Category Archives: despair

Naked Honesty

I’ve been running around in circles all day because I couldn’t decide what to do. I damn near had an accident on the freeway because I was trying not to have another panic attack and not to cry at the same time. I am in so much pain I don’t even comprehend it. How can I expect someone who isn’t in my head to do so?

My mother and I had a very complex relationship, to put it mildly. I was 10 minutes too late to tell her that I forgave her for allowing her husband to molest and rape me. She needed to know and I hope more than just about anything else that there was enough of her brain functioning to hear me when I took her cold hand and told her. I don’t think I’ll ever forget her collapsing in my bedroom and on my bed, face contorted, no doubt that it was absolutely urgent that she get medical attention immediately. My thoughts were confirmed when the paramedics/EMTs did a “scoop and run,” much against her wishes. Then, they got diverted from the closest hospital to the Cleveland Clinic. That would have been great IF she’d had a survivable injury. She didn’t.

I got back to her cubicle as they were running a second code. I knew who they were trying to save, but I asked anyway. Cardiology wouldn’t come down unless they could see her via either a CT or MRI, I think the former, but my memory is a little fuzzy on that detail. She coded for the third and last time. I got there just as they made a decision to stop compressions and call time of death. (And yeah, that part of it is very much like one sees on television.) It was the only thing they could do because they were just doing more damage, but she hadn’t been conscious since the first code. Had I ridden in the ambulance, I would have had a few more minutes. I don’t think they’d let me anyway, but I knew there was no way she was going home with me and drove to the hospital myself. That took so much longer because I couldn’t risk being stopped by the cops and further delayed. Damned if I did and damned if I didn’t. The death certificate says “cardiac arrest,” presumably doing as cursory an autopsy as possible since I didn’t want her body to go through that at all. In reality, she died of an aortic dissection. I know far too much about medicine for my own good. When the attending told me that, I called the attorney and told him to begin preparing the paperwork. He insisted on waiting, not that it would do any good. However, he’s one of these holier than thou people who work my last nerve. I think that was the first time I wanted to yell at him, come to think of it. I called my uncle and his wife answered. I told her to haul ass to the hospital because Mom is dying. My uncle’s wife made it, but he didn’t.

[ETA: Remembering that night made the dam burst.]

I remember when my cousin died in Arizona died around the same time I ditched one of my dear friends because she wouldn’t pick up the phone and tell me her father died, no doubt because of her asshole racist husband who didn’t think I belonged and made it his mission in life to break us apart. I collapsed. I mean absolutely collapse in wails and screams on the floor on this very room, my bedroom, the same room in which my mother, for all intents and purposes, lost her life. I haven’t had the chance to grieve like that for my mother. It is costing me a lot in so many ways. It’s not that I don’t feel it. I do. I feel it probably more than many would think. I don’t know what the reason(s) is/are, but I strongly suspect it has something to do with the past, the present and the pressure to will myself to go on because, if I don’t, I’ll never stop crying.

Oh this is just great. I’ve just received a push news alert that means I’m going to have to find a way to insert myself into the Obama campaign. FUCK!! The last thing I need is to work right now. However, I’ve got to get my butt in gear before it’s too late. I haven’t watched much television since my mother died. That was months ago. I’ve only paid a scant amount of attention to politics because I knew who the Republican nominee would be. I’m far more interested in the senatorial campaign. *sigh* Yeah, I’ve got to make some decisions and start putting them into motion early Monday or Tuesday. It was inevitable, but I’d really hoped to be farther along in my healing before all this hit me in the face. There are too many ways to screw up.

Colder Weather by Zac Brown Band is just ending. I’m looking for the person that song brings to mind and hope like hell I still know someone who knows someone who knows where he is and what the hell is last name is. I’ve tried to remember for weeks. I got home today and an old black & white photo of him working on a gel light for one of the gym shows at my alma mater popped into my head. I wonder if the kids running the organization know anything about its history and, most of all, where that photo might be. It might give me his last name. My life is just too damn complicated. I was going to write about him but thought I’d better wait until I hear something definitive. Honestly, I’m hoping he’s still alive. Please, God, let him be alive. I don’t think my head can take any more deaths of people I’ve loved even a little. And yes, it is quite possible to not remember a lover’s last name if it’s been as long as it’s been and I had to leave while he was out of town. Don’t judge!

Between all of this and trying to figure out which part of my brain is trying to reinvent history, I’m a barrel of laughs these days. I want to go back before conception and start again. I’ll get there one day. I’ll get there.

