The Gabby .vs. Brie Thing

It’s been over a year and a half since i started going by Gabby. And sometimes I think it was such a stupid thing to do, and I consider dropping it—- but then I recall what it was like to be “Brie”.

A year and a half later and the only people who really call me Gabby are people who have met me in the time since I’ve started going by it. And then they are quite confused when they see/hear others refer to me as “Brie”. There are a few exceptions, but for the most part, my friends and family disregard it. Their excuse? “You’ve been Brie all the time I’ve known you. So that’s just who you are to me.”

I feel like this is such a silly & trivial thing to be upset about, and Lord knows I have bigger fish to fry right now, but it’s irking me at the moment. Like, I feel like I’m stuck between two identities. And I do not want to identify with the person that I associate being ‘Brie’ with any longer. Let me tell you why…

Brie didn’t pick her name, as most people don’t get to pick their own nicknames, and grew up surrounded by people who were always confused because they thought her name was Brianna (or some variation thereof). As a child, Brie was abused and molested by her biological father. As a teen, Brie was constantly getting the back of the hand for “mouthing off”. Brie had a lot mommy & daddy issues. In school, Brie was a gossip queen. Brie told lies, spread stories, started fights, went anon-stalker crazy online, and even blackmailed someone once. Brie exploited people’s secrets, played people against each other and broke up perfectly good friendships over lies. Brie revenge fucked other guys just to get back at the one guy who really loved her whenever they would fight. No shit, Brie was voted class Drama Queen in the Senior Yearbook. And the crown fit.

And after high school, Brie went to college, where Brie skipped class. Brie partied. Brie dressed like a ho. Brie popped pills. Brie smoked pot. Brie drove drunk (twice!) and couldn’t remember how she made it home. Brie dropped out of college. And once Brie became a mom, her priorities after her first born still sucked. Brie made an ass of herself on the internet before hundreds of other pissed off military spouses, and had to hide for almost a year to escape the fallout and embarrassment of the situation. Brie felt disconnected from her daughter, and struggled with the thought of suicide when pregnant with her second child because she was terrified of him, too. Brie was weak. Brie trusted all the wrong people. Brie was sexually assaulted because Brie put herself in a compromising position. Brie hated herself for that, and all the other bad shit that had happened, and knew that it was her own damn fault. Then Brie woke up one day in early 2012, had a Britney Spears worthy breakdown, went to the salon, had her head shaved, threw out most of her old clothes, bought $300 worth of new mom-appropriate ones, and said “I will never be this person again. I’m Gabby now.”

But people have been making it really difficult to feel like a new me, when the name they still throw at me is that of someone I’m trying to bury. You might not have seen every angle, and we might have been friends and had some good times, but when you put it under a microscope, Brie was a really shitty person.

Gabby is trying to be a good mom. Gabby tries to take care of her home, and her children. Gabby tries to stick to her convictions and beliefs. Gabby has recommitted herself to her husband, and seeks forgiveness, not revenge. Gabby, who granted wants to pull her hair out —-but that’s motherhood for you—- looks at her children and cries because she struggles with feeling like she’s good enough for them. But Gabby is trying to get better. And that alone makes her better already. Gabby is going back to college. Gabby stands up for the little guy, and she tries to help the people who are still living & carrying on as she did and show them that it’s just not the way to be. Granted, she cusses like a sailor, but when everything is weighed, all the awards go to Gabby before they go to Brie.

Obviously, the choices I made as Brie will always be a part of me, and as Gabby I will always have a checkered past, but at least, for me, it actually feels like I really am leaving it all in the past. And then all these people still want to call me Brie, and wonder why it sets me off so much.

You don’t understand what it’s like to live with so much hate for yourself—- to have this kind of loathing for everything that you used to be—- to have such regret for bad choices that you cannot erase, and to live with fear that in the deepest parts of you, all those traits probably still exist somewhere and wonder if you’re still capable of those things. I’m in therapy because living with that shit is hard. So don’t expect me to answer to a name that stands for everything I’m trying to leave behind, just because it’s easier for you.

This photo hurts my eyes.
Why? Well, I’m not pregnant, for one. And you certainly could guess by the bulge in my belly. I’ve had this photo for almost three weeks, and I haven’t posted it for one reason only: I hate the way I look. I hate the dimpled look of my thigh (not sure what’s up because they don’t appear to be on my other thigh.) I hate the way my tits sag, my hair looks greasy, and and I loathe that god damn belly bulge.

I’m so tired of starting to change, and then getting frustrated and giving up. I don’t want to sit here and delete photos of myself and my family just because I’m dissatisfied with my appearance. I can’t feel like this anymore.

