Babies.

It is everywhere.

"We're expecting!"

"I'm pregnant!"

"There's a tiny [insert last name] on the way!"

"We're overjoyed to announce the arrival of our little blessing!"

"There's precious life growing inside me!"


I can't. I just can't. I know I'm probably going to Hell for it.

I remember being a teenager and listening to a lot of my friends (mostly girls) talk about other girls because they were jealous. They seemed so embittered because so & so had this much money, or because so & so had this boyfriend, or so & so's boobs were bigger, and so & so had such a nice body.

The whole time I was growing up, I never understood jealousy. My dad was an alcoholic and never really around, my stepdad was dysfunctional as hell, we never really had money. All my friends got to be involved in all sorts of things I didn't because of not having money. My friends had good dads that supported them. They had nicer homes, didn't have younger siblings hanging on them all the time...But I was happy. I was really happy. While all my friends were at cheerleading practice, I taught myself how to do front handsprings. I made up my own dances. I learned how to sing...really well. I climbed trees, I played my trumpet and became the best. I caught crawdads. I roller-bladed. I designed page after page of clothing and listened to all the music I could get my hands on. I couldn't always do what I wanted, so made my own fun. I really enjoyed my life. I could do pretty much anything I set my mind to. I could run as fast as the boys and I could do every dance move any of the girls knew. I was able-bodied and I was healthy. What reason did I have to be jealous of anyone? That's the way I thought. I couldn't understand why my friends struggled with jealousy. And the older I got, the more I prided myself in not being that way. It made me feel good that even though I had an 'excuse', I wasn't jealous of anyone else.

Then I was sixteen. I had really grown into myself and I was gorgeous. I wore a size 4. I had beautiful long hair, I was smart, I had the boyfriend everyone girl had a crush on. I went to a private school for a short amount of time, I was in a play, I had a quirky sense of  style and wore every article of clothing I owned with the utmost confidence. Around that time, girls started being jealous of ME. It felt good, honestly. I felt good to be the one whose life was coveted.

Then I was 19. My second semester in college. My boyfriend and I had long since broken up, my stepdad had left. I struggled with bouts of depression, but I was okay overall. I had more good days than bad at that point. Mom and I were running a pretty tight ship, though. Things at the house were going well. We were closer than we'd ever been, and for the first time in a long time, the environment and income in the house with completely predictable. I was two sizes and approximately 30 pounds heavier by now, despite running, eating extremely healthy, and getting plenty of rest. My [new]  boyfriend Adam seemed to like me the way I was, though, I had very few stretch marks, and even then, they were in incredibly discrete places. I still looked like myself. People still recognized me. It was the first day of the semester and I was feeling fresh and confident. Wearing my favorite Led Zeppelin shirt and eager to learn. I heard someone running down the hallway toward the open door. It was Adam. He pulled me out in the hallway and said, "I just talked to your Mimi. Your house burned down."

I will never have a definitive adjective to describe the change that took place in me that day.
Adam drove me thirty miles to my hometown, and when we got there, it was gone. Nothing was salvageable. As ashes fell onto my skin and into my hair, I lost the strength to stand, think...reason. In that moment, I changed. I became someone completely different than the girl who'd left for school that morning.

In one day I went from being an all-around happy, resilient and optimistic teenager to being abysmally depressed. There is a laundry list of what I was on a daily basis:

-angry
-purposeless
-defensive
-pessimistic
-unfocused
-anxious
-restless
-lonely
-empty
-shiftless
-forgetful

The list goes on. Every single day ran together in a huge blur. I had poly-cystic ovarian disease that was spiraling out of control without my knowledge because I'd gone so long without insurance. My hormones were so out-of-whack that my this time I was pre-diabetic and had no idea. So my blood sugar was malignant while I was undoubtedly dealing with a form of PTSD. I was out of control. I cried all the time, I withdrew from the entire semester at school, because I couldn't even focus on what the instructors were saying. I pushed myself to be normal at work and I worked myself to death. On my days off, all I wanted to do was drive. It was the only thing that felt normal. Because if I was driving, I could pretend like everything was normal...like I could go back to my own house. Then I would run out of gas (literally and emotionally) and go back to my boyfriend's house, where I was temporarily living. I would snap back into reality and realize everything was shit and all I owned was in a Rubbermaid bucket of someone else's clothes I'd been given.

