An Unexpected Life

Copyright © 2017 by Victoria Ortiz.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 12/16/2016

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

753610

As I sit here at my desk and pretend to be working, typing away frantically and trying to decide, do I want to watch a movie on iTunes, an episode of the Daily Show online or write? I decide to write. Days like this at work are brutal. I’m bored to tears and have way too much time to think. I decided I work too damn quickly; however, it’s worked to my advantage since I seem to have made quite a decent living at what I do, or don’t do.

A thought came to me, what the fuck are you supposed to do if you can’t eat, pray or love. How are you supposed to handle a life you did not expect to have? Hell, I barely have time to pee properly and think if I could only wear a catheter that might facilitate this life a little bit. I eat, but on the run and never with real enjoyment. Usually, scarfing down while I cook or eat my kids’ left overs. I don’t sit down and the minute I do, one kid spills, the other wants more milk etc. etc. I try to pray, I really do but the most connection with God I’ve had lately is when I say bless you when someone sneezes. And as for love. Well there’s not enough ink in the world that can fully discuss that topic. Overrated and somewhat delusional if you ask me.

Self-help and self-realization books make me roll my eyes, snort and laugh. I can’t get up and go to Italy to learn Italian, or go pray with some spiritual leader and sure as hell can’t go to paradise to find love. So instead, I find myself on the floor or in bed, frequently, in a fetal position, crying in silence so as not to wake up the plethora of children I have. Find the numbness that keeps me going and face each and every fucking day like I have before. Now I know that the current situation I find myself in is of my own doing but at the same time, I’m not the only one. Growing up with a mental image of what my life was going to be like. The kind of mother I was going to be, anything but like my own mother. The love of my life I was going to have. I wasn’t the only delusional one. I feel as though if I was in my 20s again and I would have stopped and looked around at marriage and families, and I mean honestly taken a hard look around, I may have opted not to do it at all. I see my girlfriend in New York, turning 40 next month, single and earning a decent living. Yearning and longing for the hell, sorry, I mean joy, the rest of us have. Maybe minus the being divorced at 35 with 2 kids and broke but she longs to be married and have kids. I try to be as honest as I can and tell her it’s overrated. It’s as though we haven’t fully evolved and the basic instinct to procreate takes over. It’s like we’re insects drawn instinctively to the light. Most of us, blindly and instinctively are drawn to this life. Once the kids are here, then you find yourself looking around and saying, what kind of world did I just bring children into? What the fuck was I thinking? Married and then divorced to someone you find yourself saying I really don’t even know who he is anymore and not sure if I ever really did. It’s as though you’re constantly in some kind of Twilight Zone rerun and you can’t get out.

I sit here and think of life. Turned 41 about a week ago and think to myself what the fuck. So not what I envisioned and realize that I’m not the only one that feels this way. Here I am, 3 biological kids, one step kid, all under the age of 10, full time job, part time state registered domestic partner, a bohemian con-man of an X and wonder how it all happened. I play these mini movies in my head and on the way to work I found myself deep in conversation in an interview with Oprah Winfrey. She asked me if I ever imagined my life like this in which, always with my signature truck driver vocabulary, respond fuck no. I’m sitting on her couch, looking at the audience which is predominately women and know that practically all of them feel the same way. Those, however, that do find marriage blissful and parenting glorious, can just fuck off.

I replay some recent events in my life that offer just a glimpse of the chaos I’m living. Two mornings ago as I am on the monotonous routine as drill sergeant of my 3 kids ages 9, 7 and 2. I go downstairs to find that the washer connection had leaked all night long and was draining out the garage. I go on a rant trying to close valves, mop up water and try to keep my 2 year old from playing in the puddles. Mother fucker, son of a bitch, Dammit… to which my ever so aware 9 year old responds this is really bad huh mama?.

