Category Archives: depression

After effects

For reasons I don’t fully understand, today has been one of those “teary days” that sometimes enter my life. The latter part of the last week has been full of fear, worry, disappointment and, at times, utter panic. As I’ve written previously, my mother died in February, 2012. I’d known for years that she was not mentally competent and known even longer that she had serious mental health issues. She chose not to deal with either affliction. Unfortunately, her affliction became my affliction because I shared a house with her. Day after day, I’d watch her make horrible mistakes and could do nothing. One person in whom I’d confided kept telling me to somehow “make” her do things or “make” her brothers stop protecting her so that she could receive real medical help. My mother was not someone anyone “makes” do anything. The end result was that she lived in a world that didn’t correspond with reality. Nothing I said, did, didn’t say or didn’t do made a difference. I told her in anger once that she would always find a way to screw me over even if she had to go down with me. That’s a pretty harsh thing to say to one’s mother. That didn’t mean it wasn’t true. Two utterly devastating financial decisions she made that I desperately tried to talk her out of or guide her through have come back to bite me in the ass just as I told her they would.

The financial difficulties I’m experiencing actually force me to mourn my mother. I have not had any real time to do so in the last 18 months because I’ve been too busy dealing with two creditors who hold the paper on the house and my minivan–KeyBank National Association and JPMorgan Chase Auto Finance, respectively. To say these august institutions have been “difficult” would probably be the understatement of the year. I have new grey hairs because of them. Fortunately, my attorneys have kept me away from a lot of the upsetting discourse because, honestly, I don’t think I have it in me to remain focused and calm. My mother’s death and the years that preceded it are truly tender spots on my psyche. There is a lot of unfinished business within the family confines that are deeply painful and ugly. There are days when I can barely keep the dam of anger and pain from bursting as though built with shoddy concrete and rusty steel. Inevitably, there will be cracks where the water of my tears will seep through and run down the spillway of my cheeks. Today is one of those days.

I may have written of a favorite great-uncle, Herbert, who was more some combination of grandfather/father than great-uncle. Even though he was only ten years older than my mother, he had a very big hand in raising her. It was a bond that lasted throughout their lives. Uncle Herbert preceded Mom in death by a few months shy of four years. We didn’t have a chance to say a final goodbye, but I think he understood.

Uncle Herbert was always there for me, too. He and his wife, Ethel, were my rocks when I desperately needed them growing up. Lately, as I’ve watched my world turn upside down, I have wished that Uncle Herbert were here because he’d tell me how to fix everything or protect me as best he could from the very harsh realities I may have to face. My lawyers do help me as best they can, but they can only do so much. Aunt Ethel helped me even though I was deeply ashamed for asking. In the end, it is up to me. It is my responsibility to clean up the hot mess my mother made of both our lives because I didn’t do what needed to be done: have her declared mentally incompetent and get myself appointed conservator. Kicking myself is a waste of time, as is blaming her enabling two oldest brothers who interfered when I tried to get her help. I know that I will never have the same relationship with them again. So be it. However, I have to mourn the woman she was before she was crazy and mentally incompetent, then pick myself up, gear up and fight for my life.

I think the thing I do best is fight. My existence has been a constant struggle since the day I was born. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have to fight for something or another. That’s one of the things that would have/will make an excellent litigator. I believe passionately in equanimity and fairness. To me, those are basic human rights. KeyBank made a predatory loan to a woman who had no business conducting any financial transactions at all. I even warned the loan officer that my mother was not competent, but the loan officer saw an easy mark and inserted herself into the relationship with my mother. Anytime a woman “forgets” that her daughter has fibromyalgia and a birth defect that has caused problems in various musculoskeletal areas of her body even though that daughter has been on disability since the early 1990s and several doctors have talked to her about the daughter’s needs, that woman is in serious trouble. Whether Mom really forgot or whether she just didn’t want to face facts is something I’ll never know. What I do know is that I may lose my house due to Key’s greed. I have a feeling that I am not the only person who is in this type of difficulty.

