Want vs. Need are two very different things; literally.

I’m killing myself. (NOT LITERALLY. Calm your tits.) That’s it. I finally have the answer and it truly has been in front of me the entire time.

As far as I can remember, I have pushed back. I pushed back against my parents, friends, ‘the norm’ and especially religion. Let’s not even go there.

I’m still not a religion kind of girl. I don’t believe in ‘God’ however, I do believe that there are powers that are higher than myself in this universe. Now, here’s where it get’s tricky. I am an alcoholic in recovery. I am an alcoholic that got sober with the aid of Alcoholics Anonymous. Alcoholics Anonymous is a ‘God’ based, Christian centered recovery program. I think you can see where I am going with this.

I struggle with the ‘Higher Power’ aspect of thee program also. Yeah, you can call it ‘God’ or ‘Higher Power’ but, we all know that it’s based on ‘God’. “The Man”. “The Holy Father”. And frankly, I have a problem with that.

It’s taken me 8 years to find my way back into the rooms of AA and listening to the journeys of other alcoholics that struggled with the same thing to finally understand; I am more confused than fucking ever. All this talk of getting on your knees and praying every morning and every night but, it doesn’t have to be to ‘God’. It can be to anything. Really? ANYTHING? This leaves the realm of interpretation open ended. I like being quiet in the morning; therefore, I wake up extremely early, make my coffee, walk outside and sit. I sit there and listen to the quiet. I don’t meditate. For lort’s sake, I am an adult ADD sufferer; that’s just too much to ask.  But, does this make quiet my ‘higher power’? It’s an utterly ridiculous concept. But, one that I am going to roll with for right now.

And if you have stayed thus far, thank you. These posts tend to be chaos at best sometimes. Honestly?, I totally blame ADD and my therapist says that’s A-Okay. 😉

As I sat outside this morning with my coffee and my Daily Reflections book, it hit me that here I am; I am in a house that is constantly loud.(and, I love it most of the time) I walk outside and it is constantly loud. I go into the grocery store and it’s loud. What the fuck am I doing in a place that is so loud when the only thing that I truly want is to be quiet? And then, I started crying. All this time that I have tried to prove that I was not a “country girl” to others and all this time, I could have been quiet. I could have just accepted that I truly want a place in the middle of nowhere (but, as close as possible to Target and a Starbucks, thank you very much) where I can sit and be quiet. I want to be able to scream in frustration and not worry about the neighbors calling 9-1-1, or sit outside when it rains and not smell oil and asphalt. I am totally not talking Texas Chainsaw Massacre locale or shit like that; fuck you. I need people also. But, right now and at this stage in my life; I need quiet more.  And, I think that our family needs quiet.

We are all overly stressed, overly medicated, overly in debt, overly every-fucking-thing. My husband is nearing the end of his military career and after 20+ years, he deserves some quiet.

About a month ago, we made the decision to put our house on the market. It’s been a back and forth, confusing and less than quiet time for me and it seems like something is always in the path of this taking place because this fucking place is still not on the market. HAHAHA

But, yesterday it hit me. I truly believe that shit always happens for a reason. I don’t always like the reason and admittedly, I am not a patient person so, if the process of the reasoning takes awhile, I am not always onboard with this. But, whatever; I digress. Yesterday as I was chatting via text with a friend (her husband is also our agent) about how our scheduling a dinner date is always getting fucked; it hit me. Duh, Melody. Remember? Shit happens for a reason.  So, as of today I am going to be quiet. I am going to TRY and let things go as they are intended and not bitch TOO much about it taking so long. The keyword here being “TRY”.

So, all this time and all these years and all I really NEEDED was quiet. What I WANTED is killing me. I love my life for the most part. I love our home, I love the friends that I have here, I love the boys’ schools. I mean, I could be thinner or younger, I could be a millionaire and then you wouldn’t be reading this because I would be in my quiet; in Hawaii but, right now I’m gonna settle for quiet on my front porch. I’m going to take my 0430 coffee and quiet time and roll with it until our family’s reason shows up. I just wish it would hurry the fuck up. lol

Happy Tuesday!