God, PLEASE Let This Day End

I’m sitting at my living room table typing this post on my laptop. That has never happened before. In fact, there are very few computer-related things that take place downstairs even though I’ve got a 700 MHz eMac here that I somehow made run Leopard with a software patch and a bit o’ tinkering. If I only had myself to worry about, I’d still be in bed, probably in tears, feeling empty and wishing I’d followed my gut and bought another fifth of Jim Beam. Empty because this is the first major holiday without my mother and I feel empty except the enormous well of pain and loss that could easily drown me. Hence, the Jim Beam. There’s a somewhat amusing story that goes with the JB that I’ll indulge myself by telling.

The very first time I got rip-roaring drunk was when I was 17-years-old and everyone on my floor at Oberlin was going home for the summer. Oberlin was and is a dry town, but getting liquor wasn’t hard as much as it was inconvenient. That was also the last time I got rip-roaring drunk and whiskey, specifically bourbon, were largely the reason. I have to laugh as I think about it now because my mother came to collect me and I vaguely remember her shaking her head and cutting me a whole lot of slack. I don’t think either of us ever mentioned it. That’s not to say that I haven’t felt impaired in some fashion by alcohol, but I rarely drink, (even though all three of my dogs are lushes). I take too many drugs that would not mix well with alcohol of any kind were I to imbibe. That’s why it’s taken me over a month to go through the fifth of JB Red Stag I’m just finishing. I wouldn’t even know about that had the guy from whom I bought my guitar and I not gotten into a conversation one day about hot toddies because he was sick and didn’t have anyone to take care of him. There is some mixture of maternal and sexual instinct going on inside me where he’s concerned that I am damn sure ain’t right, but I’m equally sure would feel oh so good if I could just get myself and my life together. Because I can’t, I’ve stopped going to the store and hanging out. It’s too hard. And so, we come back to the raîson d’etre of this post.

So much has happened since I last wrote I don’t even know where to begin. There is a very large part of me that has absolutely no idea how to cope. I can list the things that need to be done, but that doesn’t mean I can do them. On top of that, I was using my mother’s lawyer, a cousin-in-law who either bought or inherited one of my great-uncles’ law firms. That bastard got pissed off at me because I dared to call him on a Saturday at 6 p.m. because I got a call from an antiques dealer who was coming by the next day, a Sunday, and I needed to know what I could and could not do legally. It was on from there. I should have cursed his ass out then and there, but I didn’t. In fact, I basically hung up on him when he started whining like a little human bitch about interrupting his freaking Saturday. I wish I’d had the presence of mind to tell him that when the probate judge asks me why I did such and such, I’d tell her that my lawyer didn’t want to work on Saturday. Instead, we got into a shouting match that Monday and I had him send me the paperwork to open my mother’s estate. This is now the third time I’ve had to run behind him cleaning up his messes. [ETA: Actually, the fourth time because his paperwork was supposed to conform to my mother’s will and it didn’t. I cleaned up what would have been a big and very ugly mess that would have created a rift I don’t know would heal at all among her brothers. In addition, the probate clerk caught another error that I didn’t.] I’ve made more appearances before judges on family matters than he has and I’m not licensed to practice law. What does that say about him? Yet, this is the man my mother trusted with her will and there was nothing I could do to shake her into making a proper trust for our circumstances. She’d always say that we’d do it after whateverthefuckwasgoingon was over. It never happened and I’m supposed to take this manure and turn it into a watermelon patch.

I didn’t realize it, but I’d gotten to a place where I just couldn’t function. That was in large part due to one of my mother’s creditors. As far as I am concerned, most of them can go pound salt. However, technically, the minivan that allows me to be mobile and have a life is in my mother’s name for a number of reasons, most having to do with an unsteady stream of income. At any rate, the lender’s probate department was relentless. I could count on at least two calls a day even though I couldn’t tell them any more than I had the previous day. I’m going to run into trouble with them again and it will be my own fault, but I’m jumping ahead of myself. I could see my life slowly ebbing away thanks to them. It wasn’t as though I had nothing to sell that would get them off my back for a minute, because I did, Mom’s truck. The problem was that it would cost me more money to get it repaired than it would to sell it outright. However, selling it outright wouldn’t even come close to what it was really worth, but it would take care of the money the lender informed me she was in arrears. I think that’s when something inside of me broke. Everyone has certain buttons that if pushed will cause all sorts of generally negative reactions. I knew two of mine already. I learned a third.

The one time I broke and didn’t attempt suicide, the local shrink police had me committed because someone in my family, and I’m beginning to figure out who, got scared. It didn’t help that I publicly upbraided the cousin-in-law for being a jerk and said that my uncle most assuredly did not allow him into his practice to ignore his family. That sure as hell went for ignoring my mother and me where both of my great-uncles were concerned. They raised her!