Picking myself up to fight another day is one of the most difficult things I can envision doing right now. I am so damn tired I don’t know what to do. My spirit is tired. What keeps me going is my girls. Without them, I would be locked away in an psychiatric facility undergoing God-knows-what kind of “therapy” to lift the fog of depression. Yes, I am fighting for myself, but I am fighting for them even more. We are a set; a team; a four-some. We are family. I really don’t like this house because it wasn’t built very well. However, it’s got a large backyard with incredible possibilities and I don’t have to worry about my babies making too much noise for the neighbors. I know that I live and do things for them when I can’t do them for myself. This time, I’m fighting for all of us.

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Mourning

I’ve just spent the last 30 minutes or so telling my cousin about Glenn. It wasn’t a subject I’d planned to address, but there seemed no way to explain a part of my life without explaining him. This makes sense, really. Before I awoke from my nap this evening, I’d dreamed about Glenn, a mutual friend we had named Tanya and, of course, about me. I was in horrible emotional pain because Glenn somehow walked away from me and wouldn’t speak to me again. He was with hagbeast and the setting was the college we attended. I remember the agony and I remember his face. What I didn’t know in the dream, and don’t really know now, is why he hated me because of my sexuality. The irony is that, at this point in my life, I honestly, truly do want a male mate. I’m not kicking any lovely, lovely women out of my bed–or life, if that’s the case–but my sexuality has made a 180 degree turn in the last month that’s confused the daylights out of me.

Be that as it may, when I awoke, what I felt was the profound loss. It mirrors the loss I haven’t allowed myself to feel in real life. I don’t think I can run far enough fast enough. I’m going to have to truly feel the pain.

This is in no way meant to diminish what I feel, but the thing that struck me after actually saying a few words to him and being greeted with hostility is that I was dead on about his character and characteristics when I thought he was ignoring me. I am thankful that, as if someone had pushed a button, my emotional armor went up the moment I realized I had managed to fuck up and reach the person–TWICE. I don’t understand that kind of hatred. I never have. He was the last straight person in the world I’d peg as homophobic. Yet, that was part of the rant he used to cripple me and bang my figurative head into the ground over and over again. A decade later, he doesn’t remember and suddenly decided he doesn’t want to. I wish I could have forgotten as easily.

Somehow, the world seems much lonelier than it did. Tanya left me little to no choice except to say one final goodbye. Glenn turned into the narcissist/sociopath/narcissistic sociopath I was truly afraid he’d become with hagbeast. He could go either way and I knew it. That’s one of the primary reasons I stayed with him. Not to get completely hyperbolic (although I’m going there), hagbeast massaged his darker nature. I massaged his lighter nature. He had a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. (Please know that I did try to find a substitute metaphor and failed.) It was much easier to be dark, rapacious, mean and evil. Dark always has an advantage. There are things I understand now that I didn’t then. Unfortunately, it’s too late. Even if he wanted to get out (and there’s no evidence he does) he couldn’t. That leaves me to mourn and to write.

A part of me says that I don’t know how we’re going to get through the hell. Another part says that we simply will. It is what we do. Strength above all.

Cries in the wind

There are days when I get sad and I don’t know why. I think this is one of those days. I have a feeling that it has to do with reading my old journals last week. I was deep in hell when I wrote those entries. It was almost a foregone conclusion that I’d suicide. Anyone would under the circumstances.

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My experience with abuse is long and horrid thanks to the pedophile my mother married. It was so horrible that I had to blank out to endure it. “Blanking out” is called “dissociation.” We all do it at one time or another. The spectrum goes from daydreaming at one end to “dissociative identity disorder,” AKA “multiple personality disorder,” at the other. I don’t remember most of my childhood. I don’t remember most of what was done to me. What I do remember tortures me with flashes and, either when I feel safe or feel extremely vulnerable, I get full-fledged flashbacks. I also get body memories. I think those are the worst. That’s what happened when I began reading the journal entries. I knew that I was in my bedroom–the room where I did my best to end the torture I’d experienced–but I felt the agony that befell me that nightmarish night. For a moment, I seriously thought about suiciding again. Then, I realized that I was in the present, ten years later. Still, I had to scratch and claw my way out of The Pit.