My rambunctious 7 year old who either has scuffed knees or holes in his pants had a good raspberry over his right knee. In my usual absent-minded robotic way I would rub over it with sunscreen causing him to double over in pain. Yesterday morning, through the tears, he yells at me God Mama, write yourself a note. Even he knows I can’t survive without my endless sticky notes that surround me in order for me not to forget my own name. Usually I would have firmly stated that I was going to beat him to a pulp for yelling at me, empty threats I never make good on, but the way he said it brought me to tears of laughter. Yes, you dumb bitch. Write yourself a sticky note put it on the kid’s knee so that you remember not to rub over sunscreen and cause him to double over with pain. Glorious motherhood. Again, if I would have known, I would have incinerated my uterus at 19.

How could I be so delusional to think this was going to be a brilliant idea? The plan was, you fall in love, you get married, you have kids and wa-la. Life is grand. Why did I think I was that lucky?

Who have I become? I’m angry and half the time I don’t even know who I’m angry at. Could it be my ex-husband who decided at 35 that full time fatherhood and head of household wasn’t for him. My over-zealous sexual habits that got me knocked up at the age of 39. Dumb ass. Having practically the same job title for 18 years. pathetic. I’m raw. I’m not the delusional happy go lucky mom who thinks her kids walk on water or the one that believes her husband worships her and only her. Now don’t get me wrong, I know I have a lot to be grateful for and I feel lucky in so many ways but at the same time I feel exhausted, disappointed and constantly looking down a long dark tunnel at a very small ever so far light that doesn’t seem to be getting any fucking closer. Many have stated; small kids, 40’s, full time job, pyscho mother, money issues etc. etc. you’re in the eye of the storm, time will make it better, blah fucking blah. I’m not Dorothy and if I were I would be clicking my heels together constantly trying to get out of this whacked dream.

I love my children and God knows I would do anything for them. But they are so much work. In the society we live today we’re producing college graduates who expect 6 figures on their first job. The ever so instant gratification and I already paid my dues type attitude. We’re the ones to blame for that. A few years ago, when my youngest son was 5 I decided to put him in soccer. I watched as a grown man tried to basically herd cats. I love soccer so it pained me severely to watch the scene. My son didn’t even touch the ball once. Half the time he was looking at the opposite direction and trying to entertain the audience. At the end of the eternal season, he gets an award. What the fuck for? As I stood with the rest of the parents who all politely did the best golf-clap in unison, I looked around with an annoyed and look of disbelief. It took every bone in my body to not run over to the idiot handing them out to every kid and make a scene. My son didn’t deserve a medal, hell he doesn’t even know what game he was playing. You had one player on the team who was actually good, the coach’s son of course, and you want to give every single kid an award. Seriously, and I am the only one that thinks this is wrong. Mario is so very proud of his award and thinks he deserves every piece of that shiny gold plastic thing… and that mentality will translate to him when he’s in his 20s, lying on my couch saying he can’t get a job because no one will pay him what he’s worth. Hell no. Reality check and I plan on at least trying to raise them with some sense of hard work. Everything is work. You were born into the wrong family little guy. Sorry.

That brings me to another point, Work. Life is a lot of work and the hope is that it all pays off. Life is twisted and it’s not easy. Those that write about how glorious it is and how they have awakened to a sense of pure joy and happiness can again, just fuck off or share the drugs they are on. Parenthood and marriage isn’t for pussies.

January 2008

My girlfriends and I planned a little trip to NY. There are about 8 of us that have known each other for what seems like a lifetime. Having known this group of ladies from the mid-90s we have been through a lot together. Relationships, breakups, career changes, marriages, kids, divorce etc. All the events that have an impact and start morphing you into someone you yourself barely recognize. Well having filed for divorce in August of 2007 and moved out of the home we had in November of 2008, the ladies decided it would be a good idea for all of us to go to NY. I of course was thrilled. It would be the first time I was without my boys for a long weekend but I needed to get out of the divorce funk that actually has its own stench. This group of ladies have been each other’s life lines, a built in support network and I realized that like a herd of elephants we were better off on our own without men. We had traveled together over the years building a wealth of memories also use as floating devices when you feel you are drowning in a sea of bullshit. Memories with a label that says ‘break glass in case of emergency’. God knows I was relying heavily on my girlfriends and on those memories, especially my girlfriend in Brooklyn, Susan Dumond. She was the only one awake on my way in to work at an ungodly hour. She would sit on the other line and just listen to me rant, cry, tell the same stories over and over again. Patiently on the other line was my source of oxygen getting me ready to survive the 24 hours ahead of me. This was the routine for a solid year.

