Im Not a Jerkoff Artist, I’m a Massage Therapist; the Cesspool of Ignorant Internet Fools

Let me educate you on the differences between a “masseuse” and a massage therapist, m’kay?

I’ve recently had a super huge change in my life. Remember my recent post about Tornado dreams and how they always come up when something is about to change in my life? Well, the huge was that I started school again. And not just an ordinary school, no, not for the always random DT5. Instead of continuing to work on a degree I could care less about in communication, I’ve gone with something that makes me feel like I could make a difference in someone’s life. Massage therapy school.

Yes, I plan to go from rough and tough military chick to a massage therapist helping people with their stress and pain. It seems sorta left field for even the people who know me, but it has been something I wanted to do for a while. I was just making as many excuses as possible because of fear and stress. But I these excuses didn’t fly for my heart anymore (lost many feathers, been on the sauce). So I went to a local massage school with the intention of window shopping, and walked out with most of my paperwork filled out, paid for, and a start date.

A huge change. And a step in the right direction for my life. My family and the Dude have been super supportive, even though the Dude and Monster Teen know that it means I’ll be spending less time with them (well, Monster Teen was more concerned about home cooked meals. Like I sit around in the kitchen that much in the first place, pffft). But it’s okay with them because it makes me excited and happy.

And then I made a post on Facebook talking about my new exciting adventure. First thing I get? Some buttholepottomis saying:

“So you’re going to school to learn how to feel people up?” I try to take it as a joke and say that maybe he needs school for that but I don’t. And then let him know that since he’s confused as to what a massage therapist does, he will not be a client of mine. Some time goes by and then I get another “joker”.

“So you learn how to give happy endings? Sign me up!”

….
…….
…………

Are you frickin kidding me?! Let me clear that these two aholes are not close friends of mine, they are associates. And I don’t make sexual jokes with associates. I don’t look at their dream jobs and flat-out sh*t on them by basically insinuating that they are learning to be a prostitute. What in the flying frackadoodle. When I call the both of these dog aholes out, I’m told I’m being sensitive and that no one was insinuating anything of a sexual nature… and that I was possibly ashamed of my decision to attend a (accredited, licensed, legal) school to become a massage therapist.

Where’s the dumb broad truck, because apparently I missed the stop in my neighborhood.

Ahhh, there you are. Still about -5 brain cells in change to ride?

I deleted the whole post after that. I take certain things seriously, and my dreams (not owning a robot ninja monkey army but dreams of being a benefit to others with my work) are not something I take very kindly to. It’s like me crapping on anybody’s dream of a new profession. And I think part of it is a lot of stereotypes based in ignorance. So as a lesson for you all, here’s some facts and myths about massage therapy:

Myth: Masseuse and Massage therapists are the same thing. No, no, no. A masseuse is an unlicensed person with no degree or certification to practice. Pretty much they can be anyone off the street rubbing on you. A person calling themselves a masseuse probably wouldn’t mind giving you a “happy ending”. They’re prostitutes.

Myth: A massage therapist that wants to massage your butt is a little freak. False. Do you know how many muscles in your butt help you walk around each day? A real therapist will ask because they don’t want you freakin out, but it’s a bad therapist that DOES NOT massage your glutes. Unless you’re all punked out and scared. Fine then… have a knotty booty. Knotty, lumpy, booty.

Myth: Therapist and happy endings. Refer to myth 1. That’s a masseuse, and someone not professionally trained.

Myth: Speaking of training “All massage therapists do is how to rub your back. Anyone can do that.” WRONG AHOLEE-OH. Really? Guess what I’m wracking my brain trying to learn right now? Anatomy. To pass I’ve got to learn all bones and layers of muscles in the human body. And then learn the right stroke to go for each muscle and body part. Do I need to use my elbow or knuckles. On top of that we’re learning each and every massage you can think of, whether that’s swedish, sports, shiatzu, etc.

The ahole that for some reason thought I was ashamed of my new profession, I’m not. At all. In fact maybe I’m just way too proud that I’ve found something I enjoy to help others. And since I already have a mile long waiting list, those aholes are never going to be a customer of mind. Hope they go find a masseuse and get d*ck cancer from a herpes hand.

Ohhhh, you want a “mah-sah-gee?” Go right ahead you nasty buttmunch.

Relationship Stupidity Disease… Do We Have a Drug For That?

