I started this blog nearly 4 years ago. If you’ve been following along all this time, I hope I’ve at least entertained you. At most, well, it is my sincerest hope that somewhere along the way something in sharing my life’s experiences with you facilitated you connecting with your soul. And if not, it’s cool. I don’t blame you. After going back and reading some of the stuff I wrote after drinking copious amounts of wine…well, let’s just say I’m very glad most of us evolve throughout the years.
I poured my heart into this blog. I also dumped my anger, sadness, jadedness, hopes, opinions, beliefs and just about everything else into it as well and it is so timely that I close this chapter of my life and say farewell to I took her advice.
Having a baby will do that. Becoming a mother forces you to say goodbye to everything you knew before and embrace the most epic, terrifying and beautiful thing that exists. Giving life.
It’s been real. And now, I have the realist gift of all. Much love.
I’m knocked up, if I’m going to get straight to the point. The circumstances surrounding how that came to pass aren’t nearly as important as what the freak is going on about 2 inches below my belly button.
Pregnancy is a bunch of different words. Words like: beautiful, sacred, magical, feminine, give me all the flowers and white flowy dresses because I am a god damn Mother Earth, goddess, baby-making machine. It looks a lot like this…
And then there are words like: emotional, crazy, horrible, why in the fuck is this happening to me, what, what the hell is that!? And can I please take the red pill instead? And that my friends looks a lot like this…
Seriously, I am not the same person. Physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually…Mercedes went somewhere else for the next 5 months. I’m hoping that means that through all this I “find myself”…otherwise, holy shit.
Facts of pregnancy (because I know this shit now):
1. Bye sleep. As in “bye Felicia”. Yeah, that bitch is the irrelevant entity you just ain’t got time for anymore. Oh, well I’m only talking about at night, you know, when you SHOULD be sleeping. If it’s not night, then sleep will show up, un-announced, uninvited and looking to bitch slap you all the hours that have light in them. It’s really quite incredible…eye roll.
2. You will eat Chipotle and casually read the words on the take-out bag and then cry all the tears you have in your body and be so fucking filled sadness that you just can’t live anymore. Or you’ll kill a squirrel with your car, accidentally, and then proceed to have the biggest meltdown in your life. Or how about one minute you go from holding your belly and dreaming about what your kid is going to look like to full on terror because you feel like you’re the only person on the planet and how in the fuck did you get here, in this moment, what if you die during labor, what if the kid hates you, did you just ruin your life, it’s 4 am and you want hollandaise sauce and you have nothing to make the motherfucking hollandaise sauce and you have to pee, back to caressing your belly and picturing how ridiculously good looking your kid is going to be. All in like 4 seconds. Then you’ll have a panic attack because you felt something weird and then Google every version of “what the fuck was that” and then find every horrible and terrifying pregnancy gone wrong story every written. Yeah, emotions. Not so normal anymore.
3. The feeling of vomiting and lying on a cold floor to comfort your sweaty, nauseas body will become like putting on your most fluffiest robe and bunny slippers. Because for some reason, although puking your guts out 20 times in one day because you a) smelled something weird b) ate something weird c) ate anything d) drank anything e) simply existed, sends you right to crazy town, you will also feel a surge of calm and “everything is well with my womb”. Why? Because is pregnant women need fucking proof we’re pregnant, ok!?
4. Everyone will have an opinion about your body, baby, emotional state, how you should be feeling, blah blah blah. Politely smile, tell them to fuck the fuck off (in your head, of course) and walk away. At this stage, maybe for the first time ever in your life, you realize: No body else fucking matters in this. You are carrying this baby, you are the mother and you decide what, who, when, where, and why. And if anyone has a problem with that, well, I’ve included some healthy dialogue above.
5. Responsibility is no joke. And it happens before the baby arrives. From owning the fact that you are now with child due to an err in judgement down to making sure you are drinking enough water and staying stress free, baking baby will suddenly make you grow up and step up to the plate. And you’ll relish in that feeling of having a purpose.
6. The person who helped create the third entity now growing inside your uterus will become the only thing in life you’ve ever cared about critiquing the shit out of and freaking out about when he so much as breathes. Human emotional punching bag? Walking suggestion box? Just chalk it up to your projection of your own fears about parenting…and also the fact that he’s a male. I mean, obviously there’s room for improvement.
