Bio - 23 in My Bio

As much as I cherished my husband, it became evident that we were not entirely compatible in the bedroom. This realization weighed heavily on me, along with the fear of infertility. The thought of being unable to conceive was more distressing than our sexual struggles.

In the early years of our marriage, I harbored a desire to have a child and honestly, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking at the time. Nonetheless, I wanted one at this time, not realizing that the desire would fade away in a few years. Although Tom initially expressed acceptance of this idea, subtle hints and his difficulty in climaxing made me question his true feelings about parenthood. I grappled with self-doubt, wondering if I was to blame for his challenges in the bedroom until I later learned more information.

Despite undergoing tests that showed no issues with my reproductive health other than a horned uterus., the shadow of potential infertility loomed over me due to my mother’s past medication use.

Over time, Tom’s difficulties with climaxing persisted, leading to a period of dwindling hopes for a child. My priorities shifted, and the once-burning desire for motherhood gradually faded away. I found solace in the companionship we shared and the love that grew between us, even as the physical aspect of our relationship waned. I hated noise and didn’t want to lose my freedom to a child. Then there was the fact of how costly kids were to consider.

I looked up Paula and Shelly, my foster sister, and contacted them as well.

Paula and I kept in touch until she decided to dump me in 2015 due to not being willing to pay for her to visit us for two weeks. I’ve missed her one bit. She was incredibly dumb and selfish. Many times during our “friendship” I had thoughts of cutting her off. I was glad she took the liberty of beating me to it, so I wouldn’t have any lingering guilt.

Shelly didn’t do anything wrong, but I eventually chose to cut ties with her because I would only hear from her if I reached out to her first.

In 1994, Bob ended up in prison for supposedly raping a minor. Despite the statistics, I never believed Bob was capable of such a heinous crime. You just had to know the man. I don’t doubt that he allowed minors alcohol, though. He was the type of guy who was too nice to say no, even when he knew he should.

Sometime in the mid-nineties, I called Nervous’ mother after finding his phone disconnected and failing to find a new listing for him. She told me he had passed away from a sudden heart attack. He was fifty-three.

Kim visited us for a few days during this period, bringing her boyfriend Phil and a deaf friend named Alex. I enjoyed their visit, but Tom sure didn’t. He was working the third shift, trying to sleep while we hung out by the pool or went sightseeing, including a trip to Sedona. We got too noisy at times and disrupted his sleep, though I suspect he felt left out and a bit jealous.

Physically, I was healthier in Phoenix than I had been back east. I stopped getting frequent colds and infections—sometimes years went by without one. Despite being home most of the time, I became more active, exercising regularly and doing more around the house. Tom also got me hooked on computers, and I began keeping my journals digitally instead of by hand. I have been keeping a journal since 1987!

After months of sensitivity in my bad ear, I had an ear canal drilled in late 1994. It began to fuse shut, so I needed a second operation in early 1995. In hindsight, we should have simply dismantled the frame, but we didn’t know better at the time. The canal was necessary to figure out what was causing the sensitivity and rule out tumors, and while the surgeon was at it, he built an eardrum. Unfortunately, I didn’t obtain much hearing. Another surgeon later dismantled the frame. Having half an outer ear isn’t the prettiest sight, but it’s far more comfortable.

I never made it to the Grand Canyon, but I did visit Laughlin, Nevada—a much mellower gambling spot than Vegas—and made a trip to California. The first trip to California was more symbolic than anything, a way for me to say I’d finally made it all the way across the country. We were near the Nevada/Needles, California border during a Laughlin trip, so we shot across the border. I was thrilled to make it there just before turning thirty.

On October 4, 1997, at age thirty-one, I finally quit smoking with the help of Nicorette gum. Quitting was tough and smoking and talking on the phone had always gone hand in hand for me. As a result, I started to enjoy chatting on the phone less and less. Besides, Andy was becoming more of a pest, only visiting when he wanted a favor and calling every day for long conversations which I no longer had patience for. He was getting hooked on the same few subjects, mostly God, food, and celebrities.

The cravings to smoke lasted four months. There were times when I wasn’t sure I’d make it through, but I did. However, quitting smoking came with its own set of problems, mostly gaining weight. Losing weight was much harder now that I was older. To shed the pounds, I had to drastically cut calories. My days of being able to eat whatever I wanted without gaining weight were long gone. My appetite, however, had increased dramatically. What used to be a necessity—eating to live—became a constant craving, living to eat. It took nearly a year, but I eventually dropped from 125 to 105 pounds.