The thing about any psych floor is that the patients have to figure out what it is the doctors want and give it to them. It’s the same game with everything. I’ve been through this too many times, so I knew what to say and what not to say. It helped that my lawyer is my former Mistress and now friend. She said that she was actually glad someone from the family did it because she’s been quite worried. Yeah, well, so have I, but I couldn’t say it. My actual psychologist was on frakking jury duty! What idiot of a judge puts a practicing shrink on jury duty knowing that there are people depending on her? Had I known, I could have gotten her out of it, but I didn’t know until my last appointment with her. By then, it was too late to have someone intercede on her behalf. But when I find out what judge this was, I’ll make a contribution to his/her opponent along with a note. In the meantime, there was no one I could turn to. I was more or less alone. I say “more or less” because I had my mother’s youngest brother, the only two cousins I have in my age range and my great aunt. I couldn’t and wouldn’t trouble my aunt because she’s got health issues of her own and I didn’t really want to lean on anyone. My mother’s brother has what is both a passive attitude and a vengeful one. He’s sure God will take care of those who don’t make amends for the dirt they’ve done. Me? I’m more active. You fuck me and I’ll fuck you harder. That’s the phrase that kinda had the ex a bit worried. She hadn’t seen the side of me that’s basically Rahm Emmanuel in a darker color and a sex change. It wasn’t necessary when she knew me. It became necessary over time.

To close this out, Lady A is singing Dancin’ Away With My Heart and I’m thinking of someone I shouldn’t. (For the uninitiated, that would be Glenn D. T-something-or-another. *smirk*) Something occurred to me today for reasons I honestly don’t understand. I would have made that person I shouldn’t be thinking of an excellent wife. I hope he got what he wanted when he chose someone else.

Another thing occurred to me as I reach the end of this entry that has nothing to do with the above. I’ll always have a weakness for red-headed rockers/roadies, beards, badboys, and; women who love fast cars–both of which make me drool–like the cutie one who picked me up yesterday to take me to Goodyear to get my minivan which, if I didn’t say so, I did save, but only for a little while. If that chica weren’t engaged, we’d both have gotten ourselves into some well-deserved trouble. I even let her get lost so we’d have a few extra minutes. She may not have been from the area, but no one is that directionally challenged. *laugh*

It just occurred to me that there’s another reason I want this day to be over. If I plan to survive, and I’ve never had a really strong survival instinct, I absolutely must put the insurance paperwork in the mail that I’ve carried with me for months. No one seems to understand that by doing so, I’m admitting that the person closest to me in the world, who was also a stranger in other ways, really isn’t coming back no matter how many dreams I have or call out for her. She’s gone. She stupidly trusted me to survive. If it were just me, I wouldn’t care if I ever drew another breath. However, I have three furbabies who depend on me and I will not allow “the system” to have them. They are the only reason I didn’t take my life a few weeks ago. I found a way to do it almost perfectly, but I refused to take them with me and I could only find a destination for two of them. I don’t think God would forgive me for making the third come with me and, frankly, I don’t think I could have forgiven myself in whatever afterlife there may be. We’ve been together 12 years. With some luck, there’s no reason she can’t stay another two or three years. Little dogs tend to live longer and she’s small. She’s the one who sees my soul, although I think the youngest is here for a reason, too, and it frightens me. I think she’s here to develop the same empathy that the eldest has. I see it happening more and more as she’s gotten older in the nearly one year we’ve had her. Thank you doG for sending someone to watch over me and giving me a reason to be here.

A Family Disappointment

There is a pall on this day. Almost a week ago, give or take about six hours, I was rushed to the hospital via EMS because I had all the signs women get when we’re having a heart attack. My sternum hurt; the right side of my face went numb while my left arm tingled and hurt; my back ached, and; most alarming for me, the hearing in my left ear was completely gone, replaced by tinnitus while I “only” lost about 50% of the hearing in my right ear. I attributed all of this to stress, even if a heart attack were indeed the result. I’ve been stressed and distressed for months now. The latest because I tried to be a good friend and mentor to a younger cousin and her lazy ass boyfriend who believed the world would be a fab place if everyone blew off doctors and smoked dope all day. This same joker, Chad, stole quite a bit of my recently deceased mother’s costume jewelry collection with pieces far older than I am today; broke her sorority pen when he never should have had it in the first place; stole a small point-and-shoot camera that was only good enough to catch pics and video in a breaking news story, and; stole a very expensive digital recorder with a microphone that fit into my ear so that whatever I heard in that ear went into the recorder. It is that last item that puts a huge crimp in my ability to work and the theft of jewelry that makes me want to cry. That bastard also tried to get my smallest and youngest dog killed by encouraging her into the street–a boulevard where cars regularly surpass the 35 MPH speed limit–because he was mad at me for throwing his ass out of my house. If my now-estranged cousin, Marguerite, hadn’t protected him with her body, and if she wasn’t bigger than I was, I would have stabbed him with any sharp object I could get my hands on and never regret it other than the fact that my girls would be without me.* So fuck you, Marguerite, for caring more about how well your pussy is licked and not giving a crap that your sick motherfuckin’ boyfriend tried to kill a defenseless animal! You are about the third most disappointing relative I’ve ever had the misfortune of trusting.