That was, I think, a key event which made me into the person I am now. After that day, I became jealous of everyone. Almost every single person with whom I came into contact just honestly pissed me off. They pissed me off because they had a dad who gave a shit. They pissed me off because they had their own home to go back to. They pissed me off because they could carry on a normal conversation without crying. They pissed me off because they could concentrate in class well enough to stay enrolled. No one knew how to even talk to me.

My boyfriend's best friend, whom I asked to stop making fun of my emotional posts on Facebook and being condescending because I just couldn't handle it anymore sent me this, in reply:

"...I am terribly sorry for your house burning down and for all that you have suffered, but don't for a second think that you know what my life is like. That in itself shows that you are not as mature as you are trying to act. My house may not have burned down but I am not short on problems in my life. Don't just go around assuming since your house burned down that you automatically have it harder than everyone else. It's sad that my little harmless comment on Facebook has sparked all this but you felt you had to tell me how you feel so it seems because of that it has come to this point."

I felt helpless, I felt misunderstood. This message almost solidified and embodied how much just how much no one I knew could really wrap their mind around what it was like for me to lose every single thing I owned.

From there, things went more and more downhill. I never bounced back, honestly. Since then, more has happened. Hard things have happened. Physical and emotional battles beyond what most people face. Beyond what most people even know about.

I am 24 now. NO one is jealous of me. I like the things I do, but I hate the things I feel. That is the best way to describe where I am in life. I have realized after losing literally every single thing I owned that actions are what last; not things. But the emotional scarring has made me an ugly person inside. I won't even try to lie and say it hasn't. People have actually made repeated jokes about me not being able to catch a break. I am at a standstill with my weight. I have now collectively gained 100 pounds. I am a size 18. Sometimes a 20. Adam is now my husband. We had an extremely small courthouse wedding after being together almost six years. In that time, I have probably had 5 or 6 periods. My doctor informed me just a few months before the wedding that I wasn't ovulating, therefore I couldn't get pregnant. I had assumed as much, but never really wanted to say it aloud. My lows are lower than ever, and I have full blown panic attacks now. I never knew how terrifying those could be until I started having them myself. All I've wanted since I met Adam was to be healthy, get married, and start a family. He is a wonderful man and I know he would be such an incredible father. I long so badly to know what being a mother feels like. What seeing a wonderful father feels like. To remember how it feels to carry out everyday actions comfortably, to not swell, to not be anxiety and depression-ridden, to be confident in myself. I understand jealousy; mine is crippling.

I have hidden every single one of my pregnant friends from my news feed on Facebook.. I literally can't see the posts without crying. I physically hurt inside when I see sonograms, or news about cravings or feeling babies flutter for the first time. I've never wanted something so badly in my life. I am a jealous person. I covet. I hate it. I remind myself daily that I could have it worse, and that's what gets me through. I feel so guilty for feeling the way I do, but it's just where I am right now.

I don't want to cause anyone guilt with this post; it's just a shot in the dark, hoping that someone understands where I'm coming from. An attempt at trying to get these thoughts out, so I don't just sit down and cry again about wanting a family. I am working on myself. If you're my friend and you're pregnant, please know I love you. I am just busy being an idiot and questioning God. I want to feel like Hillary again. When I look in the mirror, I feel like Gwyneth Paltrow in a her Shallow Hal fat suit. There isn't a good ending to this really except for the whole "short poem" that's circulated a few times:

I hate not being pregnant
I wish I was drunk
The End.

Wait...that's not how it goes, is it?

Bittersweet Reminiscence

As a lot of you know, I work in a sporting goods store. We have recently been receiving quite a large influx of springtime apparel from the warehouse. Since I have worked there on and off for so many years, I've gotten especially quick at sensoring and hanging clothes. Because of this, lately (more often than not), my job for most of the day is to stay in the stockroom and go to town on the boxes of shipment. I love it. I stand back there not having to interact with other people, listening to music I love while doing something I'm great at. Pretty good setup. I think about a great deal while I'm standing in the stockroom all alone. Most of the time, my thoughts start out as having to do with whatever song is playing. Very quickly, my A.D.D. takes every thought captive. (i.e. I'm listening to Colplay's 'Yellow'. Yellow leads to bananas, bananas lead to the monkeys, monkeys lead to 'The Jungle Book' movie, the Jungle Book leads to being sad that the man who voiced Kaa the snake [Sterling Holloway] passed away, and how the golden age of people are dying off. Then there I am, tearing up while trying to sensor a pair of Nike shorts, and accidentally stab myself with the pin because I can't see through my tears.) All that to say this: Tonight I had no music. The only sounds this evening were the hum of the fluorescent lights above me and the steady, rhythmic shuffle of open, sensor, hang. Open, sensor, hang.

