From the moment my feet touch the floor each morning next to my bed, to the time I lift them from that same spot at night, they're in constant motion. The unnoticed details, like the gradual orange ring in the toilet or scattered spit on the bathroom mirror, seem to be my burden alone. Perhaps I'm overly meticulous or burdened by high cleanliness standards. Does it really matter if we shower in mildew-darkened tubs? Maybe it's just me. The mounting dishes, the lingering smell in the dishwasher, and the debris underfoot on my way to the kitchen for morning coffee shouldn't concern me, or should they? If no one else notices or cares, why let it bother me? Should I be indifferent to my son's morning routine, evident in his breath and teeth when I pick him up from school? Is it acceptable that his skin resembles a scaly snake, his lips cracked, and his grooming habits subpar? Am I merely a nagger, fussing over visible earwax and overdue clipping of his toenails? Could I
I saw blood gush down my mom's mouth and chin after getting punched by my drunk dad. Remember it like it was yesterday. I was standing outside her bedroom door listening to their argument when she suddenly opened the door holding her hands to her face. She was headed to the bathroom. My dad followed after her violently and I quickly stood in between them to protect her. I think I was about 10 or 11 years old but I was ready to fight him with all that I had! A rage of anger took over me and I decided in my heart to NEVER let a man put hands on me, abuse me or bring me down. This is where feisty Patty was born. In every relationship with men that followed I took control immediately. I set the tone from the beginning that I don't cook, clean nor slave after any man! You feed yourself and do your own laundry! I made it clear that I could curse you out when I got angry but don't you dare curse at me or I'd hit you. I'd buy and wear what I wanted and did what I w