It was only six minutes…

Today, as many other days, I found myself preaching to the proverbial choir; my children. As I always make an attempt at doing, I tried to speak with reflection on past discussions and with my best attempt at calm through my clinched teeth and forced patience.

I’m going to make this short and sweet because it hit me, really hit me hard in the gut, that I truly hoped my kids learned something from me during their years at home.

All kids do it. They sit there and “listen” as a parent preaches at them. Tells them what is expected. Explains why they are being punished. Blah, blah, blah. The whole time, thinking in their little child brains, “Is she ever going to just shut up? Maybe if I sit really still and look at her forehead she will think that I’m paying attention and shut up.”  I did the same thing. I’m wise to their game; only this time, I’m the old lady that won’t shut up and I just. keep. talking. (Sometimes on purpose.)

This time was different. This time, something would be taken away from my nearing 41 year old, mother of three, gibberish. (And by the way, not going to be short and sweet as I had hoped) This time, I was speaking of a box. An imaginary box but, a box nonetheless. This box, like many other boxes, begins empty. This box then is filled with tiny pieces of well, shit. Yes. Let’s use shit as a prime example.  A box is only capable of holding so much shit and then, it’s done. It’s filled with all these little bits of shit and there is now no room left for the big pieces of shit. It’s nearing impossible to carry without help. Now, let’s equate that box of little bits of shit to one’s ability to handle all “the little things” that we are told our entire lives that we should let go.

One can only handle so much before all the little things turn into one big solid THING and its a whole lot harder to rid yourself of that heavy, huge box than one that is halfway or even a quarter of the way full. So, for every little thing that is kept out of the box, there is room for something else. I know, I know. All this talk of shit and boxes; all this is confusing me so, my kids were probably fucked from the get-go.

At this point, the look of confusion is too much to bear and I start giving examples such as small chores. One of which I had assigned them in the past was wiping the table down after every meal. This is not a hard chore. This is not a cumbersome or time consuming chore. It is three (sometimes) times a day and one can accomplish this in two minutes. Three times a day x two minutes = six minutes. Six minutes from their day.  Could they spare SIX minutes in order to rid that box of some of the little shit so that I didn’t lose MY shit? The look on their faces was that of, “Well, of course. It’s ONLY six minutes.”

The conversation continued on as I tried to impress upon them that I am NOT trying to be the bitch mom. However, I had tried to be the nice mom, the bitch mom, the friend mom, the spoiling mom.  I have been the yelling mom. I have been the begging mom and the pleading mom. I have been the bargaining mom(which I swore I would never be) and I have been the Southern-beat-your-ass-with-a-belt mom. I have taken all of their things. I have donated and given away, sold and trashed their shit. What would it take?

Here lies where I bring up THE stupidest rule as mom that I have EVER heard but, have been forced to well, enforce. The “All for one, one for all” rule. If one of you acts stupid, all of you get punished.  My kids ages are 12, 11 and 4. Take a minute and let that soak in. Now, isn’t that “rule” the most asinine shit you have ever heard of? But, it’s the only thing that works. The 4 year old fucks up when you’re with him, all three get punished. The oldest one steals snacks, everyone loses that particular snack. I think that you get the idea.  If you are a parent and reading that, is that not the most ridiculous shit? Hell, if you are not a parent and read that; fucking ridiculous. It makes no sense but, it. fucking. works.

Now, here is where it hit me that I truly hope that one day in their lives, they will have that “A-ha” moment that I spoke of earlier. I looked at the eldest and told him that eventually he will have a job, maybe a home of his own. It may be a first job working at a fast food joint with a table that he has to wipe down for a customer or it may be his own table that he needs to wipe off to feed his own kids.  I hope that if it’s him or if it’s one of his brothers;  in that one second of thought, I hope it goes back to my words from today; “…it was only six minutes”.  Six minutes that can help another person more than they will ever know. Six minutes that may just take a lot of that little shit out of someone’s box and make it a little lighter for them to carry.