When Chad tried to get Snippet killed, I called the police. I have no idea what lie they told, but I really don’t care as long as they are gone and remain so. Then, I discovered the thefts. I texted Marguerite and asked where the items were. She lied and said that I was, paraphrasing, “imagining things.” Yeah, right. That’s what I do all day, child. I sit and imagine things and then write them up as news stories. Puleeze! Oh, did I mention that the two nitwits tried to frame me as a dope dealer in the event that I did call the cops? Chica went through my mother’s bedroom, where they slept, and had to see the three Mary Jane plants that had sprouted. I went right behind her, but after she’d left, and that was the second thing my eyes caught. The first was a drawer that was out of place. I called the police and that’s where I have to end this horrible little chapter other than to say that I tried, even after that foolish little girl went along with the setup at the very least and, for all I know, might have orchestrated it. I took the frosting for the brownies and Rice Krispies to her last known address, her mother and stepfather’s apartment, but got no answer. That’s when I began soliciting legal opinions. I asked four attorneys what my liability might be. Let’s just say that I wasn’t concerned when I called the cops. One of the attorneys, after seeing the texts that arrogant butthole, Chad, sent, said that the attempt at extortion alone would probably be a major factor, and; that here, animal cruelty isn’t looked upon kindly even though I’m very sure I had the misfortune to draw the officer with the least concern for any animal that didn’t walk upright on two legs and communicate some form of English in the first encounter.

There is a pall on this day because it’s really hitting me how badly I screwed up. I never should have allowed that scum access to my house, even if Marguerite and her mother approved of him. He claimed that his mother and sister both threw him out and that his father was “iffy.” Knowing a little something about the fallibility of parental units, it wasn’t such a stretch to believe. The two stayed as guests because Chad didn’t have a job then and there, but was supposedly working on getting one. He had about a quarter of his food stamp money to contribute, but that might as well been Monopoly money given all that he ate and drank. I could never imagine anyone drinking an entire 12-can box of ginger ale in one morning until he did it. Things we ordered from a Chinese restaurant that delivered and I helped pay for were gone before I even had one helping. Yes, MJ can give a person mad cravings, but being stoned is a decision. Choosing to fix the after-effects of being stoned is a decision. Telling the person who was kind enough to allow you to stay in her house rent free until you found a job that she wasn’t “trying hard enough” with a disability that only maybe eight doctors in the entire world have actively treated, after every relative you’d previously asked had thrown you out, was a decision. Literally hiding behind your larger girlfriend was most definitely a decision, as was threatening me, making fun of me and trying to kill my dog were all decisions.

Chad supposedly has ADHD. Yeah, I can see that. However, these two forget that I’ve been in the world a lot longer than they have. This family breeds cops and lawyers like farmers breed cattle for slaughter. My mother was a teacher just like her grandmother, great aunt and many of the women on this branch of the family tree. Learning disabilities are not new to me. ADHD is not an excuse for everything small, medium and large that happens even if he’s got Marguerite believing it is. The disability, once diagnosed, must be addressed, yes, but not like this.

As I said, Marguerite was more interested in how well he performed sexually, forgetting or outweighing all the times he’s made her cry (believe me, it was a lot),and that he/they were stealing from a dead blood aunt who ALWAYS cared about her and her education. She didn’t care. Chad could throw tantrums and she’d do whatever he wanted. In this case, not only did he set me up, but he set Marguerite up as well. Everything he texted was from HER phone and not his. His is sitting on my mantle along with some other things just waiting.

Chad’s statement that: 1) He didn’t think he should have to find a job, and; 2) that I wasn’t trying hard enough, made me see red. That is especially true of the second statement. I was so angry at his arrogant, ignorant, generally assholish comments that I stripped down to my skin, including taking off my prosthesis, and screamed at him while asking if that is good enough and that he knows nothing. Damn! I wish I could have caused him severe injury without leaving my girls to fend for themselves.* His tongue would have been about the only thing that worked, so Ms. Marguerite would have still been happy.