 

I’ve been enjoying my new relationship. And being a completely disgusting loveydovey couple with the Luke Wilson look-a-like. But when moving forward, sometimes you have to look back at your past just a bit…

 

Relationship stupidity should be an actual disease. I mean, if we’ve gotten to the point in America to call obesity a disease, why can’t we do it for those that let themselves become verbally, mentally, and physically abused all for the sake of a relationship? I may be on the right track now with much soul-searching, self-improvement, and self-study, but I WAS an absolute mess… with no clue how to get out. Some call that growing up. I call it the Evil Ex fiance and the nightmare years.

 

The other day I was going through boxes of stuff in my guest bedroom… things I hadn’t opened in many years. I came across a letter about 10 years old. I remember that back then I liked to write things out before discussing them (you know, before you could write out and rewrite a text message before pressing SEND).

This is not my hand. For one it is not chocolatey. And… my fingernails and polish are so much more awesomer ūüėõ

 

The conversation that I needed to have with the Evil Ex shows just how naive, mentally abused, and under his control I was.

 

Here in all it’s cringeworthy glory:

 

“Evil Ex,

I have no clue as to why you are upset with me. Why you decided that you couldn’t even sleep in the same bed with me. What did I do last night to piss you off? I was a little drunk, but I don’t remember saying or doing anything. All I was trying to do is what you wanted. You’ve kept saying that you wished I would drink because I’m more fun when I’m drunk. But still it seems I did something wrong. Every time I try to do what you want, I do it wrong by your standards, or you change your mind about what you wanted. I am constantly trying to live up to your expectations, your ideals, but I keep coming up short. And then you can’t talk to me, look at me, because I’ve hurt or pissed you off in some way. But when you hurt me, somehow I always end up comforting you because you feel bad. If I mess up, you close yourself off from me like I make you sick.

Is this how it’s going to be? Someone constantly telling me I’m not good enough… oh excuse me, not being the best YOU know I can be> Tell me this: do you ever comfort me when I’m hurt? Or do you just turn it around and say that you’re hurting more than me. You want control. To dominate someone. I just want to love and be loved. Can’t we see eye to eye on anything? Can’t you just love me?”

 

*gagging sounds*

 

There are days I want to go back and slap myself into an alternate reality. And other days all I can do is thank the heavens at how far I’ve come. But the mental/emotional abuse I received from the so-called man who would make me write such a childish crazy letter… well, this letter was just a drop in the bucket of crazy, and not my fun natural crazy. He preyed on my insecurities, my youth (Evil Ex was old enough to be my father), my introverted-ness, my want of a relationship, companionship. He used my secrets against me instead of holding them as a gift that I shared with him. He took my issues with women from a childhood molestation and tried to live out his fantasies and fetishes as a way for me to “let go of the past”. He took my beliefs, ideas, and personal studies on submissiveness and what it meant to me, and twisted it into having complete control over what I wore, who I talked to, the decisions I made, my life. And he took my ongoing depression and exploited me and my feelings and my sanity until my family didn’t recognize me.

 

Do I blame him for everything? No, I actively pursued him and ignored all the warning signs. I was still learning what a real relationship should be like and thought he would work because he wasn’t the “type” I had in the past. But those rose-tinted glasses of like/love/lust had me to the point of cutting myself to escape the pain of dealing with a twisted relationship. And I couldn’t figure out how to get out. I couldn’t just break up with him, he’d sit in my parking lot, constantly calling until I talked to him… and accepted him back. Somehow that behavior made me believe he truly loved me. Until the cycle of “you must do what I say to make me happy” began again.

 

So…. I ran. I had a job related offer/excuse and I took it and ran. I knew that if I stayed in the same vicinity I might let weakness and loneliness keep those rose-tinted glasses on my visage of what was really real.

 

Now, I use my experience to talk to friends/ acquaintances that may be headed for, or have experienced the same thing if I can. And I’ve been pretty good at running the other way from any men that give me the vibe of the Evil Ex. I dodged a bullet in more ways than one. No lasting damage really… except the scars to my soul. But hey, you haven’t really lived until you have battle scars to prove what you’ve survived.

 

I threw the letter away. I don’t need it to remember where I will never let myself go again.

 

Attack of the E-Ciggies; Fighting the Addictions

This is a long one….

(That’s what she said. Thank you inner 14-year-old boy. Now shut up.)

 

Recently, I’ve switched from my regular Newports to e-cigarrettes. Not those retarded meth/science experiment contraptions, but one of the brands that look like an actual cigarette. I have this awesome feeling that with this, I may be able to break away from the last addiction that’s held me for years.