The silence was surprisingly uncomfortable. I don't ever realize how much I loathe the quiet until I can't play music. I can't exactly recall why, or how long I'd been standing there when it took place, but my thoughts eventually drifted to my late great-grandparents, Darrell and Christine Pearce (or Papaw Pearce and Mamaw Christine, as I affectionately called them). After that, there was no getting distracted. The silence all but forced me to dwell on them.

The five stages of grief are Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. Isn't it odd how, when you've pushed something out of your mind for so long, when it creeps back in, you can go through a whirlwind of the same five stages...all over again, within a matter of seconds? That happened tonight as I thought about my departed loved ones. You know, I think there is a sixth stage that often goes without recognition: Bittersweet Reminiscence. It sneaks up on you, and one day it just hits you - You are capable of recalling a memory with your loved one and not getting sick to your stomach. You get happy. You smile ear-to-ear. And instead of pushing the thoughts away, you welcome them in with open arms. This is precisely the experience I had tonight.

Flashback to 1997. It's a Saturday in late September around two o'clock p.m. I'm 5 years old, walking through the front door of Mamaw and Papaw's house. I am greeted by the aroma that only their house holds, and my great grandparents are waiting with open arms and excited smiles on their aged faces. My Mamaw Christine is always the first to squeeze me in her arms. Her hair is fixed, her makeup is done, her outfit is pressed and coordinates perfectly with her flats. I can't wait until I am old enough to wear red lipstick like hers! As she kisses my cheek, she smells of Pond's Cold Creme. My Papaw is next. He's wearing shiny penny loafers, tweed slacks, an Oxford with an undershirt, and his fedora with a REAL LIVE feather stuck in the side! I would love to touch it...but I'll wait until it's on the hook and he's not looking. He hugs me tight and the musty smell of Marlboro reds hits me. I don't know it's the smell of a cigarette yet; I just know it's familiar and I love it. And he loves me. This is what welcomes me every time I visit.

As I proceed, I head straight for the kitchen, hungry as usual. Mamaw takes my bags and whatever toy I have brought with me and puts them in my bedroom. It's really a guest bedroom, but they wouldn't dare let me know it's anything other than mine. As she puts away my things, my eyes scale the pantry. She reenters the room and informs me she's bought Fruit Loops, toaster strudels, orange juice, and peanut butter crackers. She then notifies me that she has all the things to make 'my breakfast'. Every time I'm at Mamaw's, she waits until I wake up to cook me breakfast so that it's nice and hot. She tells me it's ready and I walk into the den where she has a faux parquet TV tray set up for me and television is already on Channel 32 - Cartoon Network. The tray is arranged as follows: from left to right, there is a paper towel, on which lay two perfectly fried pieces of bacon, a bowl of oatmeal, a piece of white buttered toast, cut in two triangles, and a glass of orange juice. My face lights up and my mouth waters in excitement as I daydream about the next morning's breakfast. As I begin to tell her I think I'd like some peanut butter crackers, we're interrupted by a strange buzzing that always startles me - My Papaw's scanner. Over the waves, we hear a man's voice saying some words I don't understand and something about "a wreck on 82." The message ceases and we continue our conversation. I hoist myself up onto one of the chairs at the peninsula that extends from the kitchen. As I open a package of peanut butter crackers, Mamaw pours me a glass of orange juice.