The more I came to resent people, the less I wanted to sing professionally, even though I still loved doing it for fun. I just wanted to be with Tom and retreat into our little world. I wanted our house to be our sanctuary, our escape from the rest of the world. Unfortunately, the world’s drama often found its way inside, invading our peace.

I preferred to keep a small circle of people in my life—less drama that way. Tom wasn’t very social either, with only a few acquaintances and no close friends he regularly spent time with. Many people frown on being anti-social, but we were happy and that was all that mattered. Solitude isn’t the crime many think it is.

In March 1998, when I was thirty-two, I got braces. I needed braces because an impacted adult tooth began to push through my gums—it was an incisor right next to a molar. After having all my wisdom teeth pulled, this baby tooth was the fifth tooth I had removed.

In the summer of 1998, I cut off all contact with my parents and brother. I was tired of the constant bickering, hypocrisy, lies, and nagging. At that time, I wasn’t sure whether to cut ties with my sister and nieces, so I held off for another year until we moved. I even cut ties with Kim and Andy, though I had mixed feelings about that. In the end, I felt it was best to wipe the slate clean. When it came time to move, I didn’t give many people our new address.

Toward the end of 1998, I began collecting dolls. My collection included a wide range of colors, nationalities, races, sizes, styles, and materials.

In July 1999, I decided to cut my hair, which had grown to just above my thighs. It was a relief to no longer deal with its weight, though I eventually missed my long hair and let it grow for four to five years between haircuts.

I had always wanted to move from the Phoenix house. I longed for a bigger, more modern home, with more space between us and the neighbors. The assholes next door were becoming unbearable, and even Tom, who is usually very tolerant, had grown tired of living inches away from what felt like a constant circus.

Each set of neighbors seemed to get progressively worse. When we first moved in, a man with two kids and two loud dogs lived next door. Thankfully, they left a few months later in late 1993.

Next came a large Mormon family. They, too, had dogs—plus a crowd of screaming children who would drive me crazy for hours playing outside. Their basketball games were especially annoying because they were no more than ten feet from our house, and it felt like they were bouncing the ball off our walls. After two long years, they moved out, and somehow the house ended up in the city’s hands, which opened the door to all sorts of freeloaders and trouble.

From the spring of 1996 to the spring of 1999, a Black woman on Section 8 moved in next door. It was supposed to be just her (Joely) and her year-old daughter, but her boyfriend Mike and a handful of others ended up living there too. They had a dog for a short while, but once she was caught with it, they were ordered to get rid of it. The visiting kids were sometimes a nuisance, but the real problem was Mike’s boom car stereo—and that of their frequent visitors. Despite our polite requests for them to turn it down, they continued blasting it, coming and going without a care for how much noise they made. They were loud, rude, and obnoxious, with no regard for anyone else.

At one point, after suspecting I was behind some prank mail I sent them (yes, I was guilty of that much), they left sexually explicit notes in our mail slot, and once even left a voicemail preaching about racial harmony while Tom was at work. I didn’t tell him about these things at the time because I didn’t want him to worry.

Tom sent a letter of complaint to the city, and while it helped temporarily, the noise always resumed a few months later if even that. He’d have to send in another letter just so we could hear ourselves think. If I had known then how badly things would escalate and how long they would victimize me, we would have gotten the hell out of there sooner or just tried to put up with their shit if we could.

Finally, in June 1999, a large Mexican family moved in, also on section 8. There was less music and no barking dogs, but instead, there were crowds of people of all ages constantly yelling and screaming. Unlike the previous neighbors, whose noise was mostly confined to certain hours, this was an around-the-clock ordeal. Little kids, often in diapers—or sometimes stark naked—would run around in the yard and even in the streets at 3 a.m.! I couldn’t watch TV, read a book, or even enjoy a quiet dinner with Tom without being disturbed by their antics. Scores of vehicles came and went at all hours, and it was obvious that none of the adults worked, despite appearing perfectly capable of doing so. Repeated requests to quiet down were ignored, as were complaints to the city. These people were extremists, rebellious, and determined not to be told what to do, even though we had been there first and it was our tax dollars helping to support their lazy lifestyle.

Realizing things weren’t going to improve, we started looking for land in the rural town of Maricopa, an hour south of Phoenix and about two hours north of the Mexican border. We also visited manufactured home dealers to check out different models. While I liked all the homes we saw, I fell in love with one particular 2,100-square-foot model at the fourth place we visited. I was moved to tears—I knew it was the one.

Finally, on September 24, 1999, we left Phoenix for good.