I feel as though I’ve disappointed my mother and so many other women who came before me by allowing myself to get duped by Chad, who is quite charming, articulate and definitely an angry young man. I just couldn’t stand the thought of the child I believed I knew and that I would have been proud to have as my own daughter, out on the street with this 20-year-old kid who’d had a rough life because of his learning disorder where god knows what could have happened to them. She was devoted to him and I took them in mostly so that she wouldn’t be put in danger. To steal from me and my just barely-dead mother was an abomination–a blasphemy that I will never forgive. I will send her mother a copy of this post and tell her exactly what her daughter and her boyfriend did. Then, unless the police get a warrant or I can get a photo of the one-off piece of jewelry I purchased for my mother from its designer and take that to the cops, I’m done. IF she goes to college, and IF she manages to graduate, then I’ll re-think my position. However, those “ifs” are very, very large. I wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up pregnant first. As I said before, Marguerite is an enormous disappointment.

ETA the following:

* After many days to think, I concluded that Marguerite did me a favor. Had I stabbed Chad for trying to murder my youngest furbaby–because, let’s face it, that’s what he was trying to do whether statutes, prosecutors and case law call it “murder” or not–all of my girls would have been without me. That’s unacceptable under any circumstance.

My, Oh My, Oh My!

As I sit here in the silent dark with no music playing and the light from my television that isn’t broadcasting anything but an annoyingly blue screen, all I can say is, “This was the scariest, most emotionally gut-wrenching day I’ve had since I don’t even know when.” Yes, I’ve had scary days, and; yes, I’ve had gut-wrenching days. Having both at the same time has worn me the fuck OUT. It’s not the “good” kind of worn out where you can’t walk straight without looking a bit off and hoarse from all those vocalized “prayers.” This is the really bad kind of worn out where someone or someones you love is in imminent danger of death, is finally retrieved, but only after absolute panic and lots and lots of prayers to God. Now, take that and multiply by two and you’ll have the first reason I’m worn out.

I had to start up iTunes and take a swig of bourbon and Coke to tell this story. Mind you, if you’d told me a month ago that I’d be drinking bourbon, I would have laughed at you. However, this seems to be a time of dramatic change in my life. Why not change my drinking habits, too? So the Absolut is sitting in a bottle as I’ve almost gone through a sampler pack of Jim Beam. Whatever the drink and the music (Gipsy Kings), it is entirely possible this post will be floating in a sea of swearing. Sensitive eyes should leave while they have a chance. I’ll wait.

. . . 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . . Long enough. Here’s what happened.

By now, anyone who’s been reading for a while knows that my mother died recently. She and I shared a home–when she wasn’t trying to throw me out because I’d rather not talk to her when I’m furious for fear I’ll tell the truth that should not be told to someone who you’re not really sure is all there, or; when she’s just generally pissed off and accused me of disrespecting her for any of a zillion reasons I can’t even think about now. Don’t get me wrong, I truly deeply loved my mother, but I don’t kiss anyone’s ass, including hers. It’s just not who I am. I’d rather say nothing than something that’s going to lead to God-only-knows-what. Mom didn’t work that way, although she should have gotten a clue or dozen even before I was born because, although I didn’t know it, my father did the same thing, I’m sure to keep from wringing her neck. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the bastard that was her second husband/predatory pedophile did the same thing. This will become important toward the end. I just had to get it out now.

Due to my mother’s death, I have been left to try to keep the house running without the electricity, water, cable, Internet, phone lines, etc. being shut off. I have purchased exactly one indulgence: the aforementioned Absolut and the Jim Beam sampler. I guess that’s two, but right now, $5 for the sampler is chicken feed compared to what I need. I suggested that my cousin’s boyfriend, Chad, move in. I’ve got the room and he was in real need. Besides, I knew my cousin, nicknamed “Mickey,” the child I wish I’d had, would more or less live here too. I honestly didn’t know how much I needed another person, especially a male person, in this house. It’s as though there’s life here now and it feels good to come in knowing that I’m not going to get thrown out and that there are people here who miss me when I’m gone. Chad cooks, which is beyond cool. Mickey kind of tries, but she’s messy as hell! I just about lost my mind the first time I saw the kitchen after she’d made brownies. Let’s just say that I left notes where they could not be missed. It was eventually worked out, but the more I learn about Chad, the more I know he and I needed not only each other, but Mickey, too. He has definitely been fucked over by his mother, a woman who should be rounded up and sterilized if she’s still in her childbearing years. His sister who, I am very sure, is reacting, and has reacted all her life, to being emotionally abused at least as much as Chad, isn’t much better. The situation became intolerable. I’d met him when Mickey brought him over a few weeks ago, therefore, I was comfortable with him. The girls love him to pieces. They can see he’s really a great kid in need of gentle encouragement and people who believe in him. I think he’s been here two weeks, (but it could be slightly less) and I consider him family. I am one very fierce C.A.B. when it comes to my family.