I tried to do the right thing by TEWSNBN and told him what was coming. Since he swore he didn’t remember, I dug out the journals, read them, scanned them and realized it was going to take more time because I was even more prolific then than I am now. I was in the process of a complete meltdown when I wrote those journal entries. The scars on my arms are a testament to the pain I was in. I couldn’t scream, so I burned my arm with a lit cigarette almost down to the bone again and again and again. In addition, I’d cut. Unlike the burn scars, the razor’s scars are barely visible. The irony is that I can blame those on either the cats we had or my dogs because they all have/had sharp claws.

I am so angry that these people thought nothing of what they did then nor today. What was done was so insignificant that it wasn’t even remembered. I don’t know who was at the keyboard that last time, true. However, TEWSNBN was still a huge part of the trap. When I told him what happened, he couldn’t have cared less. What the hell happened to him? Now, I’m just plain curious. It really doesn’t matter because he can’t be “saved.” I’m curious because that’s my nature. I’ll never get an answer because he’s too much of a coward to talk. Oh well.

I am so tired of abusive men. I’m tired of abusive people period. My mother, partly due to physical illness and partially due to mental illness she refused to get treated, was very abusive all too frequently. There were times when I had to hide out in my bedroom with the door locked because she’d charge at me like a pissed off bull. She definitely had physical abuse on her mind. I sometimes kept a knife under the pillow because I was afraid of her. She’d come in when I wasn’t around and take it away. Needless to say, she triggered PTSD episodes, as did her brother, Ted, who walked into my house and started going off on me for something he thought I’d said about him. I hadn’t said anything about him at all. Do you think my mother stood up for me? Nope! The only thing she cared about was that I told him to “Fuck off!” She didn’t care about what he said and did to get me to that point. For example, he said, “That’s why no one likes you!” and a bunch of other stuff. But to come into someone’s home and go off on them about something he thought he heard is inappropriate times two. According to my mother, I was supposed to just stand there, take his shit and endure. No! ! No way!! Why do people think that I’m never supposed to defend myself as if the abuse is acceptable? It isn’t acceptable at all.

I can’t write anymore. I have things that must be done today. I don’t feel like doing anything. I’m tired. I’m just so, so tired.

Writing about abuse

There is a post I’ve wanted to write for a while now. It is about my history of being an abuse victim and then an abuse survivor. Wash, rinse, repeat. Without a doubt, the majority of the abuse I’ve experienced is emotional. However, a great deal of the emotional abuse is tied to sexual abuse. I sat up in bed after watching programs on the DVR that needed to be erased and told myself, “I’m going to do it.” I tried and I couldn’t. You see, it isn’t enough that I write about my own experiences. I have to include the statistics and other data because that’s what one does when one is a finder of fact. It’s second nature. However, when I began searching for the stats I used to know by heart, I found that my insides began to throb. I felt as if there were some tumor growing in the center of my rib cage as I read. Finally, I had to accept that, at least for now, I can’t do it. That isn’t to say I won’t be able to do it tomorrow or the next day or next week. I just can’t do it now because I’m too close to last week’s events surrounding Glenn and reading old journals that definitely portrayed him as an abuser. Granted, his method was emotional, but it was definitely abusive. He plans to continue, but I’m not a teenager or a 20-something or even a 30-something. I, very literally, have a spine of titanium. I forget that a lot of times because I’ve been conditioned by experience to believe consciously or unconsciously that the abuse–be it emotional or sexual–was somehow my fault and that I am wrong to fight back. The part about it being wrong to fight back is something I lay squarely at the feet of my mother and her family. For them, perception was/is everything. You didn’t complain. You quietly endured whatever and whoever befell you like a proper lady. I had to learn that I had a right to defend myself. I still have to actively remember to remember that fact when it shouldn’t even be a question.

