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Ask E. Jean For DearSugar: I'm a Total Basketcase!

Ask E. Jean For DearSugar: I'm a Total Basketcase!

Sit tight, Sugar darlings: This is a long and juicy letter!

Dear E. Jean,

OK, you ready? My two middle school children decided for themselves to fabricate some claims about me so they could live with their dad, who buys them everything they want and lets them go anywhere they want.

Me? I won't do those things, and even if I could, I'm not able to. I am on disability for fibromyalgia and have a very low income. So because they thought the only way they could make it possible to live with their dad would be to make horrible accusations about me, my visitation has been suspended until it goes to court. Yes, I have an attorney. And, yes he sucks, but I had to beg and borrow to hire him and now I'm stuck.

I also recently ended a six-year relationship with a man who, by the way, is still married to his wife. He has a son. He did not want to pay child support, so he kept stringing me along for those six years with the promise of, "I'll get a divorce in the next few months when we get caught up on bills so I can afford an attorney." Hook, line, and sinker, that’s how hard I fell for this. I tell you what, at the time I even thought I was being so loving and patient — ha! So I booted him out once and for all!

(That's just the beginning! So


You don't know the days that all I could manage to do was cry. I would be so depressed that I couldn't eat, sleep, or even go out to check the mail. However, recently, I've been getting out on weekends and have made some friends. I’ve gone out with a couple of real jerks and I’ve gone out with a couple of really nice, handsome, very successful men. But the nice ones don't want me after they find out about the disability. I feel like damaged goods or like I'm defective in some way, when really I have quite a few good days, where I am able to get out, go dancing, or do whatever I feel like doing.

My current issue is a new man I met online. We had been talking about a month online then decided to meet. He is sooo much fun, funny, down to earth, successful, and gorgeous as all get out! He is just the perfect picture of who I want to be with. The issue? He wants to have children someday, and I had a hysterectomy due to endometriosis. He told me on the phone today that he realized that I wanted a relationship (without me saying a word about that because I didn't want to scare him away) and he admired the fact that I could be so full of love and open with my heart with no fear, but right now he just wants to be friends.

He said that he really had to think about him wanting to be a father and the fact that I was not able to bear anymore children. That hurt worse than if he would have just dropped me like a piece of trash!

I broke down and started crying on the phone when he said this. Well, he felt bad that he had hurt me like that and called back a few minutes later inviting me to go to PetSmart. He told me to bring my little dog so he could pay to get her toenails trimmed. He bought her a new leash and he paid to put gas in my car. (About $125 for just those three things).

After I left his house, I took a walk with my dog for two hours. When I got home, I wrote him a simple email that said, "I am sorry I started crying on the phone earlier. I'm OK now after a long walk to get my head straight. I am happy to have your friendship. I do tend to wear my heart on my sleeve, but I think I'll put it in my pocket for safe keeping. Talk to ya later." I honestly thought I would never hear from him again. That was basically my goodbye.

As soon as he read that email, he called me. I took every ounce of energy I could find to sound chipper on the phone. I kept the conversation very brief. Then, as soon as we hung up, he starts IMing me. We chatted for over an hour about simple trivial things. He said that he was going to bed and would talk to me tomorrow.

I am left sitting here past 2 a.m. with band-aids on six of my fingertips (when I get nervous, I bite my nails), wondering what in the heck is going on! I'm a friggin' basketcase! I know this is a lot to get advice on, but trust me. I could really use some. Not even my therapist can keep up with everything that is going on with me right now! — All Messed Up and Lonely in Tennessee

Dear Miss Messed,

You are wrong, my darling. I do not have "a lot" of advice for you. I have no doubt that you are quite charming, but alas, I have read your insufferably long letter, and your excruciating selfishness, immaturity, and juvenile idiocy comes through with every line.

Your children left you — brought "horrible accusations" against you — and you're writing because you're a basketcase over a man who had your dog's toenails trimmed?

Grow up, hunny. Get your priorities straight. Stop thinking about yourself for one half-second and realize there are other people on this planet. Like your kids.

The one piece of advice I do have for you is this: Take the band-aids off, stop bawling, cease trolling for dudes online, and get a job. Fibromyalgia is painful. Fibromyalgia is a bitch. But you gotta play the hand you were dealt, girl, or be a loser the rest of your life.

Get a job! Get a job! Get a job! Get a job! Get a job! Get a job! A job will bring in money. A job will boost your feelings of self-worth. A job will help you gain your self-respect. A job will give your kids a mother to admire. Every problem you have comes from the fact that you’re a superficial, man-crazy, irresponsible lackwit who lays around the house carping and bellyaching and doing nothing to help herself.

And don’t tell me about the pain. I know from pain. Get a job.

P.S. About that line in your letter that says "the nice (men) don’t want me after they find out about the disability." The guys are not turned off because you have an unfortunate medical disorder, my dear; they are turned off because you are a helpless, rather thoughtless woman who lost your own kids because you would not get a job and fight for them.

No sane man would want a woman like that.

To see more advice from E. Jean, visit Elle magazine and

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