Sometimes I tend to talk a bit excessively…

For those that know me well, I tend to talk a wee bit. haha
But, I am terrified of any type of public speaking.
I have written speeches for local business owners (friends) however, had I been asked to actually say them OUTLOUD?
Who was the speech teacher in high school? Track her down. Ask her if she remembers the 200 pound student that cold passed out on her floor when it came time to present.
So, after all that; I actually spoke at AA last night.
The topic was “What did you do today to stay sober?”
#1 I hate that fucking question. Normally, it means that you are an unprepared dick who shouldn’t have accepted to lead a meeting.
Moving on…
Last night when I spoke, I touched on words of persons that I came across in my first year and change of sobriety and the words that as of late, had be resonating in my head.
1. I remember sitting at Starbucks after a meeting in 2010. I was contemplating if I really WAS an alcoholic. MAYBE, I was just so severely depressed that I used it as a crutch. This woman looked at me and with all the sincerity she had said, “You know, that could be the case. Maybe you AREN’T an alcoholic. But, are you willing to take that chance to find out?”
2. There was a couple in the main AA meeting that I attended in the beginning. He was an “old timer” (years upon years sober) and she was sober for quite awhile. These are people that I respected and looked up to. I was about a year and change into my recovery and one night after a meeting, he and I were chatting about me not having a sponsor to walk me through working the steps.
His words to me, “If you don’t have a sponsor, you’ll be dead in a year.”
Challenge accepted, mother fucker. And, I never walked back into a meeting until 2015.
3. And this one, I think can apply to most any task in life; if you get comfortable and give yourself a chance to think “maybe”, you have already relapsed.
Get comfortable, get canned. Job, social circles fuck, even in the route you take home from work everyday… you name it and this can apply. If you start to get too cocky enough in anything, BOOM! You’ll find out how quickly that shit can change.
And, as the always pleasant Melody, I felt that I also needed to knock the newcomers in the room back into the harsh reality that alcoholism, like any disease/addiction, there are three levels of initial TRUE recovery;
1. Immediate high of, “I’m really doing this! I got this! I am invincible!”
2. You hit the bottom of the roller coaster where that adrenaline has hit the pit of your stomach and you’re not wholly convinced if you need to vomit or ride again but, that feeling is not “okay”.
3. You eventually get to feel “normal” again. And that may be the hardest part. (imho)
So, thoughtless meanderings of a recovering alcoholic. Thanks for letting me share; my name is Melody and I am an alcoholic.

Surgical humor… best question EVER

So, on the topic of weight loss; mine in particular…
For those that are not aware, I had gastric bypass in 2002.
October 16, 2002
I was checked into the hospital and in that gen pop, OR prep area where they give you all the good relaxation shit via IV. My mother went to close the privacy curtain and the nurse quickly stops her. My mom looks at her and says, “You just gave her meds to chill her out. Trust me. You WANT to close this curtain.” (The curtain remained open at the insistence of the charge nurse.)
Not moments after this and watching the Today Show with Katie Couric, I for no reason known to me, yell out “FUCK YOU, KATIE COURIC!” Dude, I have never had any issues with Katie fucking Couric before this moment. (The nurse then comes and closes not only the curtain but the door as well.)
My dad comes in and informs me that somehow he has made contact with my anesthesiologist and they went to college together. (Delta State, bitches! Home of the mighty FIGHTING OKRA!) Okay, so that should be comforting, right?
Anyway, I digress. They (Who the fuck were ‘THEY’ anyway? Who are all of those people that always roll you into an operating room?)
Rolled in and everyone is so well, happy. I guess the thought of cutting into people thrills the shit out of them. Hey, me too! Carry. The. Fuck. On.
Looking back, I could have felt like I was Ana from 50 Shades of Gray/Grey being tethered down and locked into place. Dear lort… And then it starts; they all start asking you questions to keep your mind busy while they stick needles and fuck knows what else everywhere but, this day; a question was asked that stuck in my brain and swear, I can still hear my dad’s friend saying it,
“Melody, what’s the first thing that you’re going to do after you lose all this weight?”
“I’m gonna work at mother fucking Hooters.”
The entire surgical team froze and then started laughing so hard that they were actually making me nervous.  And, that was the last thing that I heard as my life changed.  It’s a pretty good memory of a really dark time.