I need to write so badly that I ache. I want to scream and shout and pound my fist into the wall because I so want to write but I can’t. I can’t because I’ve written so much about this one person and one subject that I’ll lose the little family that’s developed here even though I started this blog for myself and myself only. If people chose to take the ride with me, great. If they decided to by-pass it, oh well. Now, I’ve gotten spoiled. It’s sort of ridiculous, really. If I want an audience per se, I can go on over to my other blog and write something that will get attention and publicize it. I don’t do that here. This is the space I set up where extremely few people know who I am, leaving me free to write whatever the hell I want to write about. Well, right now, I need to write about abuse and I need to write about Glenn and I need to make what’s in my head real by putting it in writing. The only thing I want to know about Glenn is why he’s been so damn hostile ever since I came out to him 20 years ago. The string of homophobic hatred that came across my screen that fateful day was shocking and as deadly as ninja throwing stars. It was so shocking and damaging that I actually forgot about it until I read my journal entries. Asking him is pointless because he’s not talking to me. Even if he were, he’d never actually explain anything. He never has and he never will. It’s as though he believes he’s got some God-given right to do and say whatever he pleases and not explain or talk about it at all. And if you’re outside of his circle, you are fair game to be mistreated in any way that amuses him at the time. He did it to me for two years as I “chased” him, something to which I will readily admit. I was 16 at the time and he was Glenn.

I’m sorry, but I have to say this: that S.O.B. hurt me. I know that was his plan and that my pain gives him pleasure. He is a non-consensual sadist. That, too, was part of his tirade that day a decade ago. He’s like a domestic canine-wolf cross. You never know what behavior you’ll get. Will it be more wolf-like or more domestic canine? He can, and frequently is, quite cruel. He is also quite charming when he chooses to be. As a former mutual friend said, so I’ve read, he’s frequently overwhelmed and confused. This is true. His way of dealing is to run or strike before he feels he’s about to be struck (figuratively, that is) or both. Reading, he’s not someone I want to be with again. He’s got a domestic canine side that I loved dearly. Now, the only thing I experience is the rabid wolf. Mind you, I absolutely love and adore wolves and give most of my meager budget for charitable causes to efforts to save wolves and to the ASPCA. Therefore, in a sense, I’m libeling wolves. *looks west toward Michigan and beyond* Sorry guys!

I am trying to recover as quickly as possible from last week. I need to move on because I wasted an entire week on him that I really didn’t have to waste. To show how hurried I’ve been, I wrote a thousand word post, thought I’d uploaded it, didn’t see it hours later and went to look for it in “Drafts,” then realized I’d erased all of my drafts to create more space on my iPhone. I wanted to scream. I feel a lot of pressure to “get over it” even though I know it’s not that simple. I feel a pressure to just shut up about it already and I can’t. I’m wondering if I shouldn’t just set up another blog where I am the only person who can see what I’ve written.

OK, I think I’m beginning to kind of understand what I’m feeling. Some of my thought pattern is the PTSD rearing its head. I have noticed that I feel as though I’m on the edge of a cliff about to fall off if I take one misstep. I also feel as though no one will like me if I say one more word about HIM. Honestly, I don’t want to write about HIM, but how do I not and still write about the pain I’m in? I can’t have it both ways–at least not here.

In trying to write about my experiences with abuse, I ran across a list of some of the effects of childhood sexual abuse on the site PANdora’s Box.

  • Long term effects of child abuse include fear, anxiety, depression, anger, hostility, inappropriate sexual behavior, poor self esteem, tendency toward substance abuse and difficulty with close relationships.
  • Clinical findings of adult victims of sexual abuse include problems in interpersonal relationships associated with an underlying mistrust. Generally, adult victims of incest have a severely strained relationship with their parents that is marked by feelings of mistrust, fear, ambivalence, hatred, and betrayal. These feelings may extend to all family members.
  • Sexual victimization may profoundly interfere with and alter the development of attitudes toward self, sexuality, and trusting relationships during the critical early years of development.

