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billy-mays

Somehow, I’d always pictured him somewhere on the delicate clouds of heaven, painting happy fucking clouds with Bob Motherfucking Ross.

Hello Aunt Becky!

I have a stupid, crazy, but amazing boyfriend that I have been with for almost a year now. We get along really well most of the time, but for some reason or another we ALWAYS end up fighting over the stupidest shit EVER! Seriously, stupid.

Last week, he got mad at me because at 5AM, after talking and hanging out all night, I passed out in the middle of a conversation. Okay, if it’s 5AM, and you’re talking to me laying in bed after a bottle of wine, expect me to fucking fall asleep!

So, we constantly have these stupid fights that turn into 3 or 4 days of yelling at each other, ignoring each other, or whatever, until I end up being a total fucking pushover and admitting EVERYthing I do and say is WRONG! And I’m sick of it! I’m not always wrong.

I don’t know if he really thinks that I’m that fucked up, or if he’s just trying to overpower me.

I really am in love with this man, and I don’t want to end it, but my self-esteem is about to hit rock-fuckin-bottom! He treats my spiritual views with respect, and he is a very sweet, and understanding man. I just can’t handle him yelling at me anymore! I’m a strong-minded woman, and now I feel like I can’t even make up my mind without disappointing him.

I don’t want to make him sound like a total ass-hat, because he isn’t – he’s truly an amazing man. He’s okay with me being a weird tree-huggin hippie. It’s a challenge to find a man I can get along with, because I live in Utah, where having an opinion that doesn’t match “the church” is evil, so he’s a breath of fresh air.

I can’t handle the fighting anymore, but I love him.

AB, what the fuck do I do!?

-Rainn

Dear Prankster Rainn,

You may have the coolest name ever. No, seriously, can I become “Aunt Rainn?” Because that would be FULL of the awesome.

Anyway. I’ve been in this relationship before (see also: my eldest’s father) and it’s not worth it. Not unless, of course, you can meet somewhere in the middle.

So that brings me to my point: can, Prankster Rainn, you bring this up to your boyfriend and actually have a civilized conversation about why the fighting bothers you? If you cannot, if he is that convinced of his Rightness and Your Wrongness, then I would move the fuck on.

You don’t need to spend the rest of your life bowing to the alter of Your Wrongness. It will only shatter your ego and frankly, there are better men out there.

So sit your boyfriend down, tell him that this fighting is not okay; that it cannot continue and see what happens.

Good luck, Prankster.

Hello Aunt Becky-

I must say I find your blog to be hysterical and awesome.

Talk to me about morning sickness. How bad is it? Just found out that I am knocked up and will soon have my own crotch parasite :)

So if you’re pregnant Prankster, does that make me Great Aunt Becky? Because I’m only 31.

Anyway, congrats on the crotch parasite! I love babies. Especially babies that don’t have to be shot out of my own girly bits.

I’m also hesitant to mention morning sickness to any pregnant person because it’s sort of like trying to describe how much labor sucks. Because it TOTALLY does. So why bring up the unpleasantness, unless it’s to torture pregnant women with. I remember the particular glee in which older women bestowed their most horrifying pregnancy tales upon me while I was gestating. Right, because I really wanted to know how you tore hole to hole during delivery.

Anyway.

Here’s the down-low on morning sickness: it sucks. It sucks a lot. It’s a continuum of suck that varies from pregnancy-to-pregnancy and person-to-person.

However.

It dos not last.

Pregnancy is a finite experience. There is a beginning, a middle and and end. And while you’re going through it, you may, at times, wish you were dead, but believe me, that baby cannot stay in there forever.

Best of luck. And stock up on starchy things and mint gum. That’s how I survived.

P.S. Please name the baby Aunt Becky.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I find it silly that I’m writing to you for advice, because I think that deep down I know the answer.

Let me start off by saying I’m a people-pleaser. I spend my life making sure that everyone else around me is content. It’s what I do, it’s who I am.  

My husband of 8 years has been diagnosed with Bipolar and Intermittent  Explosive Disorder. In the last 8 years, he has “blacked out,” becoming violent with me several times. I have given ultimatums, told him he needs to get help, threatened taking away the kids, life, everything… and until 6 months ago, he refused help.

Since then, he’s been on medication and undergoing therapy. 2 weeks ago, I received a text message from him that was supposed to go to a “friend” alluding to selling his medication. I didn’t say anything at the time because I knew he would lie.