So here we were, on our way to NY to heal some open wounds. To get over the hump and know that survival was eminent. It was a great weekend. Nonstop drinking, dancing and as per usual always attracting a group of guys who were more than happy to entertain. The first night was spent with a Puerto Rican firefighter who for a brief evening made me forget what the hell I was upset about. The second night was spent with some kind of stock broker who also made me forget my woes. Unfortunately I had started my period but it didn’t seem to bother him. And why would it? Guys wouldn’t turn down a vagina unless it was oozing green slime. Even then they might justify a reason to just go for it. Didn’t get either of their names, both knew I was going through a divorce and had two small kids. Both willing to help me ‘recover’ and get over the hump… literally. More memories made for the emergency vault. On the flight back I sat next to a handsome French man who was coming in to town for work. I saw that he had a wedding ring. Mid way through our conversation he went to the bathroom and miraculously there was no longer a wedding ring. What a douche. Men, if you’re married just wear the damn ring. You may still get laid but if you’re already lying to your wife do you need to lie to a mistress too? Honestly, isn’t it exhausting to lie to everyone?! I promptly outed him to which he stuttered and was trying to give some excuse. Really? At what point do you just stop and say, yup fucked up, got caught, dumb thing to do. Nope, denial to the end. I nonchalantly replied with too bad, would have fucked you with the ring on but now that you were trying to lie to me I don’t think I like you anymore… douche. I wouldn’t actually have sex with a married man, been cheated on and being a mistress is not my thing. I don’t like to share a man. A bit of a sour end to an otherwise awesome weekend but there will always be an unending supply of douche bags.

March 3, 2008

I’ve got to snap out of this slump. I was doing so well. I know I’m going to have my bad days but I thought they were supposed to lessen with time. I can’t seem to shake this wave of depression that’s overcome me and I don’t know which way is up for air or down to hell. The routine of talking myself out of feeling or thinking a certain way has proven ineffective the last few weeks. Ever since I saw him on Mario’s birthday. Fuck he didn’t even look that good and he even kind of smelled like mold. Still overweight, suffering from adult acne and his once thick hair has now thinned and he insists on having it long. What the hell was I hurting for?? It’s just my boys. I can’t watch them without feeling this huge sense of guilt and sadness. What have we done?? It all happened so quickly that I’m still spinning from it. I could have sworn we were going to last a lifetime. We were the couple that had ‘it’. Whatever the hell ‘it’ was. Now we’re just two parents who have resorted to texting each other our children’s status report. Boys are up and eating breakfast, at the movies with the boys, etc. Maybe even sending over a picture or two of the boys in action. I can’t shake this heavy feeling in my body. It’s as though I’ve eaten a bowl of lead and it’s sitting in the pit of my chest. Amazing how emotional pain takes physical form. I mean what the hell is that about anyways? What does an organ that’s supposed to pump blood through my body have anything to do with a person completely apart from the body it sustains life for. I cried again yesterday while I was taking a shower. The only 10 minutes of personal time I actually get and that’s if the boys don’t come barging in to look at my naked body. I clung to my knees as the warm water ran down my body and just cried. I bawled in silence as my eyes burned and my nose turned a nice color of red. Mouthing why over and over again as usual expecting some vision of an answer miraculously appearing before me. Then, with one deep breath, turned the waterworks off, the one bathing my body and the one running from my eyes and walked out of the shower in a state of numbness that I’ve grown very fond of.

Don’t let this crisis break you, let it make you. Words I’ve said to myself over and over again this past year. Make you the person you are to become for a lifetime. Not the one that’s still evolving from lessons learned, but one that has learned a lot and has found a state in which to handle whatever life could possibly throw your way.