That’s not the full list, but what’s there describes me. I have tried so hard to overcome the filth of my mother’s second husband since I was in my 20s. I’ve probably made a lot of progress, but right now, I feel as though I’ve failed myself and others. My head knows that I’ve made a great deal of progress and asks who these “others” are. I think the “others” are those who couldn’t get close to me because I was afraid. Those I did allow in were often abusive themselves and subsequently abused me. I have to fight to maintain self-esteem. It took me a lot of time to accept that I deserved better than HIM. Having done so, I’m afraid of slipping back because I have so many questions. I’ve never been good at accepting that there are questions about people for which I’ll never get answers. I’m the kind of person who absolutely must understand things of importance, especially when what I’m trying to understand is an emotion or act be it mine or someone else’s. I know a lot of people who hate the word “closure,” but it is what I truly do need. Otherwise, I am left with holes that are very dangerous because I will inevitably try to fill them with either another person or some idea I’ll settle on that may not be very complimentary to me.

OK, I’ve written nearly 1500 words. It’s time to end this. I’m at the same place I began. I have a knot in my chest and I want to scream.

God, HELP!!

I’ve read nearly all of my first journal begun one week after I’d contacted Glenn a full decade ago this past March 22. I began it as a woman absolutely giddy with happiness at being able to talk to the man she loved more than herself seven or nine years after he hung up on her when she came out to him in the wrong way, granted, but not deserving of a discussion at least, to; a woman barely hanging on to life, being purposely reckless in the hope Fate would relieve her of the agony of not knowing why he turned on her all of a sudden in mid-conversation, blamed her for even thinking that he’d had any interest, telling her he didn’t care whether she rejected or embraced her love for him because he wasn’t “going there,” saying that she had been “dyking around for a decade,” that she didn’t “want this dick and to run as fast and as far as she can.” Destroyed. Absolutely destroyed. I’d trusted him more than any PERSON on the planet, loved him more than ANY PERSON on the planet and had ultimately given more of myself to him than I had ANY PERSON on the planet. Destroyed. Absolutely destroyed. Even now, after reading 10 years later, hanging on to this reality by my fingernails to keep from sinking into The Pit once more even though someone(s) destroyed the woman who was then. I can’t have relationships no matter the gender of the other person because I can’t trust enough or give enough of myself. I was punished for loving women even though I loved him, assuming the words came from him. I’m not at all sure they did. The circumstances suggest the horror could easily have been from the hagbeast monster or his gay male business partner. If the latter, it was at his request. If the former, he probably didn’t know. We went from flirting to destruction after he went away from the screen for a few minutes. That sceptic cunt could have snuck in easily. Especially since whoever was on the other end of the IM wouldn’t speak to me via voice.

I’ve been struggling with anorexia for about a week now. I’d just worked up to eating a whole sandwich, but was drinking more liquids. Now, not only don’t I care, I don’t want to eat. I mean, I ACTIVELY don’t want to eat. I’m trying to get through this because of the girls. I can’t abandon them. The thing is, I don’t think I can do this by myself and I honestly don’t know who to call who won’t make me feel worse than I already do.

I had a terrible shock. I found a portion of a journal entry meant to be found after I’d properly suicided. It contained two phone numbers. One was Glenn’s cell and the other was for a former mutual friend. I called the one for Glenn, never anticipating that it would work. It did. I was so unnerved I couldn’t talk to him. So, in the course of three days I’ve reached him twice after well over 100 letters sent to the usual usernames owners of private mail servers set up. Over 100 letters he said he never received even though some were sent via the “Contact Us” form for his record company. Granted, for a year or more I haven’t used it because I didn’t get a confirmation of receipt from the server and assumed I’d been blocked. But I have also gotten really good at setting up disposable accounts, hoping that something would get through in some fashion.

I never want to leave my bed, but the girls need to eat and go potty. I feel as I did when I had agoraphobia. Anything and nearly everyone is dangerous outside of this room. There are so many ways to kill a person while leaving them with a beating heart. There are so many ways to die and still breathe. I have to focus on the girls. If not, I will die one way or the other. I can go inside myself and never come out. I am so close to that now that I have to work to just stay present.