Flash forward to the next morning, six o'clock. I am awakened by the sound and smell of bacon frying. I am instantly hungry. I quickly throw back the covers and let my appetite lead the way. Mamaw is wearing her zip-up robe and Papaw is in his white undershirt and pajama pants. Upon seeing me, Mamaw gets two more pieces of bacon out of the package. I go back to the bedroom to lie down until my breakfast is done. Ah, the good life. We proceed with our regular breakfast routine, I watch my early morning cartoons, then Papaw watches his news, intermittently listening to all the important town goings on through the scanner. When we're all good and awake, Mamaw dresses me to the nines because Sundays are when we go to church and I HAVE to look nice. She puts on my dress, my frilly fold-down socks, and my Mary Jane's that sound like big-girl high heels when I walk. I feel beautiful. We go to church and I go to Sunday school, then the regular service. I honestly try to sit still, but I'm just so fidgety. I really just would like to have some gum because I know Mamaw has to have it in her purse; She always does. I whisper in her ear and she smiles as she retrieves a piece of Wrigley's Doublemint out of her bag. It keeps me distracted just long enough to make it the rest of the way through the service. With the help of a pencil and an offering envelope, of course. What? I love drawing!

Following the service, we have a full-on feast at the house. Everyone is there. Mamaw, Papaw, my great aunt Marsha, and my cousin Jennifer, My great Aunt Nancy, her husband Keith and my cousins Kristal and Keitha. We all talk and laugh and eat a ton. I love this day. Corn, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls, chicken, sweet tea and some kind of dessert. I'm so full that I need a nap, but I decide to go collect 'locust' shells with Papaw.

In the south, creatures which are actually cicadas are commonly confused for locusts. Often a lifelong misunderstanding. My Papaw and I have both fallen prey to this idea. These shells scare the living daylights out of me, but when my Papaw's with me, it's not so bad. We take our over-sized Mason jar out the sliding back door, on a mission. The chain link fence, the shed, and all the trees are absolutely covered. I begin to pick them off of the fence and I feel Papaw tap me on the shoulder. He tells me to watch out because something's on me.

As I look down to check my shoulder, I discover the abandoned exterior of a cicada clinging onto the threads of my tshirt sleeve. I shriek in terror as I once again fall for his habitual joke. I really want to be mad, but he is doubled over laughing, and if he's happy, I guess I should be, too. My frown finally turns into a smile, and my smile into a laugh. I continue on with caution, despite knowing it won't be long until he gets me again.

As the sun begins to set, we walk back toward the house with our jar overflowing with cicada shells. We come inside and I strateigcally place them in spots I know Mamaw is bound to go. I can't wait to see her face when she sees a shell right there by the sink when she goes to wash the dishes! Or when she brushes her teeth! Papaw places our trophy on the hutch, and we retire to the den. Mamaw and I finish out the evening coloring and doing a Mickey Mouse puzzle on my TV tray. She always let me lock in the last piece because it makes me feel important. She sure must love me a lot.

I fade back into reality. I realize it's been nineteen years since that was my life. I'm twenty-four years old, at work, and have a job to do. A single tear rolls down my face.

I continued to hang up baseball pants, one by one. I didn't know how many pairs of pants I'd even hung up while taking this mental journey. I had to pause and check the hangers just to make sure the sizers correlated with the tags. I soon realized that replaying this scenario in my mind used to be painful. I would close my eyes and get as far as running through the front door. I'd quickly open them, and no sooner would they be welled up with tears. Not anymore. Tonight, I warily welcomed two days' worth of a visit in my great-grandparents' home. I was surprised with what I felt. I felt loved. I felt safe. I felt whole. It was indeed Bittersweet Reminiscence, but mostly, it was just...sweet.

the first.

Well, I dug out and literally dusted off my laptop for the first time in months. I have been physically writing in this notebook I found because I was feeling a tad inspired. However, my hands began to ache (as the bitches often do), so I had to take my inspiration elsewhere...which brings us to Blogspot, where I'm journaling for the first time since I was sixteen. I named this 'Read 'Em and Sleep' because on this blog, I won't be trying to look smart, I won't be trying to make YOU smart, I'm not trying to change your political views, religion, or the kind of toilet paper you use. I intend for it to be moderatey inconsequential. This is mostly for me, I guess. And hopefully, at least a few of you can get a little something out of what I post every now and then.

Here is what I wrote in the notebook I found, upon reading two previous entries, the last one being from June 10th, 2015:

Well, obviously, I'm not a great journalist; my last entry was in June, which was nine months ago. Damn. I could've conceived and given birth to a child in the time I have had this notebook tucked away in a drawer. I am the WORST! I still have super A.D.D. tendencies as an adult and, a lot of the time, I get overwhelmed at trying to get everything out that's been swimming in my head all day. No, not swimming, flying. ...Flying like birds on crack. However, it has occurred to me that I am actually decently well-spoken (when I want to be), so maybe I should [type] some things down about the goings on in my life and maybe it'll do someone some good someday. Or...you know, just make someone have a good, hearty laugh.

