BLAH.

It's Mother's Day week, and I'm as depressed as all hell. There's really little I can do to shake it, but at least I know the reasoning behind it all. I've been hit from about eight different directions this week, and I'm pretty fucking unthrilled about it.

My stats have crashed, and I'm not sure how to get them up again right now, aside from disabling the domain name my man registered for me, and just working my damned ass off. Trouble is, between money, PMS, Dead Mom Day, poor diet, and all that shit, I just don't much feel like writing.

I know it'll pass, pretty damned quick, but for the moment, it is what it is, and it ain't shaking.

Mother's Day sucks. Like I said last year, between the advertising and all, it's like all the world conspires to remind me that I'm a daughter without a mother. A daughter without one of the most admirable, coolest mothers ever. My mom, despite all her flaws is the greatest role model I've ever had. She faced her struggles, learned how to cope with the world, sought to achieve her dreams, tried to be a strong woman in the face of insurmountable odds, and though she was virtually bankrupt at her death, died with more dignity than most people know in a lifetime.

And I miss her every fucking day.

I try to go through my life living it as I know she'd like, and that's why I'm so proud of what I'm accomplishing on my other blog -- or was accomplishing, before all this shit fell through for me -- because I know that, despite her hang-ups about sex, she'd be thrilled I was giving the world and all the uptight religious folks the finger and doing my thing my way. She admired that about me. But the thing is, the things I am, the chick I am, is because either she mirrored that for me, or she was honest about all the things she wished she could be... and I've become those latter wishes, for my own reasons.

One of the things I oddly have in common with my boyfriend is that his mother passed away a couple years ago. Strangely, I don't feel very comfortable talking about my mom with him. Why not? I don't know. Probably because I'm coming up on the seventh anniversary of her death, while he lost his only a couple years ago. You eventually get this feeling that "I should be over this by now," and every year I'm reminded how so not over it I am. But he's less so, and he doesn't really talk much about his mother.

Usually, she's not on my mind much. Only in small ways. At this time of year, I think of her far too much. I think of her now because her biggest dream was for me to be a successful writer, and right now, success is beginning to come knocking (just not the dollars, sadly) and I would love nothing more than to share my accomplishments with her. And I can't.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, someone's inevitably bound to comment, "But wherever she is, she knows," but so fucking what? She knows? So what? It's not her KNOWING that I care about -- it's being able to look her in her eye and see that unmistakable look of pride and love you see when someone's thrilled for you. It's overhearing the conversation where she brags to a friend about it. It's all those silly, stupid little things you take for granted with those who are before you in flesh and blood.

So, I'm sad. I'm depressed. I'm tired. And there's pretty much sweet fuck all I'm able to do about it right now but ride it out.

It doesn't change how angry I am about all this hitting me at once. Tomorrow, I find out if my piece is being accepted for publication in a major international magazine, and if it should be rejected, my already down mood is going to fucking free-fall.

And there's sweet fuck all I can do about it. Yes, it'll pass. But today really fucking sucks. And that's all the news that's fit to print.