I lost my iPhone and am in a quiet panic over that because it has more than enough info to ruin my life, including some song lyrics I haven’t filed with the Copyright Office, passwords and all sorts of shit. Now, you’d think that I, being a reasonably intelligent woman, would have purchased AppleCare or some sort of package through either Apple or AT&T that would allow me to at least find out where the damn thing is. Uh uh. Nope. Trying to remember my movements when I went to bed quite happily and deservedly stoned off my gourd was fairly impossible after spending hours and hours on the phone with various creditors who haven’t been paid since Mom died because she was way under-insured and what there is is coming at a snail’s pace, not to mention I just haven’t had the time or emotional wherewithal to fill out forms. In addition, I’ve been so focused on the house I really did forget a few creditors or thought they’d been held at bay. Nope! The bank is threatening foreclosure although I told those sons-of-snakes that she’d died and that I really needed to see her accounts to find a policy I’m fairly sure she had that would help a little. I brought the documents I was told, only to have some damn bank manager say they weren’t the right documents all without once losing his smile or ever offering a word of condolence. I had to leave the bank because I was planning on punching his smiling face, which, of course, wouldn’t do anything except make me very happy. Be that as it may, it is clear that the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing at Key Bank National Association.

I forgot to mention that Chase Bank is trying to repossess the mini van that holds my electric wheelchair and a portable ramp giving me just enough of a grade to get said wheelchair in the back of the mini van. It won’t fit in a sedan or an SUV. Without a van, I am pretty much housebound with no life and often no way to even get to my doctors’ appointments, of which I have many. Yes, there is a paratransit service, but they need 24 hours’ notice, which is often impossible.

I have but one question: When am I allowed to stand still without the weight of my world on my shoulders long enough to just be a grieving daughter? No one gives a rat’s ass about that.

I spent Monday through Wednesday nearly non-stop on the phone. I actually lost my voice Wednesday trying to cajole someone–ANYONE–to give me a break. I made headway in a couple of places and went to see my shrink and FedEx Office (aka Kinko’s) with a briefcase filled with papers and notes on my iPhone about who needed what. Thankfully, I still had the damn phone at the time. Anyway, I stood and copied my little debit card out, trying to match each document with a recipient. Then, I got a call from another cousin checking on me. We’re all becoming a family of orphans and it’s breaking our hearts. This branch was always a bit snooty, but between one of my two great aunts’ death and my mom’s death two weeks later after being 86 years old a whole five days, we’re coming together like I’ve never seen. I called a truce between the smaller group I was fighting with and had been for years and let everyone know that I expected them to do the same or I’d call them out in public and kick some ass–verbally, of course. 🙂 The only miscreant is someone I mentioned in another post and is most assuredly a waste of my time and valuable air.

I remember having the phone when I got in the van after Kinko’s because I decided I wanted to hear one of my playlists instead of the country station I’d listened to on satellite. I remember driving out of the Kinko’s lot and going to McDonald’s because dinner wouldn’t be ready soon. That’s all I remember other than coming home. I didn’t realize that my phone was missing until I’d eaten my MickeyD’s and gone upstairs, shortly followed by my cousin with some really great dessert. As I noticed making less and less sense, I threw them out, closed my eyes and didn’t open them again until Friday morning. It was then that I got that, “OMFG!!!” feeling about my iPhone. I searched the bed linen, because I am forever losing that damn phone with a dark blue cover in my dark blue sheets. No joy. I tried to remember what I had on with only partial success. I remembered what pants I wore, but not what shirt, whether the shirt had a pocket and whether I was wearing a jacket, which I kind of doubt, but can’t say for sure. Panic was setting in big time, but I swallowed it and went into the garage, searched the floor, went to the van, searched the driver’s side because I couldn’t get over to the passenger’s side, but I know I’ve lost all sorts of things over there.