***Draft AGAIN from last year…. lmao

My name is Melody. I am a recovering alcoholic. I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a woman that is diagnosed as bi-polar with clinical depression, severe anxiety and panic disorder. I am a woman that wears many hats and not all of them are positive. Today, I finally admitted to myself that I am addicted to food.

My entire existence and who I am has centered around food. Food and being fat because of it. I am not a medically reasoned fat person. I know each and every time that I put food in my mouth that I am making the choice. And every time, I sit there and literally ponder what I can cut from my intake in the next day to make up for what I am about to do. It’s a horrible way to live.

How I envy those people that eat to live and not the opposite. How I wish that I could walk away from cookies and cupcakes. How I wish that I didn’t obsess about one particular food for a week. Not eating anything else until I have made myself so physically ill from the consumption. How I wish that after nearing forty years on this earth, I could put down that last bite and be satiated. But, I never do.

At one point in my adult life, I weighed in at 331 pounds.  Today, I stand at 168. Last week I weighed 164. Yes, you read that correctly. In one week, I gained 4 pounds. How in the fuck does that happen? Normal people don’t do that, right? Now, most people think that in the scheme of things, four pounds is a mere drop in the pie pan when you compare 331 to 168. Well, not to me.  Nothing changed in my life last week. I wasn’t anymore sane or depressed than normal. Nothing changed in my physical activity level (or lack thereof) in the last week.  And, it’s not Aunt Flo’s visit.  I just gained fucking weight. And, to an extent I can see where 4 pounds is “nothing”. That is until I begin to analyze how that measly four pounds is really going to hurt me. That is when I think about gaining 4 pounds a week for a month. (16 pounds approx.) Then, I think about gaining 4 pounds a week for the seven months that my husband is deployed for.  That is where panic ensues.

You know that point when you are eating something and you use KNOW that the last bite(s) are going to make you miserable? You stop eating, right? Nope. Not this girl. This girl sits there with the last bite of food in her hand or on her plate and waits. Waits until it feels like she can manage that one. Last. Bite. Then she gets sick and has to stick her fingers down her throat to vomit because it hurts so badly. This is not normal. This is not the actions of a person that wants to “eat to live” and be happy. Yes, you also read that correctly. I gag myself to vomit if I eat too much.

I am 168 pounds and I am 5’8″. By some accounts, a relatively tall woman. All the charts say that I am overweight. Yet, I have been told that I look “sick” or asked “how much more weight…” do I want to lose. (btw, I am not sick at all and I want to weigh 150) When do I start feeling that my weight is acceptable? When do I start remembering that my husband met me when I was 200 pounds and still wanted to be with me? When do I stop thinking that the rail thin woman is silently scolding me for eating the exact same thing that she has on her plate?  Well, apparently not anytime soon since I can’t stop eating.


***Last year’s draft— This cunt though.

The other night, a friend called me a bad mother. She made accusations about me on my own post and then proceeded to private message a friend of mine to make sure she knew that I was a bad parent. Now, this was not a close friend. I met her maybe six months ago? But, she totally seemed cool enough. She is into rescue just like I am and we actually foster kittens for the same mutual friend and her rescue.

The woman said that I curse my children out, have them raise my three year old and punish them for the things that the things the three year old does. All of these accusations of which, are false.

I will by all means, take responsibility for the fact that I use um, COLORFUL language and it takes over a lot when I get excited or upset. And, yes. I have used curse words towards my children at one point or another. (As I am sure most every parent

#blacklivesmatter; even to a girl from Mississippi

***This is a draft from last year. Again, not sure why I didn’t publish it or finish it. But, I do remember being lit the fuck up about something and decided it would be best to not address it in this blog.

