A Streetcar Named...

I ended it with T. I kicked to the curb the excuse that I wanted to end our relationship or whatever-the-fuck it was in person because I was better than that.

I told him he broke my heart. “Explain,” he said.

It’s really over now. The man who caused so much blinding happiness for a short shooting star’s time and the man who caused so much sorrow. I cut the balloon string and I’m floating away. No—that’s how I felt when I first admitted he as an alcoholic and he went to rehab. I felt like an untethered children’s balloon. I cut the last of the tentacles holding me back from starting my new life.

Act II

He didn’t seem sorry. “I figured,” he said. How? How can you go from love to indifference that quickly? I wanted him to FUCKING CARE. Maybe he never loved me—maybe the man who loved me drowned in my sister’s whiskey bottle.

Can you love someone and simultaneously threaten to kill her: kill and/or hurt her cat; smash her teeth in; go for the jugular, using the soft-spots as targets: and call her every name including a CUNT? Can you love someone and treat her that way?

There was so much that I wanted to say to him—hurtful things. But I didn’t.

Love is having the ability to hurt someone and choosing not to. Love is knowing the worst thing about someone and it being okay.

“Deliberate cruelty is not forgivable.” Tennessee Williams. Blanche DuBois. Streetcar Named Desire.

When I met T. I got on my own streetcar—a streetcar that I thought would take me away from the frightening, incomprehensible world I knew. That streetcar would take me to a safe, warm, loving place. I believed the lies. I had to. I wanted to. He was the only reason I didn’t try to kill myself again after my first OD.

But let’s be totally fucking honest—yes, my OD was inevitable. But, I OD’ed THAT night because of him. I took 150 pills chased by a beer because he scared the shit out of me. He thought I was cheating on him (three weeks in—I wasn’t). He brought out a shotgun. I didn’t know it wasn’t loaded. He ordered me to stand in front of him and yelled at just like my ex-husband had.

I was too tired to get off the streetcar and drive home, so I jumped.

“I can’t do crazy again.” My inner voice was so clear and calm. “Just take the pills.”

He was so kind and loving—he was there at the hospital and the nut-house. Drunk but there.

I chose to take the pills and I feel like I would have OD’ed anyway. I had to. But that night was because of his actions and my PTSD. Am I passing the buck? I don’t give a fuck. (Rhyme unintended)

I rode that streetcar until it crashed head-on into an ICU and shitty rehab. He admitted, no big deal, he drank as soon as he left rehab. Probably the day I picked him up and told him the deal breaker: any more drinking or verbal abuse and I’m gone. “Yeah, well, stuff gets said,” he told me tonight.  I don’t know. I have never threatened to kill anyone or smash their fucking teeth in.

Being out of rehab was so overwhelming; he had to drink.

I survived the streetcar crash and unlike Blanche I did not retreat into a delusional world—although that might be nicer. Maybe all of this is a nut-house delusion and I’ll come out of it, to Beverly Hills shrinks saying that I had a psychotic break, but that I am better now. My movie-star husband is waiting for me and the girls on Rodeo miss me a lot. No, unlike Blanche I don’t have to rely on the kindness of strangers. I am banged up more than a little, but I survived the streetcar crash.

After my OD I KNEW—I told my shrinks and therapists that I would kill myself if he left me. He was the only reason I was living that December. I knew it wasn’t psychologically healthy. But whatever kept me “above ground” I guess.

While I was ending it with T. today and after, I didn’t once consider the Nuclear Option. You can’t opt for the Nuclear Option in the Holy City, Illinois.

And my aunt and G-Pa love me. My parents and sister love me. I am blessed.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel.

PS-I will be working three days straight this week, so I may not blog for a bit. I am still getting used to working again. I should be—should, not am—proud of myself. I am on SSD. I could choose to not work and just give in. But I am going to keep walking in my Nancy Sinatra cowboy boots. I am giving up streetcars for a while.

PPS: Thank you God for allowing my Kindle to work just one more day!

With Saint Michael in my Bra

I can’t. I cannot do it. I cannot go to work tomorrow. I have a real--a palpable sense of fear. Again it doesn’t matter if the thing of which I am afraid is real or not, my fear is real.

Imagine that. Living with constant fear. Not necessarily just a specific fear: I fear that I will not be to understand how to make change without a calculator. You feel those specific fears, but you also always have a generalized feeling of dread. Like it a dark, itchy wool blanket is floating above you and at any moment, it may fall and smother you. It would be much safer to just stay in the house. Imagine truly fearing to leave your home—have to pray and steel yourself for, what is in your head, battle.