Acknowledged, but not watched in my search, the girls followed Chad and I into the garage. In the process of searching as much as I could of the passenger seat, some parts of my anatomy that are usually trussed up within an inch of their lives apparently landed on the garage door opener. Out went both Micki (the bitch) and Snippet. Berry walked out, but was not in any way interested in leaving her happy home, thank you God. In the meantime, I heard tires squealing, didn’t see either of the two reprobates and took a small sigh of relief. I closed the garage door and ran into the house to see if Micki had allowed herself to be caught, which, thankfully (Thank You, God!) she did.

A small diversion, but this is still fairly well amazing to me. I have tried to pick the adult-sized Micki up many times. She weighs between 50 and 55 lbs., especially since I’m giving her the amount of food she should have been getting all along and taking her treats into consideration as well. But when Chad picks her up and carries her with his arm around her chest and the rest of her facing front, she looks completely nonchalant. In truth, she looks like she likes it! I just shook my head, happy that at least one of the two hoodlums was safe and rolled out of my driveway in search of Snippet.

All of the streets south of mine on do weird curvy thingies. There isn’t a straight street that will reliably take you where you want to go if you don’t know the neighborhood. As it happens, as long as I’ve lived in here, I haven’t really explored more than a couple of side streets south of my house. I can go on the street directly behind mine, which is what I needed in my search, and pretty much tell where I am in reference to my own street. I called and called, but didn’t see Snippet. I wanted to cry so badly, but realized that wouldn’t help her since I had to accept she really was lost. She hasn’t lived here long enough to know much of anything about this street. I live on a main boulevard where it’s nothing to see cars going 45 or even 50 MPH. Hell, I have been known to put the peddle to the metal here. A young kid was about to walk in back of the van as I was pulling out of my driveway for the second time. I asked him if he’d seen a little white dog and he had. When he told me where, believe me, the pedal damn near went through the floorboard. I didn’t see her where I thought and I had to choose whether to go straight or turn right, left or make a U-turn. Something told me to make that U-turn and I am so glad I did! There she was, running back to my street after running, very lost, from one of the side streets just where the kid said she was. I would have missed her if not for pure luck.

I threw my car into PARK with the hazard lights on and got out of the car, across traffic that didn’t want to stop. I didn’t care. I had to get my baby. There was nothing more important at that moment, even my own life and health. I called to her without watching the traffic on her side of the street. She almost didn’t make it, but she came to me on the boulevard strip. I caught her by the collar, but she struggled and I was afraid she’d get away, so I pounced on her regardless of what that meant we landed in. (Boulevard strip, other dogs/owners, daily constitutionals, get it?) I held on to her tightly and closely. I couldn’t get up without at least one hand and they were both making sure she didn’t take off again. A lady passed in her car, saw that I was down and holding a small dog and asked if I was OK. In a rare bit of humility, I told her that I’d just found my lost dog, but I couldn’t get up while I was holding her. Two teens got out of her car and took Snippet so I could get up. The adrenaline was pumping so hard and my heart beating so fast and loud that I almost lost it as the girls carried Snippet to the car and I got all of the windows rolled up. Would you believe that I forgot how to roll my own windows up from the driver’s side? I’ve had the van since ’08!

I still don’t have my iPhone, though I had AT&T lock it in case anyone tries to use it. I need to find my phone, but there is no way in hell it’s worth a hangnail on any of my furbabies. It is only because of them, in various configurations, that I have life. Every time I think about truly ending my life, especially since I now know what will and won’t be enough to do the deed for real instead of ending up in the ER with Narcan in my stomach and then up to ICU, I think of my girls. At most, I have someone who’ll take Micki. There are several who’d take Snippet, but Berry would be left out in the cold. I can’t have that. She, alone, has kept me alive so many times I can’t count them. She’ll be 12 around Thanksgiving and she is most definitely someone for whom I give thanks. She always knows when I need her. Mom and I used to share her. Mind you, Berry could do whatever the hell she wanted whenever she wanted. However, if I expressed to her that I missed her the night before, she’d sleep with me that night and Mom the next night. She’d keep this up until she sensed that I didn’t mind if she slept with Mom for a while. Now, I have her full-time. Snippet is with Chad and Mickey tonight/this morning while Berry, Micki and I sleep in my bedroom.

I’m going to leave you with something of a musical discovery and recommendation. Jason Aldean’s CD My Kinda Party was released in late 2010, but I’m new to country and am, therefore, just discovering him. I’ve got a couple of tracks and will probably end up using Complete My Album on iTunes to get the rest. I particularly love Fly Over States and Dirt Road Anthem [remix] (featuring Ludacris). I’m certainly going to do so with Lady Antebellum’s Own The Night released September 2011. I’ve put Dancin’ Away With My Heart in heavy rotation on my now-lost iPhone.

