In My Head...

Dear hearts,

No capitalization or grammar right now. Except what word corrects on its own. I am having a pretty bad episode. A full blown panic attack—as in I just want to go to my house and curl u[p in a fetal position on the couch and not go out ever again. Just be alone until I go crazy and finally do myself in. wow that was in the subconscious.

What triggered it? thoughts of T. and Asshole. I was out at the graveyard visiting grandma and I thought about T. I miss him.

What the fuck? Why do you miss that motherfucker? he fucking abused you—told you, you were shit and a worthless. He threatened your cat? what the damned fuck is wrong with you?

And I want to call asshole. Just hear his voice

Excuse me?? you what? you want to talk to your ex husband? yeah, good fucking idea. Just end it now stupid bitch. I’m done with you.

I know. I know. Please don’t give up on me yet. Dr swede says I am made in the likeness and image of God and joel osteen says to not say ‘I am a loser’, because then you will lose.

I just….

I just…I just..you just what? what is your fucking excuse for living? you were gonna write some fucking intellectural blog about old people and young people and how we have the same capabilities and deserve respect? maybe if you weren’t such a loser. Yeah suck on your e cigarette. You’re gonna die a horrible death of cancer anyway so just fucking get it out of the way.

Saint Michael, Saint Gabriel, St. Raphael—is the feast of the arch angels today. Forgive me for not capitizling your names.

They aren’t gonna forgive you—you fucking immoral cunt.

No wait. I shoulda said archangel Michael, archangel Gabriel and archangel Raphael…

Oh that would make such a difference. You are 39 and on fucking disability and you are afraid of germs but you’re too fucking lazy to clean the mouse shit out of your underwear drawer until the mouse is dead? nope. You’re just fucking lazy.

But what if—what if---there is a chance for me and T? I felt it this spring when I was praying to saint Jude. It was gonna be all okay. He was supposed to be the last guy I ever slept with. And he promsed me he wouldn’t break his art. Diggs got clean for erin and they are totally in love.

Yeah, in a fucking ebook that wasn’t good enough to be published and you’re wasting your time reading.

And asshole—he was crazy but at least I knew the rules. I knew what to expect. With t. too. I knew what to expect. I loved t. I thinik it’s the dream---grieve the dream said Martha.

You better grieve the fucking dream, bitch. You spent money your didn’t have today on sheets and I don’t give a fuck in they were under 20 bucks. And then your spent 25 dollars on three books. Yeah, you got the one for free with the other and then you added a ten buck item to get free shipping cuz you were gonna spend 7 on shipping anyway. And yes—shut up—I know what you’re gonna say. You want to read about angels and the faqs of the catholic church. Take another klonopin. No take all the klonopin and Xanax you have bitch.

No. not on g pa’s couch. I can’t take the nuclear option here.

You are never gonna amount to jack. Truly. Stop being a burden to your parents and let him start to grieve you they aand your sister ccan get on with their lives instead of dealing with your shit. All the angels in the world ain’t gonna help you.

Get thee behind me satan.

Oh that’s fucking rich from a former witch and pagan. And adulterer and fornicator. Yo use tarot cards. You spend your nights coloring kate middleton pictures and watching true blood. Can you be more pathetic.

NO. GET BEHIND ME SATAN. MOTHER MARY AND GOD HAD THEIR CHANCE AND THEY DIDN’T WANT ME. THEY WANT ME HERE. AND I CAN’T TAKE THE NUCLEAR OPTION ON G PAS COUCH.

Don’t yell at me—I’ll fucking smash your teeth in you dumb cunt. Fucking skank whore. You think you’re making progress? well you ain’t. you are just delaying the inevitable. I am so over you and your pathetic whining bullshit. Go to hell—oh I forgot you’re already there and you can go to a worse hell when you commit a mortal sin and kill your damned self.

Archangel Michael who protects—archangel Gabriel who announces---archangel Raphael who guides—jed, my guardian angel—

Who the fuck names their guardian angel? you aren’t even supposed to. And then you share it. he’s gonna dump your ass like every other guy you looked to to save your dumb ass.

I thought you were done with me.

I am now. Bitch. Over and fucking out. Try to enjoy the rest of your fucking night loser. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahha

Oh archangels and jed—on this feast day help me. I don’t know how you exist or why---but please help me. Please. I beg of you. i beseech your succor. 

THAT’S JUST A SMALL SAMPLE OF WHAT’S IN MY HEAD. WONDER WHY I TAKE XANAX AND AM ON DISABILITY NOW?

Thank God for Xanax.  It’s kicking in. sedating things. A mili of Xanax and a half mili of klonopin can do the trick. 

That’s what came out of my head. The worst of it is over know. My angel (cat) lays beside me as she always has. I’m breathing normally again—not shallowly. I am just twitching, rather than shaking.

No proofreading. I am just gonna post this as is. I can’t be the only one. This suffering has to be for a greater good---to let me help others--SHUT UP DEMON. SHUT YOUR GODDAMNED MOUTH. I only smoked three cigarettes yesterday so maybe I get some extra today.