I am not the only one who feels that way. If I were then there wouldn’t be nut-houses.

But I’m fighting it. The darkness. With Saint Michael. I will go to work anyway tomorrow even though I fear and dread. I guess I could just choose to give into the depression and anxiety and just stay in bed. But, I won’t. Now if you asked me to go teach a class tomorrow, I would problem grab the first straight razor, but it’s just a salesgirl job. I can do this. (My legs are starting the shake, which is a symptom of an on-coming episode.  I could take a milligram of Xanax…

People who deal with clinical depression on a daily basis fight a battle every day. The Nuclear Option comes in when the battles get to be too much and too many without any victories. The itchy, wool blanket just falls and you choke.

What broke me? I have felt like this for years, but it’s only been in the last four years that the ability to function has been impaired. The defeats were just too much for me and I retreated. What broke me?

I see ground zero as March 27, 2012. The day my grandmother left this world in a sum total of 30 seconds. That’s when my world blew apart.

Was that ultimately a good or bad thing? Both?

Please let there be a God, a Christ, a Holy Mother, Saints, and a plan. Please.

I will opt for a cigarette over the Xanax right now. I may take that to sleep later.

Tomorrow: I will put my Saint Michael prayer card in my bra with my rosary, Saint Therese medal, and Guardian Angel token and go to battle. Having big boobs does have advantages. You’d be surprised what I can fit in there. That's in addition to all the medals and such I wear outside my clothes. 

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless.

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel.

PS: Donald Trump is being accused of treason? On the night of the first female, yada, yada, yada—who is getting the press? The Donald. He ain’t dumb. How about when Hillary left the American soldiers and ambassador to die in Benghazi? That’s not treason?

UPDATE: The Xanax won.

Life Ain't Like Florida

Dear Hearts, Depression works like the waves at the Jersey Shore. T. took me to Florida and I never knew the ocean could be so clear, blue, and calm. (He was drunk then too.) There is a metaphor there somewhere...Growing up going to the Jersey shore I learned that some waves you can let carry you and some waves smack you down into the under-tow. Some you can take on just by strength and knowing the right moment to swim into the wave. But there is always a moment when you just aren’t sure…

Last night, I felt like perhaps the puzzle pieces were coming together. Here. For me. In Illinois. For a clinically depressed person, the threat of happiness is terrifying. That feeling can come and go so quickly that it can’t be trusted and afterward you feel worse than you did before. Just stay at the baseline of depression. Happiness? Noooo. Too risky.

I spent over an hour writing a blog post today but it sucked. Well, it needs editing.

Martha, my therapist, gave me homework. Every time I have a bad thought about myself, mark it down on a piece of paper. Like I’ll be walking and all the sudden the demons in my head are like, “You are a bad person.” Where did that come from? I’m just walking to the bathroom. 

NO, I do NOT hear voices.

Everybody has that little voice in his head. I have always had a fucking committee. And I have come to realize they are a committee of demons. It is the fight for Heaven up in there. St. Michael versus Lucifer, baby. (Theologically, as Martha found out today, I have a whole theory and lots of questions about Lucifer, but I digress.) Lucifer is the Father of Lies. Wow. Asshole (my ex-husband) and T. must really know Lucifer well. No wonder T. won’t go to confession.

See, right there. I am a bad person for judging them. Pope Francis wouldn’t judge them. But I ain’t the pope.

The biggest difference between Asshole and T. is that surprisingly Asshole never talked to me the way T. did. Ever. But T. was sorry. T. would cry. Until the next time. So that’s not abusive, right? If the person is in a diabetic episode and is really sorry? Perhaps. But T. was in a drunken black-out and just didn’t fucking remember. He was saying what I wanted to hear.

T. doesn’t know I’m done with him. I have this whole excuse that I want to do it in person. T. hasn’t called or texted me saying that he is sorry and he fucked up and I’m the best thing that ever happened to him and he begs my forgiveness and he can’t live without me. If T. is done with me, he’s not saying. But T. is supposed to be pining for me. He is supposed to be a drunken mess without me. Not Christian. Do know how many times I picked him up off the floor?  BUT HE BROKE MY HEART. I digress.

So Martha wants me to mark down every time I have a bad thought. Um, not gonna do it. I would be marking every five minutes literally.