See, I have an addictive personality combated by a stubborn one. And small addictions that may not have killed me, did give me have a hard time being who I really wanted to be in life.

I refuse to cosplay her, because this is one of my girl crushes… I just can’t do her any justice.

What do you do when you have a heavy smoking/ heavy drinking father, who of course is your role model of cool? It’s not like your mom is someone who you look up to early on, since she’s treated more like a Maid, housekeeper than your father’s wife, and your mother (and you assume what your father tells her is the word of God – that she’s not very smart and less than you).

I remember making a huge class project on the dangers of smoking, and my father smoking and laughing as I practiced my presentation for him. I remember plenty of times that he drove with way too many under his belt. The best times were during the day, him and I in the car, and having to take the wheel when he needed to juggle both cigarette and beer. And of course this was during the time when little kids rode in the front seat with no seat belt. Was I scared? Of course not. Eighties babies aren’t coddled punks like the children of today, pffft.

But with that beautiful example, along with catching my father and his friends snorting suspicious white powder, I couldn’t help but to think that this might be okay. I learned early on that just because you see dear old dad sniffing white powder, you should not try to emulate by sniffing baby powder up your nose when playing by yourself. That mess burns like the dickens! I learned just because ammo was left all around the house, you should not put vaseline on them and pretend they are lipstick while playing. Not because it did anything to me, but that’s just weird.

I also learned to ignore what the schools had taught me about smoking and drinking. Hey, my dad smoked like a chimney, and still had nice bright white teeth, and no cancer. Hmmm. So I picked up my first cigarette at 13. My dad left singles all over the house and would never miss it. I was home alone one weekend. I smoked a cigarette and got dizzy. Ooooh, I got a buzz. So of course, I wanted another. And another. I branched out when I could get black n milds. And then of course, the ghetto cousins came along with marijuana. Luckily for me (or unlucky) I could not deal with the high, and stopped doing it. When your friends are turning into demons and jumping out windows a room away, and cows nod their heads to music that is only in your head, well, yeah, you shouldn’t be smoking that ish.

But alcohol was easy, too easy. By 14 I could also pilfer my dad’s alcohol without him noticing. When my parents separated, and I lived with only my father, he was never home and I had an apartment to myself. And I would drink every morning before heading to school. And later… I would have nights like this:

Age 17, New Years Eve. Went out to the club with my cousin. Hadn’t ate all day except for a snack bag of Fritos. Started drinking wine and wine coolers by about 5pm. From there get to the club using a fake ID and drinking many (lost count) long island iced teas. Got so drunk that apparently my cousin dragged me away from the dance floor because I was surrounded by 3 or 4 guys and one has his hand up under my dress. Put on a bar stool at the bar. Too drunk to sit and fall on my face off the bar stool. Given warning by guard, puke right there by the bar. Dragged out by security and put by the door while I wait for my cousin to get her mom’s car. Puke again. Kicked completely out into the December weather in nothing but a skimpy dress. Cousin gets me in the car. On the way home think I’ve rolled down the window, but just puke some MORE all over the inside of the window and door of my aunts car. Dragged myself into my mother’s house to be told that I was just like my father.

But, that’s just teenage shenanigans. It didn’t get bad until I joined the military some years later.

The military lends itself to an alcoholic mentality, especially to the weak-willed. To those already dealing with self-esteem issues, with depression like I’ve dealt with since 13. And you’re sent out overseas away from all support that you used to have. I’m not blaming the military. I’m blaming my own personal weakness. Depression of being away from my toddler son, the responsibilities that I had, the world I knew, felt like it could easily be filled with alcohol and sex. It wasn’t teenage shenanigans anymore. It was waking up and having a drink before morning physical training formation. Coming back afterwards and drinking before starting the actual workday. Drinking during lunch, and heading out to a local bar after work. And rinse and repeat. I lost a lot of weight because I was probably on a 75 percent liquid diet. Who knows if it was more or less, I suck at math.

My best friend, who is known as Florida in these posts, went to our command to help me get help. And to people I tell the story to, it worked. For the depression anyway. For a couple of months anyway.

The alcohol phase for me didn’t really end until about 2 years later. When you black out and wake up in what you thought was a guy friend’s room, when that friend (that yes, was a friend’s w/ benefits guy) takes advantage of the fact that you’ve had way too many shots of 151. When you wake up and places hurt that shouldn’t because of things you hadn’t allowed when sober, you know you’ve reached a horizon.