7. Cravings will make or break you. Can’t get your hands on jack in the box tacos at 1am? Get ready for 24 hours of depression. Satisfy the intense need for jalepno cheese dip with grapes? Life is amazing and you’re gonna be the best fucking mom ever! Seriously, there’s no gray area here. Either you get the food the baby wants or things get murdered. And when you don’t get it, instead of breaking the law, go journal that shit and find something else to distract yourself until you get the next craving otherwise you will break the law.
8. You form some weird bond with all pregnant women all over the world. You’re able to sniff each other out and you now care, most fervently, about how far along she is, what she’s having, how she hates every body too and it’s the most natural thing ever. Sharing intimate details with a stranger. Pregnant lady wolf pack, that shit is real.
9. You feel guilty for ever thinking or saying that you never want to have kids or that people with kids are so boring or God my friend is never around since she had a kid. Because all the shit you used to do like countless fireball shots and nights of karaoke, being spontaneous and full of energy and up for anything and everything else in between doesnt fucking matter anymore. I know it doesn’t happen at the same time for every woman, but at some point, you are at total peace with everything you ever did in your past and you just want to embrace with every fiber in you this wonderfully, terrifying, gift you’ve been given.
Stay tuned, I’ve got 24 more weeks of this craziness…
I read somewhere once that where your mind goes when it wanders is exactly where you should be. Maybe because your subconscious is the gatekeeper of all truths in your soul? I agree with that statement, well, both actually. Lately, my subconscious is whistle-blowing me like a motherfucker…
I want to confess something to you. I’ve only finished probably 10 books in my entire life…but I’ve read hundreds. I think there’s a simple answer for it. I got ADDICTED to Goose-bump books when I was younger. Like so addicted that I would stay up all hours of the night, huddled under a blanket, with a flashlight, in my room, on a school-night and I would be enthralled, scared and all sorts of wonderment filled my revved up little brain. My father couldn’t understand why I was so tired in the morning and why he literally had to throw water on me to wake me up.
I couldn’t help it. Seriously, my entire 5th and 6th grade years I spent in a world of creation. In my mind, I would live out what I was reading on the page and then if I didn’t like what I was imagining, all I would have to do is go to another page and I could re-create whatever I wanted. I got so involved in these stories that I started applying them to everyday life when I wasn’t reading. It’s like they permeated and stained my brain. And then one night I was reading a story, I thought about my sick next door neighbor being in the story and then next thing I know, there’s an ambulance outside her house and she died. Wanna know what I did? Never read a damn Goose-bump book again.
I seriously believe those books are the reason that I find it so damn difficult to finish any other book. There’s a catch though. The books I don’t like, I breeze through, get to the last page, slam it down and shout, “WTF, that was terrible!”. Why? Well, when I love a book, I can’t get enough of it, and when I know I’m getting to the end, I stop. I don’t want it to end, I just want it to keep going. Because it turns my brain on like nothing else. I feel if I don’t finish it, the thoughts will never end, and my brain will always stay in that turned on mode.
Or maybe I just like being teased and knowing that there’s something waiting in my kindle for me to nerd out over is just sweet, blissful anticipation. Who knows, I’m just fucking weird.
Currently, there are about 1,345,762 reasons to be happy at any given moment. I haven’t personally counted them, but considering there’s oodles of blades of grass out in the world, I figure the number of “all happy things” has to be a pretty big number.
But you my friend, know as well as I do, that it is IMPOSSIBLE to be happy at any given moment. I don’t think any human has ever been able to tackle that feat. But man, it’s so easy to latch on to quotes and motivational articles that spew “You have the power to be happy…RIGHT NOW!”
Of course, I do, I’m the one plastering that shit all over Facebook.
However, I don’t fucking feel like it right this second. I actually feel like throwing myself onto the ground and crying until the snot pools onto the carpet. I feel like taking a spoon and digging out this god-awful heaviness sitting in my chest cavity and flinging it against the walls while I continue to ugly cry. I feel like punching things. Many things. All the things. Why? I’m a woman, I can’t even answer that damn question. But, all I want to do is act like a child and throw a temper-tantrum. All I want to do is literally emotionally vomit this horrific feeling out.
Oooooooooh….that’s Anger? Now what the fuck am I supposed to with that?