I’m pulling out the 30 Day Shred DVD for September.
Just once I’d like to finish it. Guess we’ll see?

Currently

My downstairs is spotless. That’s a first. When Phia is home from school today, and is made to clean her room and help Ethan with his, then imaginably my upstairs will be tidy, too.

My New Parent Support advocate was by today. She is firmly arguing with me that Ethan needs speech help. This kid knows and says like 300 words and sentence combos, and is barely two, but her thought is that his ‘language’ is fine but his speech process is not because he’s too slurred and difficult to understand. I’ve got another year of having him at home with me. If the work I do with him doesn’t set him up better by preschool next year, then I’ll consider speech therapy. But in my opinion, he’s just barely not a baby anymore and she expects too much.

I have been horrible about making meals at home since Philip has been gone. We’ve hit the drive thru waayyy too much. And I’ve been going through redbull like crazy, but—- Ugh. It’s the only thing keeping me going somedays, I swear. I’ve also been horrible about working out. The combined effect of the three are probably not good. This sucks. 😦

Also, it hit me like a ton of bricks today that I really hate that Philip is re-enlisting and I think we should reconsider. He’s been gone only two weeks of this latest excursion, and with another month to go, I’m already hating life. I can’t believe he actually wants to move into an MOS that requires more time away from home. Im miserable and honestly don’t know if I can do another four years of this.

Enough word vomit.
How are things, Tumblr?

Mustache Girl

When I was nine, I was bought my first training bra. I went to school, told my friends. It was ‘awesome’. For my tenth birthday, my mom bought me my first razor. And I was so proud to go to school and say “I got to shave my legs!” I told my friends, they told theirs. Still ‘awesome’. Just before my eleventh birthday, I got my first period. When I arrived at middle school for 6th grade that fall, again, it was ‘awesome’.

Something changed between 6th and seventh grade. Girls I had known my whole life to have the same hair color, the same beautiful bare faces and smiles, started dying their hair or getting highlights, and wearing makeup. And with these changes a lot of them got periods and boobs and knew the joy of shaved legs, too. But I was not allowed to dye my hair. I was not allowed to wear makeup. And I certainly wasn’t allowed to ‘go out’ with boys. My parents were willing to acknowledge changes my body called for, but otherwise I was expected to look and behave like a 12 year old girl. And therefore, I was no longer ‘awesome’…

My body did not call for things like makeup and hair dye. Society did. And my parents really didn’t care what society thought. “I won’t have my daughter wearing makeup like a tramp. You’re twelve, not twenty-one. Your friend so-and-so’s mom might let her daughter look like a hooker, but you can tell her that her mom looks like she was rode hard and put away wet.” I had no idea what this meant at the time, but it’s what mom would say. …and now when I see those late-30/40 something women that have clearly spent their years in tanning beds, smoking and drinking, and wearing too much blue eye shadow with red lipstick (Yuck!) I chuckle to myself and think “Oh what mom would say…”
But a society of twelve year old girls can be so harsh. And God help me, as the mother of a little girl, one day I will have one. *gulp* And when I was a pre-teen, I loathed my mother for her refusal to let me be like the other girls. The other girls would ask about why I never wore makeup. “Because my mom won’t let me.” was about the lamest reply in the book.

But do you know what really made 7th grade the worst year of my life? My peach fuzz darkened on my upper lip. At this time Avril Lavigne and “skater bois” were all the rage, and all it took was one rude little punk ass that the other girls drooled over (and ironically has gone absolutely nowhere in life except to Juvi & Jail) who pointed it out in the hallway. “Hahaha. Look, Negro has a mustache.”

Did I mention my maiden name was Nigro? (NYE-GROW) I grew up in a primarily white-dominated area. Ignorance abound. You can imagine the ‘clever’ plays they came up with for me with a last name like that. When I realized that kids could be cruel and other girls were quick to judge and snub, I did my best to stay under the radar. But after that douche made that observation, the cloak was pulled and suddenly, I was “Mustache Girl”.

While it may have been Bam Margera’s half retarded cousin who pointed out my natural ‘flaw’, it was of course a preppy little popular girl who coined the nickname for me. And it frustrated me like no other, because she was darker than me! Yet, she had a hairless body and gloss covered lips and more eye shadow than ANY twelve year old girl should be allowed to wear. Seriously. She had one of those ANNOYING popular girl names to top it all off. It was (Courtney, Chelsea, Jessica, Brittany) one of those four. Take your pick. I didn’t even know this girl! But what -she- did, they all did. And suddenly, everyone was calling me Mustache Girl.