How could Glenn/hagbeast/gay oh business partner do this to someone whose worst “crime” was loving someone and then determining that she loved those of her own gender more at one point? Had Glenn talked to me, I would have given in. Not to the phone sex, but to allowing him access to body, soul and heart. I would give up women for him. I would have then and I would now if he was willing to do the obvious and make us “us”–hagbeast included, if I just had to, as long as he committed.

This is not the first time I’ve tried to write this book. The first time was way before I was ready. The publisher read the mess I submitted and gently told me to get some therapy and try again later. I told her I couldn’t write it then because all I do is cry while I’m typing. I don’t think she believed me until she saw the mess of the first few chapters. I’d forgotten about that until reading the journals, too. Five or six therapists later and I’m still crying as I type.

What the fuck is going on? Someone please, tell me. First, as I’m about to give up and give in to giving up on relationships, I hear and see my mother frantically trying to tell me NOT to forget about or give up on Glenn. She didn’t even like him! So, I ignore her until I realize I can’t blindside him and his kids. I NEVER intended to talk to him before mailing him a set of questions after getting well into writing a manuscript, but I wanted him to know what was coming. After ten years and a few phone messages as late as last year, he answers the phone. On a Sunday. Today, I call a 10-yr-old cell number I didn’t even know I had and he answers. I cannot hope where he is concerned. That’s especially true now that I’ve read how he or someone tried to blame me for essentially making any perceived interest up. I’ve got notes from conversations. I didn’t make anything up. And, if I made everything up, then how could he have been playing a joke? I did remember that that was part of the conversation I’d initially forgotten due to stress. It was remembered much later. It is a habit my brain learned as a child: bury the most destructive, painful memories deep inside where they can’t be found. That kept me sane and I do not exaggerate.

What does one do when one truly wants to die but can’t? Endure. What does one do when one can no longer endure? I’m frantically trying to determine who can raise my girls if it comes to that. I just can’t bear the thought of their pain after losing my mother so recently. I am in hell.

Panic!

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I woke up very shortly after two Valium let me nap when I had hoped to actually sleep. I tried to go back to sleep, but it was pointless. On top of that, I was physically ill due to having my world turned upside down. This could turn into a good thing, but right now, all I know is that a truly malevolent creature stole a very large and important chunk of my life. Whatever the case, being sick was/is not something I can handle right now.

Most people eat when they’re upset. Not me! The more upset and depressed I get, the less I eat and the more I don’t want to eat. The thing is, I don’t drink either and I dehydrate very easily. I don’t mean a little bit. I mean ending up in the ER because my heartbeat gets irregular, I get light-headed and I have no veins except in my neck. I then have to lie to the doctors who know I’m lying but can’t prove it so that I don’t get locked in a me tal ward because I’m “a danger to myself.”

I didn’t have any anti-diarrhea meds so I had to get that before I even tried to eat. Otherwise, it’s a pointless effort. I also had to get just about every other prescription I had filled, especially the Valium. Valium is my friend these days. It’s the only thing standing between me and panic attacks, body memories and full-on flashbacks. Yes, I have post-traumatic stress disorder. It is made worse by fibromyalgia and fibro is made worse by PTSD. I’ve also had to cancel my life for most of this week because I can just barely cope with reliving the last 10 years of pain, apparent betrayal, heartache, abuse, suicide, profound loss, self-hatred and loneliness. Yet I have no choice because I have to make the love of my life understand what his hagbeast monster of a wife did to both of us. She took my life when she already had him and he sure as hell wasn’t going to leave her for me. She took my life. MY life.

I had to play Jane Bond and try to find a way to get Glenn, and only Glenn, the documents that detail what happened and all the times I’ve tried to reach him only to be met with silence. He never got ANYTHING I sent him via e-mail. So, I can’t use e-mail. Furthermore, I need figure out how to encrypt the data on a DVD I’m sending to him. It’s quite possible to do, but I need to find out how by tomorrow afternoon.

I went to the grocery store deli because I figured that’s about all my stomach can handle right now. The store is huge and it was crowded. I nearly had a full-blown panic attack three different times. I barely got out before the last one nearly emerged. Had I been there a few more minutes, that would have been all she wrote. I’m fairly good at talking myself down from them, but even I can’t beat them all when I’m tired, sick, upset as hell and want my mom because she’d know what to do when I don’t.