Seriously, what do you do when you experience anger? Do you even know it’s anger that you’re feeling? Do you even know where it’s coming from? Do you sit in it and really feel it or do you dismiss it as something else and pretend it isn’t there? Do you project it onto someone else or do you internalize it and feel guilty for even feeling it. Do you act on it and punch things or do you pull up your blog and vent interwebly? Do you hear the voice of your parents telling you that it’s not O.K. to be angry and that you need to pray to God and ask for forgiveness for sinning against him? Do you actually believe that God needs to forgive you for being fucking human? Do you get scared and have an anxiety attack, do you grab a bottle of vodka and numb it or do you literally fuck your way through it and let it dissipate as you reach an orgasm. Do you throw an iron at the person you’re angry with? Do you call your best friend and ask her what she would do? Or do you do nothing? And once you realize it’s a part of your life, how do you get rid of it…or should you?
Well, if you haven’t realized it by now, I don’t know jack shit about a lot of things. Especially anger. My pre-conceived notion of expressing anger is…don’t. That pre-conceived notion was my thought process until about, oh, less than 12 hours ago. But hey, we’re all this together, so hear me out.
Repressing anything makes it grow stronger. At least that’s what some random FB photo said to me. And I saw it right after I had a rage fueled meltdown. Like YEARS worth of anger stuffing lead to it. And it seems this year in particular, that’s been my main hurdle to try and jump over without catching my foot and fucking face planting on the concrete. I have failed so many times. Is that the lesson? Fail until you don’t fail?
Nope. You go to your local thrift store, buy the cheapest, ugliest set of dishes you can find and start busting that shit up. One mustard yellow plate at a time.
I just heard you laugh. It was not aroused by me. No.
For the marrying of decibels and vibrations was brought forth by something mysterious, something foreign.
Something that I have no fucking clue how to even begin to find productivity, or passion or even the smallest amount of entertainment in…
But, this isn’t about your masculine affinity to a football dream world. This is about the noises you make when you do it. This is about the feeling that fills the room when you start giggling at your own wittiness and “shit talking” with the other boys.
And perhaps, I have just had an epiphany on love. The depths that it can go, where it can awaken the deepest, darkest cracks in your soul.
The insignifigant moments that bring out euphoria in a lover can stir something so utterly profound in the counterpart.
I am awake. I am fucking awake.
For the laughter of the others who filled the moments before these, rushed past my eardrums. The ones I can remember…filled me with annoyance.
I am not Shakespeare but this moment…I’ll remember it like a first kiss.
And maybe that’s the reward. Being a writer. You cannot help but surrender to moments that aren’t even yours. You cannot say no to the door that is opened in your soul when the knock punches you in the chest. You can’t help but try and find some meaning in it.
But really, fucking fantasy football?
It’s crazy how much things can change in one year. It’s also crazy how the Universe has a cunning little way of showing up when you set your intentions and launch your desires.
Before I left for Guam last year, my entire spiritual practice shifted. Well, really, I think I was actually able to open myself up and commit to some form of spiritual practice rather than walking around aimlessly saying, “It is what it is.” That has lead me to a pretty in-depth self-realization of myself and a re-programming of how I want to exist. It has also lead me to using divination as a tool for self-discovery, a way to help myself heal and a pretty magnificent source to help others as well. So much so, that I have toyed around with the idea of turning that new found passion and path into it’s own blog, saying good-bye and closing the cover on Itookheravice and saying hello to the wondrous possibilities of a spiritual-based educational blog.
I will give you a small little example of why I love using these cards as a way to tap into MY divine knowing.
As has been the norm for me as of late, I go to my cards when I’m seeking just about anything. So, when I posed the question, “Universe, what do I need to know about this new venture I have swirling around in my head. A simple yes or no would be greeeeat”, I picked up my Goddess deck, began shuffling and no sooner than speaking the last word, 5 cards flew out and landed on the floor, one flying about about 10 inches past the other 4. I knew that was my card. I also already knew what was going to be on the flip-side of that card. She always shows up when something creative is on the table, something that I KNOW I “should” be doing but am procrastinating on. She also pops up to remind me that my voice is my gift and I am here to help others find theirs. She is Sarasvati.
Hindu Goddess of the arts, Sarasvati nudges us in all areas of creative expression and helps us focus our minds on our creative endeavors and not get distracted or procrastinate. Sarasvati means “the one who gives the essence of knowledge of our own selves” and is also considered to be the “Mother of the Universe”. We are all “mothers” of our own creations and this card is soooo fitting as a reminder of that.