So let me just start with the facts.

Name: Hillary Pearce (almost Cawthon - last name still in transition, because I'm "busy")

AGE: 24

SEX: Yes, please. Just kidding. Female.

MARITAL STATUS: Married (to a pretty cool dud[e] who is just as strange as me. His name is Adam. And he is greatness embodied.)

HOBBIES: DAYS OFF. Married...activities.👌 Singing every moment I deem it appropriate, and sometimes the ones I don't. Getting "turnt," but only when my blood sugar is normal and I'm not having social anxiety or a body-shaming contest with my mirror (so realistically, maybe 30% of the time or less). Eating the food I make, because I love cooking so freaking much. Putting wildflowers in bottles to decorate the window sills and tables in my house. Making crafts for people. Usually out of something wooden and some costume jewelry I've broken apart. It sounds disastrous but 99% of the time, it's impressive. I LOVE to read, but I'm ashamed to disclose how many years it's been since I got more than a third of the way through a book. (DAMN, I wish I could sit still. Ingredient lists, cleaner bottles, church marquees, and product knowledge guides at work will have to do for now.) Driving in the country listening to 70s folk rock (it is almost transcendental)...and sometimes rap. Or country. Or jazz from the 40's. You never know. And taking some American Spirits along for the ride occasionally is invigorating. Having LONG talks with my Mom and my best friend. They are the most wonderful ladies in the world. Listening to my siblings laugh and tell me they love me. Makes me cry almost every time because I'm a markedly emotional person - I've learned to accept it by now. "HEY HIL!! *Oh shit, is she going to cry this time?*" Also, I love being tickled until I cry laughing...but only by my husband. And I love watching him sing while he drives. Gives me butterflies just a little bit. I know, I couldn't just keep it simple and say fishing, horseback-riding, and volunteer work. Sorrryyy. I like those things, too, though.

LOCATION: Paris, Texas - home of the Eiffel Tower topped with the red cowboy hat.

HEIGHT: 2 damn short

WEIGHT: 2 damn fat. EFF this body and all its hormonal issues. Can I request for a new one? (That's a subject for another entry.)

Before it starts sounding like I'm commemorating my life at my own funeral, let me talk a little about the present:

As far as how my life is currently going, I'm pretty damn peachy. For the first time in a very long time, I am 99.5% content. There's definitely room for improvement, but it has undoubtedly been worse. And recently, so it's fresh on my mind to make all the good stuff lately keep its glow. We are living in the same house we've been in for almost three years now. We've rearranged and replaced things for long enough that I finally feel like I genuinely just like the way it looks. Our broke asses decided in December that almost 6 years was long enough to wait for a wedding and we faced the reality that if it was savings we were trying to rely on, we were royally F*CKED. BEST. DECISION. EVER. When I say zero stress, I mean ZERO stress. I wore a black dress and red shoes, threw all the traditional wedding BS out the window and had a FANTASTIC day with my husband. Went back to work the next day, but hey. Life goes on. We can't all live a fairy tale and that's okay. I left a super crappy job in November and went back to my old job, at which I'd worked as an assistant manager for the span of about four years. I cut all the delusions of grandeur out of my life and realized that it just made SENSE. Took a pay cut, don't care. Have to work Sundays occasionally, don't care. I have a phenomenal manager who has my back and I not only get to clock out physically, but MENTALLY. And I sleep at night now! My two days off a week aren't always the same, but that's okay. It is TOTALLY worth the trade-off with what I had. Adam went back to work mid-February after being on medical leave for two carpal tunnel surgeries since late September. It got so severe that he couldn't do his job. So I got to enjoy a good few months relearning him and all the things I love (and hate) about him. And I'm so grateful for it. We have grown a LOT as a couple in the past few months. Now back to reality. He works 3-12 and the latest I ever get off is 10 BUT it works. We eat a lot of sandwiches because we are exhausted as hell, but we're making due. Six years ago, when he was forcefeeding me Hootie & The Blowfish Serenades on his Ovation, I'd have laughed hysterically if you told me I'd be making him Italian food at 8pm on a Sunday night in 2016. But hey. Here we are!