After that, I did have one last long slip up with the horrible evil ex fiance whose name is never said in my presence. But I finally learned while breaking free of him that I was using alcohol as a crutch. I had to learn how to be myself without it.

But I never really gave up my cigs. For 2 years I tried, having crazier than normal dreams from Wellbutrin, chewing my way through a box of toothpicks satisfy my oral fixation. Heck, I was trying to abstain from sex at the same time too. It’s a wonder I didn’t lose my daggone mind.

But I went back right along. And years passed without me even thinking about trying. Even when my doctors tried to guilt trip me with my upped chances of cancer from my medical condition. Even as I got bronchial asthmatic more in the winter. I was stubborn… Screw it I’m going to die, dangit, I’m going to die doing whatever the frack I want to do.

If someone asked me today why I switched to the e-cigs, I have a whole bunch of canned answers. But honestly I got tired of being ashamed when someone sees me smoking for the first time and says “I didn’t know, you don’t look like a person who smokes.” I’m tired of being ashamed that I feel bad if I have to be close to a nonsmoker and they have to smell my leftover smoke funk. Or trying to spray and spritz the smell from my clothes and mouth before a date, or close talking. I’m not judging anyone for smoking, heck, I haven’t quit, I just switched a cleaner method.

But I tell you one daggone thing. I feel so much better about myself.

The Girl Grows and Asks Questions; The Child I Gave Away

The Monster Teen was born when I myself was nothing more than a teenager. I was a geek screwed up in the head, learning to be tough (and ghetto) to act out against the horrible separation/divorce that my parents dragged me into the middle of. I’ve touched on my parent’s separation a lot, I know, but only because so much of that helped shape me to who I am today. Let’s move on.

I never wanted kids. When I was a child, I never played house where I was the housewife. When people tried to get me to play that role, I’d argue or asked to be the husband or child. When playing alone, I was always someone with an awesome career. Maybe a teacher, and actress, a spoken word performer. Whatever it was, there were no children involved. I think in the back of my mind I always believed that when a woman had a child, her life ended.

But I did get pregnant with the Monster Teen. My father, who pretty much had chosen career and friends over his family had long since moved a couple of states away. When he found out, he called me to say that I was a whore, a slut, who might as well have 4 more kids and get on welfare, because I was NEVER going to make anything out of myself.

Luckily for Baby Monster Teen and I, even though I am pro-choice, I couldn’t let the growing creature I carried be killed. To me, it wasn’t fair to snuff out his life just because I didn’t protect myself from pregnancy. So I let the baby monster be born. And he changed my life for the better. I know that I would’ve grown to be a much more selfish and self involved person if I hadn’t had him to raise. But then, fast forward 4 years, and I found myself again at another crossroads.

While young/dumb/in deep depression and on my first tour in the military overseas, I made the same mistake again. Unprotected smexy times, because I forgot to refill my birth control. I swear I knew the moment it was done that I was pregnant again. And sure enough I was right.

I ranted and railed at myself. I prayed to God to change things, to let it be all in my head, to erase what was growing inside of me. I just could NOT do this again. There was not enough love in me to love another child. I knew instinctively that this was a girl child, and all I could think was that my personality was not caring enough to take care of such a soft sensitive creature (no matter that I was girl too). I saw my dreams crashing down. To be bogged down with the care of not just one child, but TWO. That through my faults I was becoming exactly what my father suggested! A whore no better than those aunts and cousins that sat with their legs open, asking for a handout.

I couldn’t do it, but again, I couldn’t destroy the life. And that is where my best friend came in.

We’ll call her Florida for these purposes. I’d met Florida only about a week after arriving to my base overseas. She was around the same age as me, new to the military, and geeky in her own way. Although we were of a similar age, her maturity level was higher than mine at the time (see last time’s post about trying to fit in) and she kind of took me in like a little sister. Coming from being the oldest and having a lot of responsibility in my immediate family, this was a breath of fresh air. Especially as I was going through a deep bout of depression with missing my son, missing home, and then, becoming pregnant again.

I went to her, in a borderline hysterical state of what to do about this pregnancy. And she had an answer that even today shocks me with the blessing it was for all those involved. You see, even though both Florida and I were baby 20 somethings, she wanted children. She was the exact opposite of me. She was proud to play the¬†mamma¬†when playing house. She wanted to have a career yes, but even that was to teach to young children. She wanted children right away, and the more the merrier. Her parents had her very late in life, so she wanted to have grandchildren before they passed away. But she wasn’t married. And she didn’t want to just get pregnant by a random person. And here I come with an answer to HER dilemma.