I was not surprised when I flipped it over and saw that familiar face staring back at me. Most times I see her and she’s saying, “Mercedes, dear, pick up your journal. Work on the book, DO. SOMETHING. Create.” And yes, I already knew the answer to my question as I asked it, but the confirmations the cards bring are undeniable and really give a feeling of magic and synchronicity. Who doesn’t like magic?!
In a way, I guess I dropped a bomb. I like to think of it more as a necessary and very rewarding shift. Don’t worry, my posts aren’t going to take on the “crazy lady with tight hair bun, really ugly shoes and chalkboard pointer thing” teacher persona. More of a “I love my teacher because she uses the F bombs and never makes me take tests!” Boom.
I remember a conversation with a friend once. One of my exes got brought up in conversation. If you’ve been following along in the blog, you’ll know this ex by the term “DB”. You know, the equivalent to the grim reaper of hearts with a stomping fetish.
“I can’t believe you broke up with him.” – Friend
Time stopped. A lump in my throat formed. All of a sudden I wanted to scream, to maybe throw my drink in my friends face. Maybe even cry an ugly cry while I did it.
Instead, a “What?” fell out of my shocked mouth.
“He was sooooooo hot.” – Friend (Another friend nodded in agreement.)
Yes, I definitely wanted to throw my drink. And kick as many shins as possible and unleash my inner rage at all the vain, superficial people I had just realized I had been calling friends.
I sarcastically laughed and sharply lasered back “After knowing what he did to me, all you have to say is you can’t believe we broke up because he was sooooo hot?!” (I will admit freely and without shame that I still harbored insane amounts of anger toward this ex. I still pretty much fantasized about lighting him on fire. Don’t worry, I’ve come to terms with MOST of it cira…now.)
Other friend in the group saw my knuckles go white, grabbed me and tried to dance with me to divert my attention. I wasn’t having it. I stepped closer and said, “Would you be OK with your daughter dating a man like that? Would you just turn a blind eye to the pain he caused her just because he was of his perfectly hairless chiseled body?”
I ruined the fun moment. I popped the bubble of superficial bullshit and the look I was getting said it all. YOU DON’T BELONG HERE.
A moment of clarity smacked me right in the kisser. The above may be a terrible example. But,it tugged at my loyalty string like a mo-fo.
I had a suuuuuuper bad day this week. Loyalty came to the forefront. Which sparked a Facebook rant. I came to the conclusion and commentary fueled idea: We don’t date douches, at least most of us try to avoid it at all costs, why would we be friends with them?
How can you determine if something/someone is WRONG/TOXIC/EXPIRED for you if you don’t put yourself in the pile of flaming shit? You can’t. It’s impossible.
“Yeah-Huh, Mercedes” (Insert sticking out of the tongue)
Oh sure, you can heed people’s warnings, you can listen to your parents justify why they sheltered you your whole life because they “Didn’t want to see you make the same mistakes you did.” Or that they “Know better than you because they’ve seen it all.”
You can even look up tons of advice on the internets, maybe even THIS blog and try and save yourself certain torments or find words someone else wrote to confirm what you knew all along. I get it. It’s human nature to want to feel validated, to reach out aside from ourselves and connect with some other force of thought. Lemme tell you something though before you fall on your knees in a “Whhhhhhy meeee!?” plea with the heavens. Each shitty friend, each romantical death, each hindsight that makes you go, “God, if I only knew then what I know now”…brings. you. closer. to. LIFE. and LOVE. and Furry baby tigers. You know, if that’s what your heart desire wants.
How not to date/be friends with a douche: Date/Be friends with a douche.
Do it so you know what it looks like in the future? Yes, that’s what I’m going with. Because let’s face it, you don’t really get to know someone til the shit hits the fan. We’re all human, we all suck and man, some of us just like to believe that everyone is a good person. Til they’re not.
And maybe it’s a battle of the sexes thing. Women for example: when something is morally wrong to us, it is so terribly morally wrong because we are driven by our feelings and emotions and stuff. Men, not so much. If something beeps “wrong” on their moral compass they say, “well, he’s got my back anytime I need him so no judgement, dude.” Am I trying to say that women have a more sensitive douche meter than men? Probably.
I guess now I just need to work on my incredibly verbose definition of douche.
Rant over. M, out.
Best douche face I could make.
Best douche face I could make.