I will be 40 in two months. I am from Mississippi. I was raised with a member of the KKK as my grandfather. I don’t say that with pride. But, I can tell you that aside from the discipline and the insane amount of church that I was forced to attend, my grandfather was and continues to be a good man. I don’t dare ask the things he saw. The things that he may have participated in.  All I can say is that I still love this man. Despite all the things that he preaches in true Sunday Christian fashion and the way that he will call a man a ‘niggra’, I still love him.

What I cannot and will not tolerate now that I have a voice is those that feel okay with spewing vulgar names, pushing the already present racial divide.

I’m getting off topic here so, let me pull it back in.

I believe in the #blacklivesmatter movement. The black community needs us right now. Since every one seems so desperate to need to claim a hashtag, we now have #alllivesmatter.  We now have #bluelivesmatter. I’m sure that there is a #muslimlivesmatter. My thoughts…


I’d like to teach the world to sing…

***This is a draft that I saved from last year. Not sure why I never finished it nor published it.


Okay so, not really.  On most days I do well to not get my ass kicked by some huge Jamaican woman. Don’t laugh. Until you have stood shopping cart to shopping cart with one, don’t you dare laugh.

A few days ago an announcement was made throughout the US Navy that has to be the most nerve-wrecking, fingernail biting, cursing every high ranking asshat that holds that one email. Yes people… We entered, duh duh duhhhnnnn…

The Season. Chief Season. Induction.

Normal people refer to it as “jovial menacing” or “driving to the point of hilarious insanity”, “good natured ribbing by BFFs”, aka., Hazing. (btw, I am required to say that in no way were any sailors hazed by any other sailors that may or may not have been hazed in previous seasons. At least to my knowledge.) But, I digress…


I have been subjected to post after post after post about what gifts to give or tips to give to the newest CPO(Sel) spouses. Let me take a minute and tell you what ‘gift of advice’ that I would bestow upon you. Only four little words to remember;

Don’t. Be. A. Cunt.

Yup. It’s that simple. You are not your spouse’s promotion. His/her promotion is not yours. You don’t have to stop associating with friends that may rank below your husband now and you don’t have to change carpools because you are the wife of a man that wears khakis.


Who me, worry? Fucking right, doggie.

This weekend has been one, long, nonstop anxiety inducing panic attack. It would slow at times but, still just linger in my chest. There were so many times that I even had to stop and make myself REMEMBER to breathe; and then would panic wondering “Who the fuck forgets to breathe?” and the cycle would begin again. I am the person that when I try to slow my breathing, inhale deeply and exhale slowly… I fucking panic. Why? Because what the fuck is wrong with me that I have a goddamned panic attack because I am trying to alleviate a goddamned panic attack?

Saturday morning. I had a full on, crying and screaming, shaking and in literal pain because I didn’t want to paint my formal dining room.  No, this wasn’t a “…lazy Saturday, I don’t wanna” kind of fit. This was a complete panic because I worked so hard on that room and the thought of painting it to appease buyers that may or may not be serious about purchasing our home destroys me; HOURS was the amount of time that it took my husband to calm me down and convince me that I didn’t have to do anything if I didn’t want to.

Yesterday, I stayed so medicated on goddamned Xanax that I slept almost all day on the couch or was in such a fog that I didn’t know what was happening. It was fucking miserable. I paced the entire house. Every room, multiple times. And I was ANGRY. So angry and I still have no clue as to why.

At some point, my husband convinced me to go with him to the store to grab a few things. Yeah, that was a mistake. I can’t count how many times that I had to stop and lean on the shopping cart to avoid my legs buckling, trying to remember to make myself breathe but, not too deeply because then I got lightheaded and thought for sure that I was going to pass out and well, that would have ended badly. Not failing to mention that continuous, never subsiding utter pain in my stomach to my chest and making my teeth throb.

This morning, I woke up at 3am, snuggled up to my husband and thought to myself that today was going to be a GOOD day for once. Then his alarm went off and reminded me that because of not being of sound mind for a majority of the last 48 hours, it was not Sunday as I thought but, rather Monday; and my husband has duty.