Guilt. Fear. Shame. Regret. Sadness.

That’s how depression works. It just comes over you like a funeral pall. You just hafta hope that it will lift a little and you can peek outside of coffin. It’s when you can’t peek outside the coffin at all that things get bad.

Please, Saint Michael. Fight those mother-fuckers.

And I am still terrified to go to work again on Friday and Saturday. I just keep thinking of ways I can fail…

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel.

PS: This nothing to do with my post particularly. But I understand American History was made last night when Hillary became the first female major party nominee. Um, this is not news. What was she going to do? Say, oh, I changed my mind? Am I supposed to feel surprised? Do I feel more empowered as a woman? No. I think it is tragic and speaks to the very core problems of our culture and society that such a woman is the first female major party nominee. And I will take that special place in Hell that Madeline Albright promised me, as a woman, if I don’t vote for Hillary. Hail Margaret Thatcher and Condoleezza Rice.

The Day After

I survived.

I worked from 10 until 5.30 with a rushed half-hour lunch. I was on my feet all day except for the lunch and using the bathroom. I made mistakes. I was too friendly with the customers; I didn’t work fast enough; I wrote the stock info on the wrong side of the box; I can’t count back change off the top of my head without a calculator; when I was desperately searching for a stool on which to sit (Boss Lady thought I was going to the bathroom) I was reminded to tell her and the staff that I’m leaving the floor (there are only three of us); I was chided to be more careful with fragile stock; I wasted time because I didn’t know what to do next and Boss Lady was busy; I can not remember more than 25 percent of what I was told.

I realize, now, as I type that I have focused on the mistakes I made, not the things I did right. But, it’s only the mistakes that count, right?

I didn’t break anything; I proved efficient at unwrapping and re-wrapping new stock; I can “re-pop” the suction cup decorations…um I didn’t blatantly piss anybody off I don’t think.

In full disclosure: the day began with coffee, a cigarette and a milligram of Xanax. When I’m not working I rarely smoke before the afternoon or evening and do not take a milligram of my rescue Xanax on top of my Klonopin. I also said more than a few prayers.

Aunt, Daddy and Mom said it was a victory. But isn’t that like saying about a father: “He’s a great guy. We are so proud of him. He takes care of his child and goes to work.” That’s what a dad is supposed to do. I unpacked and packed china and ornamentals all day. I used to teach. But after a day of teaching the production value was negligible anyway.  At least at Caroline’s I know that the stock is packed away in the back room. After a day of teaching, I didn’t know what was accomplished.

I am so fucking tired today. Like deep-seated fatigue tired. Wimp. Ooooh, I got up at seven-ish and worked a full day. WOW. Me? Yeah, I have 14 years of teaching experience, journalism experience, a BA, MFA, and permanent teacher certification. So I did a real bang-up job yesterday.

(I did learn that Boss Lady is terrified of Swarovski Lady. Apparently, Swarovski Lady comes periodically to discuss new lines and such and if the display cases aren’t just so, Boss Lady gets in trouble. I had no idea that the Swarovski people were such tyrants!)

I don’t have a right to be this tired. I could like the job. I could do the job well. I could…

Yahoo CEO will get over two million dollars as a severance. That is mother-fucking, cock-sucking, moose cock-blowing, bull-shit, ri-fucking-diculous. That is what is wrong with America. If I had 250,000 dollars my life would change forever. I’d still have to work or collect disability or whatever—but my life would change. House, loans, car, credit card, health—covered. And people that teachers make too much? WTF?

As I was re-wrapping a freaky clip-on hummingbird ornament yesterday (the beak bends, the wings are flexible, but it’s like glass…weird), I thought about how I was making nine dollars an hour. I used to make over 50 dollars an hour. After you stay a couple of times in the nut-house and OD, your expectations for yourself drop. Saint Jude, I am grateful for the money—that is almost my health insurance for the month. For having a sex-tape on the internet and a reality show, Kim Kardashian makes 30 million a year. WTF?

And, I realize that my nine dollars an hour (THANK YOU SAINT JUDE) is a whole helluva lot more than a lot of people make and I HAVE A JOB. I recognized that. Choosing to order or not to order 2016 Birthday Wishes Barbie (all pink and poofy—I had to!) is what my flaming, bleeding-heart, don’t-exist-without-her, mother would call a first world problem. And it is. I know that I will never: be out on the street; not have enough to eat; lack health care; or love. For that I am eternally grateful the God, all the Saints, (Especially Saint Jude—we have a deal) and Mother Mary.