When I got home, I snooped. I know it’s not kosher but if he’s partaking in illegal activity, I figured it was an exception. While looking through his text messages, not only did I find evidence that he was selling his medication, I also found loads of texts between he and a girl he’d met on a recent vacation. He mentioned possibly moving an hour a way to move in with her, dirty pics to and from each other. He even professed his love for her.  

I was devastated.  

So I confronted him. I got bullshit excuses like, “oh it was just flirting. She’s been helping him with our relationship,” more crap that I didn’t believe. Once again, I let it go, figuring we’d try counseling.

That brings us to Sunday. Sunday, my oldest son’s father called me at work and told me that he’d gone to pick up our son and my husband was freaking out on our 2-year old daughter. From what my son’s dad said, my husband spanked her several times very hard, smacked her hand on the floor and then threw her on to the couch.  

He threatened to notify DHS if I didn’t take care of the situation. I left work as so as possible, went home and kicked him out. With much protest, he left.

Last night, he came over to talk. Once again, he filled my head with the “I regret this so much” “nobody hates this as much as I do” “I am so sorry” bullshit. What do I do? Should give him a second chance, even after all the chances I’ve given him. After all, I cannot afford a divorce. I have no one that can help me. I have nowhere to go. Without his income, I will get evicted from our house. (He won’t give me any money unless its court-ordered) I cannot let my kids move to another school again.

Then again, I cannot let this happen to any of my children ever again. 

I don’t want to completely fuck him over. 90% of the time hes a good dad. He loves our kids more than anything. I know this. He says he loves me, but I don’t believe that. When the IED gets out of control, it’s terrible. 

I don’t know what to think or do or feel or say. I am totally lost. My son said, “Mommy please don’t divorce daddy. That would be sad.” What do I do with that?

What do I do, AB? I’m stuck!

Oh Prankster, I’m so fucking sorry. What a terrible, unenviable position you’re in.

However, no amount of apologies can change the facts. Your husband abuses you and your child. It doesn’t matter why he’s doing it. It simply matters that he does and he has and he will again. If he genuinely cannot control himself during these attacks, I advise you to get as far away from him as possible and STAY there.

He’s not taking any personal accountability for his illness or trying to get better; he’s just feeding you lines of bullshit to keep you around. And for what? So you can be his punching bag?

You, Prankster, deserve loads better than what you’re getting. You don’t deserve this bullshit, you don’t deserve his abuse, and your children deserve better. Please get the hell out of there before the Pranksters have to come and get you..

I’m linking you to the Band Back Together resource page for domestic abuse, which has many different resources, including a state-by-state resource list, to help you get out of this situation.

And please, Prankster, keep us in the loop.

Let us know what happens.

We’re all rooting for you.

——————–

As always, Pranksters, please correct my shitty advice with your brilliant advice in the comments.

I stood in my kitchen, momentarily stunned, a vacuum whirring happily in my hands.

The feeling that washed over me was, for the first time, not dread. It was not a migraine either. Nor was I wasted. It was not fear either.

No, for the first time in as long as I can recall, I was calm. At peace. In the moment.

It seemed that for once, I had finally achieved peace.

While I’d not gone into the doctor, anxiously dreading that appointment to talk about my anxiety issues, believing I could actually be fixed, there I was: fixed. No longer broken.

After living, impatiently waiting for the other shoe to fucking drop already, for so many years, I could hardly imagine a world in which I did not wake with my heart pounding loudly, my guts churning painfully, my soul full of impending doom.

And yet, there I was.

I thought to myself, as I resumed vacuuming (no one can keep a good vacuum down, after all), this is the way the rest of the world feels most of the time. How shockingly simple this feels.

And then I tried desperately to kick myself for waiting as long as I did to seek help. (Pro tip: you cannot kick yourself while vacuuming without falling squarely on your ass.)

I could have spent years – years – not feeling that way, and I decided to tough it out. And for what? For WHAT? A jaw-grind disposition to a panic attack? Migraines? Insomnia? Unhappyness?

Hardly seems like a list of shit to be proud of. I toughed it out so I could break my teeth grinding them to nubs in my sleep. Spend my nights awake, weeping, reliving ghosts that could’ve been put happily to rest many years ago.

Even as we roll into the dog days of summer, it appears that my dog days are, in fact, over.

I couldn’t – haven’t – ever been happier.

———————

When I found out my dear friend, Razing Mayhem, was throwing a blogathon for Band Back Together, I actually cried real tears without the aid of a stunt double or an onion. If you want to read about her efforts to help out a place where we kick stigmas in the vagina, Band Back Together, please go and visit her.

THEN I will give you a cookie.

Or twelve.

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