That’s what is in my head. Christ Save Me. Mother Mary…

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; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel.

This Is What I Know

Dear Hearts,

This what I know:

Old People—no, that’s no more offensive than Young People—are not cute. Puppies are cute. Kittens are cute. Hedgehogs are cute. Apparently, Shawn Mendes is cute. Those pictures of babies in flowers—like they are coming out of a tulip or a sunflower—are freaky, not cute. Old People are not cute. Once you hit 80, you are old. Sorry, them’s the facts.

We don’t treat Old People like they are children. We don’t “let” them do things. They are not ignorant or “funny.” They have lived whole lives that we cannot even begin to comprehend. G-Pa is 95. Ninety-fucking-five years old. He was born in 1921. There was no TV, internet, even radio hadn’t peaked. Polio was a real threat along and so were infections because there was not yet penicillin. They have grown up; gotten married; been widowed; been divorced; worked; got fired; had children; buried children; buried parents, friends, family; had dreams; fought in wars; and gained a helluva lot of experience along the way.

There was a four- or five-year-old in Starbucks and he was playing a game on his mom’s phone—maybe his phone. His mom was younger than I.

“When I grew up there were no cell phones. There were no games like that—we didn’t even have the internet. AND we only had 12 TV stations.”

“Whoa! We you born in the 1900s?”

Mom chuckles.

“I was. I was born a long, long time ago. 40 years ago!”

“Wow! That’s old!”

“When I was young dinosaurs roamed the Earth?”

“Really?”

“No. I’m kidding! There were no dinosaurs!”

Fucking Common Core.

I am 39—not old so I am told. To that boy, I was like ancient.

(On the positive side I haven’t had an episode in like three days—but I’m having one now.)

That boy will never get Chicken Pox or worry about catching AIDS from a water fountain. That boy will never know what life was like without a cell phone and the internet. That boy will never know what a cassette tape, CD, or VHS tape is. He certainly won’t know about Joe Camel or the Marlboro Man. He won’t know his country Pre-9/11. That boy will never learn to type on an electric typewriter or have a flip phone.

To that boy, I an Old Person. He knows innately so much more than I do and will probably be healthier. But I have a lot of experience on that kid. Cinderella is 15. She doesn’t know most of the stuff above either. But, I can be her friend.

I thought taking 150 pills chased by a beer was a good idea. I thought learning to smoke was a good idea. I thought marrying a controlling man, twenty years my senior was a good idea. G-Pa thinks working in the heat is a good idea. G-Pa thinks he should still mow the lawn with his push mower. G-Pa thinks pantyhose are good idea! G-Pa thinks driving 10 miles below the speed limit on the highway is a good idea. So we both have had ill-conceived thoughts.

When he looks in the mirror, he wonders who that Old Man is looking back? He still believes in the things he did in his 40s—don’t wear hats inside, dress up for church, eat canned fruit. He is not a cute Old Man in his mind.

Evelyn, whom I visited today, for three hours, can’t walk like she used to. She’s had a stroke and misses words sometimes—although I don’t notice it. She is ready to die, because she buried her son when he was 25 and her husband 11 years ago. (I get being ready to die—but I digress).  She is ready to die because she has lived a “good life.” Yet, she will enjoy what she can while she’s here. I suspect G-Pa feels the same way. In Evelyn’s mind, she isn’t Old—she’s the young woman who helped my grandmother when she was on bed rest during her second pregnancy.

Visiting Old People who are alone isn’t charity. Nobody should be alone. But, she’s lonely. I get that too. I am glad that my buying her a 64 Crayola-crayon box, a coloring book, a coffee, and coffee cake made her light up and almost tear up. That means my day wasn’t a waste. I wouldn’t have spent that money on myself on such a whim—but I don’t worry about spending money on others. It’ll come back to me. It’s a helluva lot more useful than in the collection plate.

We talked and I was open with her. She didn’t freak when I talked about ECT or my OD. Her sister had ECT---when ECT was much worse I’m sure. We talked about non-PC stuff. She was my grandma this afternoon. She assured me that my grandmother would not mind if I took down her decorative plates in the bedroom and put up my things. Things…the house…they are not a shrine to her. She is in our hearts. And, Evelyn firmly believes—more so as she’s turned into an Old Person—that God will give us the strength to get through what we need to and his ways are mysterious.

Who helped whom today? Evelyn made my day and I made hers. Visiting Old People is giving a gift to ourselves. Befriending the lonely, no matter the age, is Christ’s work.

Irony? We colored together!  

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; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel.

PS: Martha is very proud of me for telling T. exactly what was what. Thanks, Martha—your being proud of me was not lost on me. Martha also says I need to take back my “NO.” The bullies and abuse stole my NO. I can take it back. Oh, and also I am not responsible for others' emotions. And, I can still be a good granddaughter and not take G-Pa to his noisy, touchy, long, protestant church on Sunday. (9 a.m.--really?)

“No. I will not put up with that bullshit.”