And with that, I’m going to try to sleep. The sun is up and I haven’t even finish writing about everything that happened. Yes, there is more. It’s been one freaky damn Friday!

P.S.: I’m experimenting with adding the ability to comment.

Trippin’

There are days when life seems like someone’s dream. I understand Australian aboriginal societies view dreams as valid as anything they may experience while awake. That might explain why sleep is no respite. I’m angry with myself for having sex with a guy old enough to be my father, (not that that’s bothered me before, but I was younger then), and; for eating things I know are not good for me, although I have honestly tried to get better. I went from not eating for days until I felt so faint I could no longer walk to eating all of the things I know have a zillion calories and feeling like a pig who’s as big as a house. I keep asking myself and God, “When will this end?!” I can accept hurting myself by cutting or something, but I can’t accept myself if I eat, especially when I already feel horrible about my weight. There are days when I want to hide. In fact, for over a year, that’s exactly what I did. I hid. I’d only leave the house for doctors’ appointments. Even then, I hid myself under baggy clothing because I wanted so badly to be invisible.

Looking at the above as a complete outsider, I’d say that this chick needs some help. Yep, she does. She’s a hot mess. My therapist can only see me a couple of times a month because she doesn’t work full time. I don’t want to break in a new therapist, so I’m sticking with this one. Besides, she’s really good. I asked her if she treated people with eating disorders as we were walking to the door. She said that she didn’t treat eating disorders specifically, but has run into them in the course of treating other disorders. It’s essentially the same thing she said about another pathology with which I have to deal more and more often.

People don’t understand that cutting is not about attempting suicide at all. It’s the exact opposite. By cutting, the person can release some of the anger, pressure, stress that’s going on inside so that they can function. Another reason is that cutting or, in my case, burning, is the only way to express the intense pain felt. I burned myself nearly to the bone about a decade ago because I was dying inside. I wanted to scream, hit (inanimate) things and curl up in a tiny little ball forever. I desperately wanted someone to understand what I was going through and, at the same time, knew they wouldn’t. I just wanted someone to look my way and realize that I was at the end of my rope and needed help. No amount of cutting/burning would release enough pain to allow me to function, but I did want to function. The only reason I’d want to die was because no one would understand how hurt and devastated I was. It was Glenn who pushed me to the point where I wanted to die. That is, he and his buddies who decided it would be funny to hear some stupid, foolish, idiotic chick 500 miles away who’d had a 17-year relationship with him until he disappeared for two years, leaving said chick to discover she liked women a hell of a lot more than men, including Glenn, tell that rat bastard how much she loved him still, wanted to get back together and have him pretend it was within the realm of possibility. I think of what he did to me and I am still humiliated even though I shouldn’t be. If he had a conscience, Glenn would be the one who feels shame and humiliation. However, it seems he doesn’t and never will.

I’ve been told that I have to move past this–that Glenn’s threats against my life weren’t credible because he lives 500 miles away. They don’t know him like I know him. Five hundred miles is nothing for him. He used to drive that regularly to see me. He loves to drive. And if he chooses, he certainly has the means to hire someone to carry out his threats. Barring some monumental law enforcement fuck up, he’ll be the first person the authorities will look at. Since he would have had to cross state lines either to conspire or to have someone carry out the plot, it then becomes a federal crime. My lawyer thinks I’m diverting all my attention to him when I’m really grieving my mother. Hello! Ever heard of multitasking? Glenn can and will wait for years until his victim is most vulnerable and then strike. He’s already done it to me once. I’ve seen him do it to other people before as well. I only saw a glimpse of his dark side. It’s a place from which no light escapes, like a black hole in the center of his soul. With me, his chosen weapon was always the great mindfuck. I cannot begin to describe how much he hurt me until he finally decided he wouldn’t anymore and we became lovers, although he’s the one who had control. I guess he figured that there was something inside that was worth dealing with and needed a second, third and fourth look. What was going on is that I took a lot of body blows to my emotions and continued to love him, for better or worse.

Do I go to bed worried that I won’t wake up? No. Do I go to bed worried that my furbabies won’t have anyone to care for them if something happens to me? Damn straight I do! If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t care who did what to me to end my life. I’m tired of living it myself. I want peace in death and a chance to come back one day in different circumstances. Then again, I wouldn’t get a chance to choose my life. That would be up to The Powers That Be. They could decide that I’m unworthy and put me in even more untenable circumstances always ending the same way. Eventually, I won’t want to come back. I’m almost to that point now. As I said, I’m tired.