But the expectations and realities of my world—the world I lived in as a middle-class woman—have changed a lot because I’m crazy. Because I screwed up? Oh, and that nine dollars an hour becomes six dollars after taxes, just like that 50 dollars and hour became something like 27 dollars after taxes.

I didn’t want this post to be about me whining or complaining that I’m underpaid. I cannot express in words the gratitude I have for God, Mother Mary, Christ, and Saint Jude for my blessing.

I am just thinking out-loud--how my life got from where is was in 2012 to where it is in 2016. Actually, I think I like it better now. Huh.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel.

PS: Gotta take G-Pa for a ride in the country. More corn…yay! I may be skipping the senior citizen laden church supper at I-HOP tonight. Aunt is going with G-Pa. A woman can only do so much!

PPS: I suffer. You suffer. People are way worse off than we are; people are way better off than we are. That doesn’t negate our suffering.

PPPS: Some of the shit that people actually is down right ugly! Hideous. Yuck. And Society picks on Barbie. Yeah, right.

Sunday Reveries

Today is my last day before I go to a paid job for the first time since October 2014. Who me? I’m fine. Not worried at all about the germs, having and episode, pissing off the store bitch, failing my nice boss, getting up early at 6.30 (I used to get up at 4.30, but now I can get up around 10), touching all those things with germs, the germs on the money (did I mention the germs?), making the correct change, breaking something, my G-Pa being alone for the day, coming home in time to eat lunch, my colitis comes back; I'm miserable--more miserable than now.

I was a teacher and I hated it. I loved the teaching the kids part—jumping on the desk, using my Transylvanian accent, drawing the death of Grendel’s mom on the board, telling the kids funny anecdotes, talking about literature that breathed air into my body, and maybe making a difference. I hated the rest of it. I taught for 14 years and every single of one those years I faced with dread and fear.

Could I discipline the kids? What if: they don’t listen to me; they are chatty and I can’t make them shut-up; what if I piss off an important parent; I forget the fire drill folder during a fire drill; I tell a kid to go the bathroom rather than writing a pass; I GET SICK FROM ALL THEIR GERMS; I’m not good enough for my principal; the other teachers are so way better than I; I get fired; I couldn’t handle all the grading; I was a fraud or worse the kids realized I was a fraud; have to live with that kind of intestine twisting, physical stress that leaves me wanting to cry?

I viewed teaching as a punishment or a consequence for my lifestyle. If I want to buy Barbies and have a house, then I have to teach—a steady job with benefits. This is the punishment.

When Asshole and I bought the house he was not working. He was having a psychotic break and I would sit in the closet in what is now “The Barbie Fun Room” and cry. I did the dishes by hand because he wouldn’t install the dishwasher and I had to sneak real soap because he made me use that Bonner organic, no foam shit. He screamed, he yelled. I thanked him for letting me live there. In 05, he didn’t have a job. I did. In 06, 07, 08, 09, 10, he didn’t have a job. I did. He was focusing on his art. I was working full time and getting a master’s degree. I sent Barbie dolls to my parents’ house so I wouldn’t get in trouble. When I visited my grandparents I brought my purchases home in hidden suitcases so he wouldn’t yell at me. I digress.

What if he had been a better man and said, “Honey, you hate your job. I will get something to cover us until you can get a job that doesn’t make you physically and emotionally ill?”

Twenty-five to life with no chance of parole. That’s how I viewed teaching. 2039 was my retirement date. I can still feel it—if I let myself—the gut-wrenching, toe-curling, brain-blinding abject fear of going to school every day. The best thing in my life? Cigarettes, Barbies, and my computer—later my cat.  Hmmm. She deserves a name. Hope. Hope the cat. 

Asshole let me have Hope but he almost didn’t let me pay the grand to save her life. She was a very sick stray with whom I fell in love when I found her at my school. Last night when she laid her head in my open palm—fuck Asshole and T. All I need is her head in my open palm.

Where is this post heading? I was going to rant about ECT (Electro-Convulsive Therapy or good ol’ Electric Shock) because I saw an article in the Washington Post about how the FDA is endorsing it. I hope the endorsers all got a month of ECT before they made that decision.

It all goes back to never being good enough. I don’t feel good enough to do any worthwhile in life. Teaching, for me, was a high-pressure, 50-60 hour a week job with stress 90% of the time. When I’d go shopping, I would envy the salesgirls. Salespeople—Sales Associates—Lipstick on a pig, baby. Now I am going to be a salesgirl.