Speaking of Mom, I realize that some would see my letter to her and think I’m nuts. No. As I wrote, I kept hearing and seeing her in my head trying to tell me to not just hang on to him, but insisting I do so. This, from a woman who never particularly liked him. When I called to tell him about the book (a publisher had already offered a deal several years ago that I didn’t take then) and HE answered, I could barely speak. I didn’t believe him at first when he said he didn’t know anything about what I was referring to. But it gradually sunk in. And that’s when the world in which I have lived for a decade began to fall apart. That’s why Mom was so insistent. That’s why I could never shake my love for him even when I hated him for doing what I thought he was doing. Well fuck you Dr. Robin Watt. He may have no choice but to take your side because he put a ring on your finger, but he will sure as hell know who and what you are. Beast!

Now, I just have to get through the rest of tonight (sleep and/or working on that disk) and the day. I cannot get sick and I cannot have any panic attacks or flashbacks. I have to be strong.

A talk with Mom

Hi Mommy,

I’m so sad today. I was sad anyway and then I saw that an Airedale acquaintance’s mother died yesterday. She was your age, but not as well preserved. I wrote to her of the things I’ve learned since you died last year, even those things I haven’t been able to do myself. For instance, I haven’t had a chance to really mourn you for more than a day or two because the vultures began to circle almost immediately. Since I feel you with me so often, I’m sure you know that I had to fire Wes. That was awkward, but, I got two great lawyers who protect both of us.

You got me in trouble, young lady, when you dropped dead the day you were supposed to get the license tags. I got stopped and the minivan almost got impounded, but the officer took pity on me and let me keep it. Still, I couldn’t drive it for over a month while Shia did some creative lawyering so that I could get the tags you would have gotten. Then, would you believe that I forgot about the court date for the ticket and had to go to REAL court Wednesday with Marvin? After he got me out of that, what does he see but the “new” tag was only good for the nine days before your birthday and I needed to go get yet another set of tags for another $100. I ended up laughing because there was nothing else I could do. I don’t even know what I owe Marvin. I’ll be paying him and Shia for the rest of my life! I’ll tell you more about Marvin later, but suffice it to say, he is very familiar with Daddy’s former line of business and laughed when I told him a bit about it. Finally, someone I can talk to about Daddy! I know Daddy wishes there were things I didn’t know, but I do now and I did when he was alive. I don’t love him any less. He looks after me, too, Mom–Daddy, I mean. I didn’t want to tell you when you were alive because I know how jealous you were of my feelings for him. But he really, really looks after me. He thinks that he’s “making up” for the time we were apart and, for whatever reason, we didn’t see each other as often as we should. Although, I had a good talk with Aunt Ethel the other day considering the date. She told me that Daddy actually spent a lot of time with me when I was in the early single digits. I understand why you two couldn’t stay together, but I really wish things had been different.

Mommy, I really, really need you now. I don’t mean the crazy you of the last decade or so. I mean the you you were when I was in my mid-20s through mid-30s or so. In other words, the you that wasn’t as mentally ill or medically ill as you can safely acknowledge now. Yeah, I know. One of the reasons I don’t talk to Sonny is because of what he did that kept you getting more and more ill. Hell, that doesn’t even cover the fact that he’s a lying, hypocritical, envious individual. Yeah, I’m angry with him. Whatever. I need the you that I hope you became again once you passed on.

I remember you telling me about some of the people you and Daddy knew when you were married. You both accepted them for who they were. These days, I’m having a really hard time with who I am. If I were a pure spirit, then, I’d know. I’m not. I have this body and I don’t know who it needs anymore. I know what my mind needs: someone who can keep it engaged. I know what my heart needs: someone who will love me with no reservations. My body has been the thing that kept me from the person I loved the most. That says more about him than it does about me, I agree. However, where is he? You were right when you said that no one drives over 500 miles for a booty call–several times. And no one has me fly out there solely for a booty call. Again, where is he? Finally, no one tracks me up and down the Eastern Seaboard for a booty call. Why isn’t he here next to me?