My motivation is nil and although my anxiety/panic has passed for now, the horrible ache in my stomach and my lungs reminds me of the physical toll that an attack like this can leave behind.

But, on a good note… I lost 6 pounds in less than 4 days.



Remembering shit is so random; and weird.

This morning, I was making my um, second (or fourth) cup of coffee and for some reason my grandfather popped into my head.  Not the living one but, the long time gone one. My father’s father. The part of my genetic code that I wholeheartedly credit my quiet, quick and mental warfare abilities from. Thank you, X.L.. You were one of the greats.

Anyway… there are things about my grandfather that I can pull from memory and then there are the stories. Some of those stories were romantic and involved my grandmother, Ellen, and some that included a dog, a knife and jumping states lines but, that is all complete hearsay and no charges were ever brought against him and no one can prove anything. I mean, the guy lived for fuck’s sake but, yeah. That’s a story for another time.

Let’s go with my memories since well, I can confirm these. Well, I can confirm them as far as my first 12 years allow me to.

I guess what brought him to mind was my coffee. X.L. had some very unique ways of doing things. Being almost 41 years old now, let’s just call a spade a spade; he was OCD as fuck. “Unique”, ha. Back to the coffee though; X.L. would make his coffee in a regular old cup. Add his sugar to the cup, stir and then pour it onto the saucer and drink it from there. Pick up the saucer and literally, slurp it down.  I always told myself that it was to cool off that delicious nectar of the gods but, I don’t think that I ever asked.  I wish that I had asked.

Coffee in hand, I stood in the kitchen and just tried to remember the things that he did and said. Although I don’t remember his voice and I don’t recall words of insight or advice, I did remember another little doozie that again, I wish that I had asked about.

X.L. loved banana sandwiches and I’m pretty sure that this is another thing that I can give him props for. (I have one almost every night before bed.) He also, on top of his coffee thing, had a way of eating those sandwiches that boggled me and honestly?, I’m still confused as hell.  A traditional banana sandwich, at least to me, is two slices of white bread slathered with Blue Plate mayonnaise and with slices of an almost over-ripened banana between. BAM! Pure fucking, glutinous deliciousness. However, this was not the case with my dear Pop. The components were all the same but the prep was over the top, WEIRD.  Stay with me here…

X.L. would take a saucer (wtf is it with with saucers and this guy?), and use a fork to MASH UP the banana, then add mayonnaise to it and stir it until it was mixed and finally slathering it on the bread. That is a big, fat, unequivocal, disgusting NO. Oh, I tried it. Once. And once was enough. The slime and the goop. Nope.  And again, something that I wished that I inquired about.  For the record, I always just assumed he did it because sometimes the slices that are in between the bread will fall out and it can get messy; mashing it all together makes more of a spread and less likely to just fall apart.  Yeah. I like my theory.

X.L. also had an earthworm bed under this enormous tree in his backyard. If he wanted to go fishing, and that was often, he would take a bucket and a rake, go out and just turn the top soil enough to see those nasty little fuckers scouring for safety, scoop them up and be on his merry way. I’m pretty sure that I was more than happy to help him scavenge for the things as a small child but, I do remember towards my last memories of him, hiding in the guest bedroom and playing in a hope chest that my grandmother still had full of her hats and gloves from the 40’s. (I was NOT supposed to be doing that, btw.)

There was a mirror that hung in their hallway. That mirror always creeped me the fuck out. All the things it had seen and the places it had been moved to. All the make up that was applied, the coiffed bouffant up-dos that were perfected, the ties that were straightened, the dirty faces of kids and grand kids passing by on their way to the bath, the tears of happiness at babies born and weddings and the tears of losing people they loved.

That mirror hangs in my formal dining room now. And sometimes I just clean it. But, never too much or too often. All of the things that it has seen, I will never know and that’s okay because it will carry some of my secrets on when I am gone. And maybe it will bring some memories to whomever it resides with next.

Xeles L. Swindoll, b.1911 d.1988