But I have been safe from the world since I stopped working. And my panic attacks make sure of that. I don’t want to go out there again, but I don’t want to live on disability for the rest of my life. AMBIVALENCE.

I’m scared. The world out there is scary. I thought that if you followed all the rules and did what you were supposed to do, certain things would happen. I was so fucking wrong.

In my mind, the world is a scary and antagonistic place. That’s why I believed T. for so long. Because he was going to take care of me. So was Asshole.

I really do think that God is making me take care of myself to teach me a lesson.

Saint Jude-help me. I cry out for you succor.

So tomorrow I am a salesgirl. I’d rather sit in the fetal position and not leave the house except to smoke. That’s how it all snowballed before. The not wanting to leave the house turned into my wanting to use the Nuclear Option.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary; Saint Brigid: Saint Jude: Saint Therese Lisieux; Archangel Michael; and my Guardian Angel.

PS: Another worry I remembered...what if I can't sleep tonight?? I could never sleep the night before the first day of school. What if I can't sleep??

The Undiscovered Country

The girl at the checkout counter in Walmart today had a jagged vertical scar on her left wrist.

There could be a lost of reasons for this scar.

The cut was done the right way. People think that if you’re going to slit your wrists, you make a horizontal cut across the vieny-wrist area. Not so--you want to go down a little further and make a vertical cut to really hit the artery. It’s more fool-proof and you’ll bleed out quicker.

My Nuclear Option plan in June of 2014 did not include wrist cutting. But, I knew the right way to do it. You’d be amazed what is on the internet. My plan was to be in my bed with a bowl of Vanilla Haagen-Dazs ice-cream; the Walking Dead playing on my laptop; my cat beside me; and American Spirit cigarettes to smoke as I drifted off into Mother Mary’s arms with the help of a lot of Xanax, Ambien, and Lithium. That was the plan. What I find so fucking ironic is that even in my Nuclear Option plan I was being rational—at the time my colitis was bad and I only allowed myself a small bowl of Vanilla Haagen-Dazs ice-cream once a week. Why not strawberry, my favorite, if I were going to die anyway? The cigarettes and my cat were the most important elements.

As I found out six months later--it’s pretty hard to keep all those pills down, because your body knows it’s being poisoned and reacts. If I hadn’t been with T. I would have probably asphyxiated. I’m still not sure how I feel about the end result. Next time I decided I would cut and I would succeed. And I would dress nicely and leave a note.

If you are at the point where you are ready to commit suicide—go against the very intrinsic nature of being human—you already feel like a failure. If you then fail at suicide—it’s like…fuck. I AM A FAILURE.

The girl in Walmart today had black hair, pale skin, empty blue eyes, and very little affect. I wonder what her story is?

What point to do you have to get to where the most viable option is taking cutting your own wrists? It’s different for everyone of us crazy people. Hopelessness. I think that is the nexus: nothing is going to change; there is no hope.

I cut myself once. Almost a year ago, T. and I were at a critical mass and I was here with G-Pa. The pain was so visceral and palpable—I didn’t know what to do with it. I know about cutting—the physical pain mitigates the emotional pain. I wasn’t planning on using the Nuclear Option when I cut myself in November. I just wanted to see if I could do it.

I took a serrated knife from the kitchen and made a cut about an inch long in the middle of my forearm. I had to work at it! Note to self: do not use a serrated, dull kitchen knife. Use a scalpel or a straight razor. I really had to saw to get some blood. I don’t remember if it made me feel better. I just wanted to see if I could do it. It was so rational to me. Like, can I run a five-minute mile?

I still have a small scar there—as I should, to remind myself. The Nuclear Option cannot be done on G-Pa’s couch or in G-Pa’s house.

T. yelled at me for doing it. Oh, yeah, he asked and I told him the truth because we never lied to each other. That was his rule: do not lie to me. Fucking hypocrite. He lied about everything. And at the time he was drinking Listerine and at least a twelve pack a night—so I think that’s way worse than an inch-long cut.

The Nuclear Option takes a helluva lot of courage. People say suicides are cowards. Not so, dear hearts. We are going to the “undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns.”

Today, I choose to live. We’ll see about tomorrow.

Blue-eyed girl--I hope something good happens to you today. You're not alone. I've been there.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless.