Divorced Parents - Blog Posts

I need advice

Oh tumblr gods, how do I know if I have a toxic parent. My mom isn’t abusive but she has a couple little signs that set off little alarms in my head. And if she is toxic do you have advice for how to exist with her because moving out isn’t an option (I’m still in high school). Every time I try to talk to someone about it they say it’s not a big deal because we have an overall positive relationship(because I have to live with her). But I can’t help but notice that I am much happier at my dad’s than at her house. I crave your wisdom oh tumblr gods.

Hey so apparently my parents are getting divorced 💀 so I apologize in advance at my lack of presence in here. I'll get back as soon as I process all of this.

yeah sex is great but have you ever sat in a therapy session listening to your parents subtly talking shit about each other's parenting styles

I drew some of the plushes me and my sisters had when we were kids, but at some point they kinda turned into stickers – somehow

They're orphans and have superpowers

They're everywhere.

Currently reading The Winter Soldier Cold Front. Bucky and Gimlet made reference to the Ritz and danced to A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square and I can't stop thinking about those tragic little gay men (not really) with their divorce with these references. I had physically get out out bed, walked a bit, and tab them. God, those two need to get back together and live happily ever after for mysake pls. Aziraphale can even do the damn 'I Was Wrong' dance.

My First Heartbreak.

When I was in third grade, my mother decided that I should join ballet as a way to keep me distracted from what was happening with the divorce of my parents. I’m not sure what exactly made her think I would be interested in such a thing, back then I hated looking feminine in any way - and I mean it in a I-would-cry-and-throw-a-tantrum kind of way. But she did, and she dragged me along to every store that sold uniforms and ballet shoes and hair accessories and such, very much to my dismay. 

It was odd though, I frowned and whined throughout the entire process...until I was pushed into the classroom for beginner ballerinas. I don’t know what it was that stunned me into silence, maybe it was the fact that the teacher was so magnificently beautiful and I was too gay to deal with it; perhaps it was the amount of girls thrown in one room, all giggling and chatting away like a group of best friends even though the majority had only just met. All I know is that I loved the athmosphere around me. 

The ballet instructor, Miss Vazquez, was the sweetest woman I had every met, bless her soul. I was socially anxious, clumsy, and all-around awkward, but she didn’t let it stop her from patiently teaching me how to dance. I mean, to this day I have two left feet, but back then I had absolutely no body coordination. Still, each time I came remotely close to doing something right she would cheer and celebrate it like I was showing enough promise to become the next ballet legend. She taught me how to dance to the vibration of the music, since I’m deaf, and would always figure out new ways for me to improve. It came to the point where I convinced myself that I was in love with her, and that one day I would end up marrying her, when I was old enough. 

I became obsessed with ballet. I practiced any time I could; if you’d met me back then, you would have seen me scrambling to finish my classwork or test before anyone else and begging my teachers at school to let me practice in the halls while the rest of the class finished. It was unhealthy, but I wanted to impress Miss Vazquez. She had so much faith in me, she was always reassuring me that I could be as good as any other ballerina if I dedicated myself to it. Miss Vazquez always noticed the improvements, would always praise my efforts. It was like a drug that left me dazed for the rest of the weekend. 

Alas, it couldn’t last. The divorce of my parents were costing my mother a fortune, and she couldn’t afford to continue taking me to the ballet lessons. Not to mention that she needed to find someone to take care of my younger brother, who was a toddler at the time, and my grandmother was too sick to do it like she used to. So I stopped showing up. 

I never got to say goodbye, and I never saw Miss Vazquez again. We never recovered financially, so I was never able to continue dancing. It was the first time I experienced heartbreak, but looking back, it was a beautiful kind of ache.