I’ve been meaning to write my ‘story’ for decades now. Thinking it’s something I need to get on paper. But who the hell wants to hear of someone else’s sob story when every single human being on this earth has a cross to bear. Relatively speaking my life is a fairy tale compared to things others have to go through. I mean I can’t even look at the news without feeling even more depressed if that’s possible. Just this morning I read Polar Ice Caps Melting Quicker than originally believed… What kind of world did I just bring my boys to? What have I done?? Wow, life sure does suck. I’m going on 36, living with my parents or should I say they’re living with me, divorced, mother of two boys under the age of 5 and sleeping on a bunk bed with my eldest son. Working at a job, that, though it pays me well, is a lot less than I would be earning if I had never stopped working. My father is having an affair, which is the same one I caught him in years ago or a totally different one, and my mother is, well, the best I can describe her is Shirley McClain in Post Cards from the Edge with a touch of her character in Steel Magnolias combined with 34 years of being bound to a metal chair and heavily medicated. And that’s currently where I am. But let me take you back about a lifetime…

I was born in New Jersey in 1972 from Uruguayan parents. My first crib was a dresser drawer on the floor with blankets. My father looking for a better life, one without his wife and two young sons, the youngest who was mentally retarded, and my mother, free spirited and independent running away with her married lover. I truly believe they were genuinely happy with their new world. They moved to California later that same year, trekking across the U.S. with me and a 6 month old German Shepard named Tobra. What more could they possibly ask for?? My father worked and my mom stayed home with me and we all lived in a very small trailer home in Riverside somewhere. My mom then befriended her mailman which happened to be a woman of the name Josephine Martinez. A very cheerful woman who’s smile brightened up your day and whose laughter was contagious. My mother approached her one day since she ‘looked Hispanic’. Josie took us in like one of her own and introduced us to her very large Mexican-Native American family. Her and her husband, Finnegan Roe became my godparents. My parents were just getting happier by the days… Then in the spring of 1974 my mother suffered a car accident. Two children and I were in the car with her but she was the only one to suffer any injury. She broke her neck instantly T1 and C7 and was originally diagnosed as quadriplegic. However, by a miracle she retained use of her arms. What else can I possibly say…? It just went downhill from there and fast.

She spent a lengthy amount of time in the hospital after the accident. When I think about it I get visions of Tom Cruise’s hospital stay in Born on the Fourth of July. In her late 20s, barely spoke English, never apart from her 2 year old daughter for more than a few hours and a being so fiercely independent that this new state her body was in was worse than death. She begged for death and fell into a deep depression and addiction to meds. My father continued to work since they really didn’t have anything, not even a pot to piss in. I was put into foster care and though I don’t remember much I’m sure I was a mental case myself. I don’t ever ask much about that time of their life. One of those things that I don’t even want to know but every now and then my mom will tell me a little bit of it and I can feel her pain and get a glimpse of the horribleness of those days. One glimpse that comes to mind and tears my soul in half is stories of the times I would come to visit her at the hospital and as she stayed motionless on the bed I would cling to her and cry. When it was time to go I would throw a screaming tantrum and cling to the sheets and beg not to be taken away. I can only imagine the scene and it brings me to tears. Not to be that child but as a mother in that situation. But God works in mysterious ways – or so believed my mother. Enough that it was the strength she needed to come out of her mental cocoon and become the mother I needed her to be. She said she found strength to live on in the fact that no one would take care of me the way she would. A settlement was reached and my parents came into quite a bit of money. A bad mix unfortunately. Two hard working immigrants, who never had an ounce of saving, barely spoke English and didn’t have schooling beyond the age of 14 if that. They bought a house which to them was a mansion. The house was larger than they ever could imagine, across the street from a park and handicap equipped. Thinking about it, I’m sure my parents wished they had never known that lifestyle.