So that day, I sat there telling her my problem. That the dude had gone crazy, trying to force me to have an abortion.

“I can’t get an abortion, but I don’t, I can’t raise another child!”

She came to a decision.

“Let me adopt the baby.”

I laughed at her that day, shocked out of my depression. I was like yeah right, She could raise the baby, and since we were best friends I would get to know the child, and be in her life even though I couldn’t raise her myself.

“Exactly,” said Florida. She was serious. And I felt my heart lurch with so many emotions. Somehow, this blessing fell upon me and the Girl not yet born. We planned it out, right then and there, though I still didn’t really believe. We were leaving for our next assignments in a few months, and I would continue the pregnancy. When I got close, I would take leave and come to her base, so that she would see her child being born. She would raise her with the knowledge that I was her birth mother, that she had an older brother, that she was blessed with double the family of a normal child. That I would be her Godmother. We talked of how, if one day she wanted to come to me and stay with me, we would allow it to happen. That we would be open and honest with her and each other. A great plan that we both agreed on and thought was best.

Everyone else though, were against it.

I didn’t tell my mother I was pregnant until I was about 7 months pregnant, and already stationed back stateside in the¬†Midwest¬† Even when I had first come back to the states I hid it, spending time with my son and family without letting them know the secret plan. When I told her, lord, she was so angry. She begged me to keep the child, to let her stay with her grandmother until I was ready to raise her myself. Hadn’t she taken my son while I was in my first enlistment, going through basic training, school and then overseas for a year?!

She didn’t understand. I saw my gut instinct future. That I did not have the same connection as I did with little MT. That if I kept her, there would be that underlying resentment of being saddled with a child I didn’t want. Why do that to a child when there was someone ready and willing to love her with all of their being as a mother should?

We argued right through the Girl’s birth and a year or so afterward. Before she was born, she’d told others in the family about my decision, and all of them had harsh judgment for me. My aunt and uncle on one side of the family who were childless, why didn’t I think of them? My Aunt on the other side of my family, who’d been trying for a child, why didn’t I think of her? My evil cousin and her mother spread rumors that Florida had brainwashed me and was my lover, that had to be why I was giving away my child. My command at my new unit tried to force me to keep the baby, saying that they would allow me to take my son back early, before I re-enlisted. I could move out of the barracks if I said I planned to keep the child.

And it wasn’t just on my side. Florida had friends and family members saying that I was going to change my mind, or take the girl away once they’d had a couple of years together. That I had to want something else out of the deal.

But the day came to give birth. And Florida was right there, the first to hold her newborn. I signed the papers for adoption right then and there. And even when my mother called a couple of hours later saying that she would NEVER let me have my son back until I took back custody of the Girl, well even that conversation (that made me have a screaming incoherent anxiety attack) did not change my mind or heart on the choice (My mother apologized for her outrageous threats after I threatened for her to NEVER meet her other grandchild, and my mother and I repaired our relationship over the next couple of years). There was no guilt. No feeling in my heart that I had done wrong. I loved the girl unconditionally, but she was not my child. That mother/daughter connection forged itself between Florida and the Girl as soon as they touched.

And so years past. The Girl gets older. And at 10 she starts to asks questions. She is trying to find her place in the world. Is her family her family? Is her mother her mother? Do the boys Florida had later on after she married count on the same level as brothers like my son? I knew the day would come, but I thought I had more years. She asks about her biological sperm donor. I tell her his name and wait for more. Is she going to ask why she’s never met him? Do I tell her I cut off all contact when he threatened my life, demanding that I have an abortion or give him the child? That he got drunk and appeared in my room somehow while I was sleeping, threatening me until I had some male friends threaten HIS life? Do I tell her it came down to letting him believe that the Girl might not be his, letting him believe what he’d already accused me of, sleeping around on him while we were dating, just to keep him from stalking and harassing me?

One day I will have to tell this to the gentle soul that looks like the spitting image of me. She may grow to hate me for the things I did, the decisions I made. She looks up to me now as like a cool aunt kind of person, a person she wants to emulate. And it hurts my now older and humbler heart. Even after the years have passed I still believe I did the right thing. I gave her what I could. And hopefully, as she grows, and ask more questions, and understands, and gains deeper knowledge on life, love and the universe… Maybe then, she’ll still look at my heart and soul, and understand.