You told me, correctly, that men are essentially foolish to the point of stupidity. Even they don’t know why they do what they do. You, with the exception of your two marriages, the last one to the Devil himself, were really good at understanding them. I never was. They were and are as foreign to me as Chinese. There are days I think I have more in common with elephants than I do with human males, especially the adult variety. I feel as though it’s time for me to do something. I do want to write the book because Lord knows there’s enough material! But what else? Mommy, I keep hearing you and feeling you and what you’ve consistently said. I am picking up your “insights” more and more as I get older. That seemed to start shortly after you were gone. Anyway, I feel what you felt independent of what you’d said, but I need someone better. I need someone who is worthy of me and he isn’t. Not anymore he isn’t. Did you know that when we went to check out that law school in NYC that the doorman saw me with him and shook his head? He didn’t shake it because of me, but because of you-know-who. It puzzled me then and I didn’t think of it until many, many years later. Maybe that elderly gentleman could see that he would do nothing but bring me a lot of heartache and never quite grow into being a man. He was right–at least so far.

Mom, I couldn’t talk to you about this when you were alive, although I wanted to. It took you a while to accept who I was and that I didn’t like men in general. Then, I think you caught on to the fact that there was the occasional male that caught some portion of my body’s interest if not others. Now, I don’t know what’s going on. I know what I want and it’s a HIM and I don’t even know who HE is. I just know that when I do meet him, everything in my life will make sense. If I hadn’t seen recent pictures of you-know-who, I’d think that it must be him, but it isn’t. I do know that I won’t have him for long, just like I didn’t have Daddy for long. That’s going to break my heart into a million pieces, but it will be worth it because I will have had the blessing of knowing him at all and I will be stronger–after I lose my mind, that is. 🙂 I haven’t told anyone about him. In spite of what you thought while on this plane, I hope you now know that just because something’s on the Internet doesn’t mean anyone will see it. Most of the people who read this blog are my e-friends, if not more. Hence, we’ve got the room to ourselves.

There is so much I want to say and have no coherent words, only feelings. I wish I’d been a better daughter and realized how sick you were sooner. I’m guessing, but I wish you’d taken the cardiologist’s advice. You’d be alive now and I wouldn’t have such a mess on my hands. I hate being alone, Mommy. Just as most people didn’t understand you, your family doesn’t get me, with a few exceptions. Speaking of, please tell Uncle Herbert that I miss him terribly and wish he were here. I need him, too. As you can see, the girls and I are making it as best we can. I know they see someone from time to time, but I don’t know who. You? Probably not, but maybe. I mean, I know you drop by fairly frequently and that you’re very, very sorry about the way things turned out and feel like you’ve failed. Much of the failure wasn’t your fault. Like I said, I blame Sonny for a lot of that and he can kiss my booty. Please ask if I can have my girls–all of them–for some time longer. I’ve lost a lot over these last five years. There’s only so much one person can take and I’m at my limit. But for these girls, I’d be up there with you.

OK, I guess it’s time to let you go for now. I’ll try hard not to spend so much time screaming at the ceiling when I hit yet another fucked up situation that you’ve gotten me in by not paying attention or willfully ignoring me. You know now the damage that’s been caused. I’ll deal with it. I always do, or I hire people who will. I keep hearing you becoming more and more insistent on the question of him. Why? Why? I mean, yeah, I think you’re right, but not right now. He needs to be a full-fledged man first and he isn’t. He may not be until he’s 60, regardless of what he should be. I also hear you asking who’d make me happy. Both the man I don’t know, but who is coming and the manchild, once he stops being a child and finally fully becomes a man. It’s crazy, but I know for a fact that I will both know and love the man I’ve yet to meet nearly on sight. And he will deserve me and all the love, care and loyalty I will give him. I just wish you could be here when we become “we.” In the meantime, help me keep it together until my world comes together. Oh! Don’t fight with Daddy too much, OK? He really is here much of the time taking care of me. It’s early for you yet. You’ll be here in time, too. I know it.

Love you,

Me