My parents did the best they could given the circumstances. Glimpses of my history make me realize why I am the way I am. My mom mentioned this story of me when I was about 4 and we had an old style metal swing set in the backyard. Me, being the tomboy that I was, managed to climb to the very top but was unable to get down. As I sat up there and cried like a kitten stuck in a tree my mother simply sat in her wheelchair, inside the house and coaxed me into coming down ‘just the way I got up’. No calling 911 in case her infant fell to her untimely death, no running over to the neighbor for help, I got myself into this mess and I better find a way out of it. I can’t help you, I can’t come outside and get you. You can get down just the same way you got up. You can do it. It took an eternity for me to do it but, I’m here now so that says it all. I definitely got her fire and independence. She wasn’t going to raise a weakling. She wasn’t going to sit in her metal prison to watch me grow up to be needy or scared. I remember roaming the streets by myself at a very young age but then again it was different times. I climbed trees with my friends, built forts, slid down metal slides that burned your skin, jumped from the swings to see who could go further and swam like mermaids for hours. It was a simple time. My mom, however, had found the bliss of being heavily medicated too hard to resist and would spend days in her room.

With money came some horrific investment ideas and my father decided to open a new state-of-the-art mechanic shop. A-International and it was going to be his dream come true. My father had spent most of his life as a taxi and ambulance driver which permitted him many escapades with woman passengers or nurses. He was the young hot Paul Newman look alike and he was in demand. Got a woman, Teresa, pregnant when he was about 17 and did the ‘right’ thing by marrying her. My brother, Santiago Ortiz Jr., is about 11 years older than me and I didn’t even know he existed until I was about 5 or 6. My father ran into my mom when my brother was about 6 months old. They grew up near each other and were more frienemies than anything else. My father teased my mother who was always on the thick side and my father was the translucent-super-thin white boy when they were just kids. One fateful day my mom and her youngest sister happened to get into my dad’s cab. My mother goes to light up a cigarette and my father stops the cab and demands she puts it out or gets out. My mother with her charming smile and air of finesse gets out of the cab. It was love. A fierce love that would last an eternity but take many prisoners. They’re like oil and water and have only found short moments of time when they weren’t arguing or that my father wasn’t cheating or brutally convinced that my mom was cheating on him. The thief always believes others are out to rob him. Is how my mom characterized my dad’s jealousy and fear of being cheated on. It wasn’t normal.

Well, they started dating after that taxi incident and my father would bring his young son over to her house and state that it was his ‘nephew’. My grandmother was clueless. My grandmother, another victim of divorce (cheating husband) was also a strong independent woman. Living in the heart of Uruguay, working as a maid and trying to raise 4 head-strong women. I come from long-line of fiercely strong independent irrational women… great!! Well, at least I think I do. My grandmother was adopted at the age of 5 to be raised as a servant. She’s in her mid 80’s now and she still dwells on the fact that she doesn’t know where she came from, why her mother abandoned her and why no one came to look for her. It still brings tears to her eyes. My grandmother has a very lucid mind and remembers every detail about her life, especially the depressing stuff. She’ll make sure you remember it too as she will tell you the same stories every time you see her or talk to her on the phone. My parents broke up for a short time when my mother discovered that my father hadn’t really left his wife and instead she was pregnant with their second son. Tigers can’t change their stripes. My other brother, Christian Miguel Ortiz, was about 8 years older than me and was born with some serious illnesses. He was mentally retarded and suffered from epilepsy. Not good in a very small third world country, with a father who was literally driving the ladies wild. With some Casanova style hypnosis my father convinced my mother to come to the states with him. He was in search of a better life but I think any life without the responsibility he currently had was better by far.

So in 1969 they both arrive to the states to the east coast. That brings me back to the point of discussion when they financial problems all started to make our little immigrant family a complete disaster. Well it’s about the mid-1970s and my father has opened up a mechanic shop. He finally convinced my mother to marry him though according to her lawyer she never should have. I found the marriage certificate later on in life when I was a teenager. Realized the date said May 8, 1975 and didn’t really know whether to freak out or just laugh. I decided laughing about it was better off and just claimed myself as a love-child. My father was devastated that I found out and my mother said it was about time I learned the truth. Anyways, needless to say the mechanic shop went under in record time. The only memory I have of the place is drinking Dr. Pepper till I thought I was going to explode and getting stuck in a car that was