saliva of a sweaty, calloused boy.
That was how it was supposed to be,
when you were sixteen with red lips and black stockings,
slurring empty proverbs to strangers.
Still, I…

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Can’t stop thinking…

We were happy, right?

What happened? Why did it come to you running to her? What did she have that I didn’t? You wanted to ask me to marry you not even 2 months before, I would’ve said yes because I wanted it too. Why can’t I stop thinking of you? Of us? Of the last two years?

Why can’t you leave my mind? Why do you still have the power to make me cry?

You haunt my dreams… my thoughts… my every breath. How do I make you disappear? How do I block the memory of you?

I gave my all. I tried so very hard to save you from your thoughts. I wanted a family with you Did I make you happy at all? Did you ever find solace in my arms? My embrace?

Why are you still on my mind? And why can’t I make you leave?

Have you seen me? I haven’t.

Two years in a relationship. Two years as someone new.

I now find myself alone again, by choice mind you, but I also find myself noticing this unfamiliar reflection in the mirror. Almost as if I look, and I see…but there is someone new staring back. I always swear that I will never change myself for someone, but it seems I typically do. You’d think I would learn my lesson already. I really dont understand it.

Now I find myself in this predicament. Being accused of being in a biker gang. Correction… Motorcycle Club. They do charity stuff, they’re mostly parents, for fuck sake… they have pajama parties. I don’t see how they can be dangerous. Family is huge to them. Yes they have one night a week that they do party… one. Where’s the danger? Where are the crates of drugs and guns? No where. I wish people would learn to swallow their judgements.

I don’t have Caeleigh. Because I have been here. Because she was here. I’m being threatened for my child to be taken from me. Because she was up late one night, here, roasting marshmallows and getting dirty as kids typically do. But that was me not caring about her. That was me not paying attention to her. That was me putting others ahead of my daughter. I will get her on weekends but I will not be allowed to bring her here. I’m so trapped. I’m a good parent. But having some sort of social contact is big to me. 29 years old, and I’m not allowed to raise my child as I see fit. Ugh…

I am grateful, now fuck off.

This pretty much sums it up in a nut shell.

Mama Said

It was some time between midnight and 3am. I was dead asleep. I’d fed the littliest at midnight so it was after that, and it was before he woke up for a feed at 3am. This hardly matters, because that time of night is Hell unless you’re pashing, happy drunk, smoking in a bar, dancing, or on drugs – y’know, generally having a fulfilling life that doesn’t involve milk dripping out of your breasts or playing the fart or shit game. So, I’m asleep and I feel this tiny hand on my face and then there’s a kiss on my forehead. And for a second I’m confused like – did the tiny one do that? He’s only four-weeks-old? Is he a mutant? That would be amazing. And then I realise it’s my big baby and I pull him into my arms while still asleep and think “oh he’s delicious”. But…

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Past, present & future…

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Back against the wall, sliding down as the tears begin to fall. Why does it happen this way? When does it stop hurting? 
I go through journals; pages and pages of bad decisions, stains on the pages from tears, and quite a few regrets. I know they say to never regret your past, but what if you fucked up so bad that you wrecked your future? I am who I am today because of those regrets… I get this. But, had I stayed in school… I could have been done with Med School by now. Had I stayed in Colorado in 2006….. a little boy might have had the chance to actually know his mother. So many horrible, painful memories of what happened and what could have been. Funny thing, this evil called regret. You know you shouldn’t, but the what-if’s are just to good to pass up.
Two years gone this week. We’ve been through so much. But some things can’t be forgiven. I now face my reflection and wonder where to go from here.

To the future??? Buckle up, I guess.

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Boone’s Farm, for fixing broken hearts.

The heart is so easily hurt. I find myself cuddling a bottle of Boone’s Farm and weeping periodically, trying so very hard to figure why I am in this heart break motel yet again.

Boy likes girl.
Girl likes boy.

That’s how it is supposed to go. Right? I’m 29, almost 30, and this stupid love concept has my head all kinds of twisted. So bent out of shape… over what? These emotions I feel…. I love him. But I want to destroy her in a fit of rage. It really isn’t good, this rage feeling. I don’t like it. My chest is tight, my stomach hurts and I feel like I am going to hurl. Perhaps I should ground myself? Sigh… later.

I’m lost right now. My heart is an idiot and wants to go the other way. My brain is telling me to never look back. Ugh.

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How do you ask a question like that? How does he say he loves me after what he did? I once called her friend…even saw more in her then anyone realised. But now?

I’m not sure what to do, think or say…. I need more alcohol.

On pride and memories… and the beginning of my journey down this crazy path.

Now it’s no surprise to me that my daughter didn’t start loosing teeth until just recently. She’ll be 7 next month by the way. But I must say…. she’s awfully adorable when showing off her gap toothed grin. It brings me to wonder…. was I ever proud of anything as a child?
I must admit I don’t remember much of my childhood. Parents fought a lot, on worked a lot. My great grandmother and my grandfather (or Papa as us kids called him) cared for myself and my younger bother. My mother tells me I was a unruly brat and that I’m lucky to have made it this far. She tells me of the things I did. I would bite myself, and kick and scream. You know? A typical fit that a 3-4 year old would throw, only ten times worse. Sometimes I’m glad I don’t remember. But at the same time…. I don’t really remember being proud of something I did. I don’t remember my friends,  or the first time I rode a bike. So it is here that I admit my fear.
My daughter kicks and screams. She hits the floor, stomps and throws herself around. I can’t help but ask myself is she will end up just like me. Or wonder how I have failed as a parent, just as my father did I’m sure. People assure me constantly that I am doing just fine and that her behavior is totally normal. I’m still not completely confident in their claims.
What can I do, right?