***UPDATED AT BOTTOM OF POST***

The danger of blogging anonymously is that one day it will not be so anonymous. That day has arrived for me. I’ve been outed officially. My mother knows about my blog. So, fool that I am, with a in-or-a-penny-in-for-a-pound attitude, I told my mother-in-law too. Aren’t I brave? To be fair, the MIL took it with good humor. She was more concerned that the world knows her son as Boo and that I frequently refer to his special man sausage as Mr. Pickle. That definitely fell under the whole too much information category.

My parents however, do not think I’m charming. Or funny. Or accurate. In fact, my father threatened to call the police and press charges for the post I wrote about my mother. I told him I would dial the number for him.

I’ve been dooced. I was in fact, fired from my family. Told that if I didn’t issue a retraction for bad mouthing my mother all over the internet, I was no longer welcome in their home, no longer considered a member of their family.

After an argument, I held firm and refuse to apologize for this post. I stand by every word I wrote.

Don’t get me wrong, I feel bad that my mother’s feelings are hurt. That was never my intention or I would have used her name and forwarded a copy to her, her co-workers, her friends and every damn relative we have. But the point of that entry was for me to find peace and hope within my own past with my mother and strive for a better relationship with my daughter.

I will not apologize for that.

Nor will I pretend that our relationship has been easy. Just as I won’t pretend that when I refused to apologize and tongue-in-cheek offered to call the police on their behalf, that I wasn’t beat up. It is not okay to hit another person. Especially when that person is your daughter.

Publishing this will surely mean more drama, more hurt feelings, more anguish for my parents.

But then I’m the one nursing a sore jaw from being punched in the face and a bruised windpipe from having it crushed in an effort to silence my glib responses. Not to mention the lovely, very chic bruises of blue and purple I’m sporting on my arm from being manhandled.

Good times, dear internet. Good times.

After fleeing from my parents home, I cried. I rushed to the computer to delete every post in which I mentioned my parents. But as I sat looking at my redheaded alter-ego, I just couldn’t do it. I won’t pretend that my past wasn’t filled with emotional abuse and sometimes, like yesterday, physical abuse. I won’t edit my life to make my parents comfortable.

I write here, because laughter really is the best medicine. And I never want to forget that. Life is good. Even with that hairy little angel clinging to my back, plucking my heartstrings when ever he feels his mommy isn’t paying enough attention to his memory.

My life is what it is. I have never got along with my mom. I will never stop trying to get a long with my mom. Even if she chooses not to speak to me. Nor will I ever forget the times I went to school with black eyes and had to pretend they were from my brother. They weren’t. (Although he informed me that he did often clock me in the face, I am just to addled to remember.)

I grew up in a home with both physical and emotional abuse. I can’t change that, but I can speak out against it, in an effort to help end that cycle, break that invisible chain. Am I willing to sacrifice my relationship with my parents to continue blogging? No.

Am I willing to sacrifice my relationship with my parents to ensure my relationship with my children follows a different path? Abso-fucking-lutely. And I feel no remorse or guilt for it.

The purpose of this post is not to shame my parents; I love them very much. I know that they did the best they could for me within the parameters of their situation and upbringing. They loved us and sacrificed for us. And I thank them for that. But they also made tremendous mistakes, ones I find myself desperately trying to avoid.

Ultimately, my priorities, are and always will be, my children. I am who I am because of the path I walked, the choices I made, the experiences I have. The good, the bad and even the ugly. I accept my choices and I can live with myself when I press publish today.

I can even handle the ass-whooping that was dished out. Because I know it will never happen to my children. Not on my watch. Never. I’ll take a thousand angry blows to the jaw to protect them and their right to know their past, their history. My parents made me into the person I am today. They might not approve or even like me right now, but I’m fine with that. Because I like myself.

And I like blogging about what makes me the person I am. I want my children to read these posts one day and marvel at their mother’s stupidity with hair removing wax, her affinity for duct tape, and her general humanity. I want them to know that I miss their brother so damn much that the pain freezes in my chest with every breath I inhale, but by kissing their small, snotty nosed faces, that pain eases just a bit.

I want them to know they mean everything to me, the way their brother did and always will. Even when they drive me batshit crazy. I want Fric and Frac and our future child to know who I am. And how I became the person I am. Life is not all sunshine and roses.

This week had a very dark day. I don’t know what the future holds, how my parents will react to today’s post, if they are even going to read it. If you’re reading this Mom and Dad, hey! I love you, no matter what happened or will happened. Thanks for being my folks. Raising the likes of me couldn’t have been a bucket of love all the time.

But I’m not going to pretend our past isn’t what it was. Because then I would be pretending I’m someone I’m not. Which would defeat the healing aspect of this blog, and prevent my kids from knowing the human being trapped inside the body they call Mom. (Generally said as they roll their eyes heaven wards. Cheeky buggers.)

This is why I haven’t blogged much this week. This is the dirty, embarrassing secret of my past. A past I embrace in order to change the future. A past most wouldn’t find all that inspiring.

But I do. Because it made me the person I am today, and brought me to my husband, my children and dill pickle soup. Life is good. And that, my dear internet friends, is what I find inspiring.

***UPDATE: For those of you who have inquired, sympathized and offered well wishes, thank you. I am fine. Nothing a good steak (on the face) and a big glass of mommy juice can’t fix. I am surrounded by support, both of the e-love variety, and the war cries of those in my flesh and blood life. Darling Boo offered to come home and rip someone from limb to limb, but I fended him off. No sense adding fuel to the fire. His righteous indignation is more than enough. He can kiss my booboos better when he gets home. My big ass brother, Stretch, has held my hand and propped me up. (Well, more like put me in a head lock and made me smell his smelly pits, but still, I could feel the love.) As of tomorrow, I will be back, stinking up the blogosphere with my prediction for cheese.***

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Now, go here and vote for me. Find me inspiring. I know my husband does! And thank you to all you lovely people who voted for me in the first place. Not that I have a chance at winning at the competition…have you seen those blogs? They’re good. And there is no talk of family violence, young kids dying or potty language amongst them. But hey, if that floats your boat, click me. I’m a shameless whore and don’t mind begging.

No, that doesn’t apply to you, Boo.