I switched schools between seventh and eighth grade.
I even changed my last name to my step-dad’s to avoid that crap, too.

My parents became much more lenient there. I was finally allowed to cut and dye my hair. I started wearing some basic makeup. I started waxing my lip. I even started shaving my bikini line too (at THIRTEEN! that’s Insane!) because within months of starting at my new school I witnessed a girl in gym class teased by boys because her pubic hair was visible near the crotch of her gym shorts. I was NOT about to be the victim of another body hair fiasco.

These days, I still wax my lip… and eye brows… and pluck my chin and a few random black hairs I get that grow out of a small mole on my left cheek. I keep the situation down under well maintained, and I freak if my leg hair gets long because I live in Hawaii and just can’t cover them with jeans anymore, or I’ll sweat my ass off. I have post-partum facial acne, and can no longer pull off wearing only eyeliner and lipgloss. I have to wear heavy coverup, and if anything it clogs up my pores and just makes the acne worse. It’s a vicious circle. I can never find a happy medium with my hair color and dye it far too often. It’s fried. I let my belly ring that I got done in high school when it was all the rage close shut. Because when you have babies and your belly button pops, the piercing stretches and that shit is U-G-L-Y. For the same reasons, I keep putting off getting tattoos, as well.

When I think of how much beauty plays a priority in a woman’s life it makes me sad. Look at all the things I listed above, think of the time and effort. For what? To attract a man (which I have) who will bang my brains out (he has) and procreate with him? (we have. twice.)

Why do I still do this?! Why? Because I think he won’t do me if I don’t? Believe me, he would! He has screwed me when I have been in my lowest level of unshowered, spit-up covered, breast-milk smelling, yoga-pants wearing, pony-tail sporting, and even 40-Week preggo belly, mom modes.
Nope. It’s because of those pre-teen divas and their ideals that have become permanently embedded in my brain, despite my mother’s best efforts. I don’t want to see them one day in my hometown, or upload a photo to Facebook, and have that peach fuzz on my lip, and they recognize me. (Oh yes, some of the very women who called me that as girls have added me in recent years) Will they remember? “Oh yeah… we called her Mustache Girl.” Maybe it would do them some good. Maybe they’d feel badly. Some of them have little girls now who could easily be the target or the bully in that situation. How would they feel if they found out their child was in a situation like that, I wonder?

I had to wax the other day, and as I was piling the cream on my upper lip I just started bawling my eyes out. I hate this regimen, truly, and I hate that I feel ‘ugly’ if I don’t maintain it. It might have been years ago, but those scars still remain. They might have matured since then, but it doesn’t change that they were awful at the time when they put me through that.

But then I thought of my best friend, laughed it off, and stopped crying, thinking of the only time I ever retold this story to anyone. She’s a dark complected gal, too. But she was also very popular and pretty and never the subject of any real teasing in school. I didn’t know that she’d understand but I needed to tell someone. And to my surprise, she confessed that she did the same thing. And then we waxed our lips together, and talked about other hygiene hijinks and body image insecurities that come with being a tan or olive skinned gal. She’d be smacking me for crying, and telling me to shut up and pass her the bottle so she could do hers, too.

The facts are: I’m Italian, folks. I’m olive skinned, talk with my hands, can bake a mean lasagna, and can grow a mustache that could one-up both the Mario Brothers.

And I’m soo ready to be over it, and those middle school bitches.

I’m legal now! And yet, I still can’t sip the drinky drink, for obvious reasons. But I had a good birthday, considering! I woke up to a toddler asleep at my feet, and a husband kissing me goodbye and wishing me a Happy Birthday before he went to work. It was a nice start to the day. But the early afternoon was business as usual, chores, toddler antics, and such. It was a relief when Philip came home and we all went out for T-Bell (no, he’s not that cheap— it was my idea!) and then he got me a cake, er, cupcakes? Kind of both. It’s super cute though!

We went home and did the obligatory blowing out of candles and then he brought in my birthday present…

— I’ve deleted the post I’m about to reference, but for those who caught it, prepare to laugh —

He bought me a Kindle. *sigh* Yes, I am now the owner of an eReader. BUT I’M STILL GOING TO BUY BOOKS AND HAVE A LIBRARY ONE DAY! Promise. So I’m sure those of you who are aware of the irony in this are laughing, and wondering, ‘didn’t he read the post you wrote about eReaders?’

Yupp. He did.
And that’s why he bought me one.

I quote, “I’m going to make you eat your words.”
I haven’t set it up yet. For now, I’ll eat cake instead.