Full disclosure: This gets very sweary again.

Yes, if you were wondering, I am singing Usher in my head as I write this. I rode to school my sophomore year of high school with a guy that only listened to Usher. I know EVERY single song off that album by heart. It was a long car ride, a long year. Until I got a boyfriend that could drive, then he took me to school, but then he told me he loved me after like 12 minutes so I had to break up with him. He may still have given me a ride to school, though. I can’t remember. But I remember Usher.

Anyway, all of that was totally besides the point. I am supposed to be working on my taxes this morning. And I tried. I really did. But then TurboTax started asking ridiculous questions about my marriage status and filing jointly and then told me since I wouldn’t be filing jointly (because I’ve been unjoined, fucking Ash) it would be better for me to log out and set up a new account. Fuck you TurboTax. I don’t need your negativity in my life. I have enough negativity in my life. Thank you for reminding me, though, that I am alone, will not be filing anything jointly and need to start the fuck over. Didn’t need the reminder coz I already fucking remember. All the fucking time.

Just this morning, Jack was complaining about school, because he’s 10 and 10 year olds hate school (what he would do with his time without it is beyond me, but whatever). My mom and I remind him he has to go to school but to make sure he figures out something he loves to do and then when he grows up and has to get a job, it won’t feel so much like the hell that most of us feel because when you do what you love, it’s not like work. My goodness, we’re wise.

Side note, if anyone is hiring for someone that likes to plan vacations she’ll never take, purchasing real estate she’ll never buy or obnoxious sports fan of her child, I am your girl and available to start immediately.

Moving on, Jack says well I want to be a pro athlete and then I will love my job. Good for you, son. Seriously, the world is your oyster. But guess what? That takes A LOT of hard work, every day. Practice. Practice. Practice. Discipline. Discipline. Discipline. His comeback – well you won’t throw a football with me so how am I supposed to practice? My comeback – I’ll throw football with you whenever you want. All you have to do is ask. His comeback – but you’re not very good. No. I’m not very good at football. My hands are too small. The ball is too big. I can’t throw a spiral. I catch the ball wrong every time so that I either jam a finger or break a nail. Dad was the football guy. He could throw. And catch. And run plays. And stuff. I can, just not like Dad. I’m the baseball Mom, though. That’s my jam. That’s where I excel. I can throw and catch and hit and probably still kick his ass at that (not really). But my boy has a love/hate relationship with what was once his biggest passion in life.

So, TurboTax, there was my reminder first thing this morning. I’m also reminded every night after putting the boys to bed because I’m all alone. Just me, my 2 dogs that I think I might be resenting, and my blue piece of fabric (that I call blankie) that I rub between my fingers while I watch TV. Yes, I know how weird that is. Yes, it’s something a child would do. Yes, I’ve tried to quit. No, I can’t. These are my confessions. And I confess that I’m a weirdo that has security issues, high anxiety and a bad ankle from jogging on a treadmill because apparently I’m old and can’t jog on a treadmill properly. (This is a true story. I can barely walk. Because life.)

Seriously, life sucks. Most of the time, it is a giant kick in the ass. It’s so fucking messy. For me, personally, because I can only speak for myself, I feel like I’m doing great, moving forward, looking ahead, thinking positive thoughts, and then BAM, TurboTax has to go and ruin it. Or making big girl decisions all by myself. Or just making myself get out of bed in the morning.

While I’m still confessing, I have become a shitty friend. Sometimes I don’t answer phone calls. I forget to return text messages. I don’t initiate phone calls or text messages. Except for with a few. There are a few that I am leaning on far too often that probably want to tell me to go the fuck away. But please don’t. I need you. I need you more than you think I do.

I have one friend who has been in the hospital for the past few days. I haven’t called. I’ve barely texted. She’s having biliary/bile duct/stent placement problems. And these are words that I’m all too familiar with. And I just can’t. I can’t talk about it. I can’t write about it. I can’t go there. And it’s utterly selfish and cowardice. And from the bottom of my heart, I am sorry. And I am thinking about you and praying for you. And I fucking love you. And I need you to pull through this and also forgive me for being such a shit friend.

To another friend, you said you are struggling and could use my support. I can’t give it to you. I cannot be the one to lean on when it comes to Ash’s death. His death has affected all his friends, his mom, loved ones near and far, his children and me, his wife. I have to be strong for my children. I have to stand tall when all I want to do is lie down. I have to be brave and courageous for them. I have to show them how to move forward, how to keep going, one foot in front of the other. I cannot help you. Because when I’m not helping them, I have to support myself. I have to show myself all the things I’m struggling to teach my children. I need someone to be strong for us, when we fall apart, when we need support, when we need to be reminded that life doesn’t always suck. I cannot do that for you.

I have many other confessions, but I think I’ll save those for a different day. Right now, I’m going to head back over to TurboTax and punch those motherfuckers in the nuts.