PPS: Epilating? The best thing ever! It takes time, but it pulls those suckers right out by the roots. Legs, bikini area—all of it. Except under my arms—I can figure how to hold my skin taut and use the epilator at the same time. So much better than shaving! Yeah, it is a little prickly—but so worth it!

Resisting Happiness

Dear Hearts

Driving home from the Olive Hell Garden tonight, the sunset was awe-some. Pink and orange brushed over feathery clouds. I thought it was beautiful. Then I thought, there must be a God who did all this, because everyone finds a sunset beautiful. All human beings are programmed to find nature’s wonders grand. Yes, it’s all a matter of atmosphere, light, gasses, shadow, rotation, etc., but that’s not accidental. There is a God. And, I found a feather on the sidewalk when I was “walking” with mom on the phone. Thanks, St. Therese.

Now, to what I’m really feeling.

Hello. My name is Katherine Therese Kennedy and I am not good enough.

Hi, Kate.

I got up late and I didn’t so much of anything today. Some paperwork and such. No cleaning. No unpacking. G-Pa still doesn’t realize I’m here for good. I don’t know how to tell him.

I drove to the Olive Hell Garden where we were to meet The Christian Fellowship Circle—a group of really old people from G-Pa’s church who get together once a month and have dinner together. I have enjoyed these suppers, but not tonight. We were supposed to pick up E., who is 96 and a bit scattered after his last stroke, but when we got to his house he was nowhere in sight. So, that made us late for dinner. Not that there’s a start time officially, but G-Pa’s on-time is always ten minutes earlier than stated. We were the last ones there.

On the way, I almost sorta, but not really hit a deer as I was paying attention to merging onto the highway. The deer was a goodly distance from me. But I got yelped at for that. Then in the parking lot, I almost drove over the curb with his boat-car. G-Pa was pissed. Like really mad. Like really, really mad. Then he scolded me for wearing my GOP baseball hat inside the restaurant. We weren’t even inside yet! And I ALWAYS wear a hat. I never leave home without a hat. It is proper for women to keep hats on inside, but I always take mine off. I think maybe he was pissed that I was wearing jeans. It was the Olive Garden! I’ve told him again and again that although I agree that people should dress up for church—sandals and stockings do NOT GO TOGETHER IN ANY COUNTRY. Unless you’re like really old. I had a nice top on. I looked put-together. Except my bangs. They looked like the mouse that’s living in my underwear drawer nested in my bangs. And, I couldn’t put my hat back on.

Then G-Pa ordered an appetizer because I wasn’t paying attention and short of the long of it—his decaf late and he didn’t get his appetizer until everyone was done. They had done calamari instead and had to switch it. Then the appetizer was way too hot and spicy for him. Even though they gave it to him for free, he didn’t take it with him. Then the bill was a long time in coming. And there was no butter for his breadstick. And he was missing WWF for all this! He let everyone know he was pissed. Then I called E. to check on him—and he got confused about the time and wasn’t there when we were at his house. I think G-Pa thought that was my fault for not communicating well enough—even though Trumpeteer swore to G-Pa that she had talked to E. and he told her what I had told him exactly. Then an hour later he did the opposite. So I left a 96 confused man driving around The Holy City with no supper.

Then I fucked up driving on the way home because I was so nervous about fucking up driving on the way home.

I don’t think I’ve fucked up since I’ve gotten in the house though.

I want to go home. But, I am home. I want to feel safe. I want to burrow into the earth and not come out. It is so weird to wake up and not know which bed I am in or where.

The question—the real crux of it is this: Am I not feeling good enough because I just want to Resist Happiness (Matthew Kelly’s new book) or because I’m really not good enough? Is my perception just all skewed like when you have 3D glasses on outside, or do I just really suck? Would any place make me feel at home or safe?

Afterall "tomorrow is always another day" to fuck up.

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; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel.

I love you. Good-bye.

Dear Hearts

I was going to blog about “What is Morality” since my last post was all about that loaded word. Then I was going to blog about the debates, since they are apparently the most important event occurring anywhere in the world tonight. Then I was going to blog about how fucking scared I am that Aunt Faerie and Bugsy are gone for two weeks on vacation and it’s just me a G-Pa and what if I need back-up, like an adult? Then I was going to blog about how fucking scary it is to have moved out here for real. Then I was going to blog about the mouse that has taken up residence in my underwear drawer.

Rather I will blog about what weighs on my heart my heavily.

I ended it with T. last night. Yeah, yeah, I ended it the last day of July, but we have been quasi-texting since then. Aunt Faerie asked me yesterday: WHY? Why do I have a compulsion to talk to someone who was so abusive to me? Was I needing a man in my life? Did I want to still be with him? Why.

I couldn’t answer her.

Then I called T. last night. We were on the phone for two hours. He’d been kinda texting me this weekend wanting to talk and getting offended that I didn’t answer, so last night I finished my catch-up episode of Tyrant and called him on my terms. We talked about OES (Order of the Eastern Star), the Burning Bed, my bangs, my embryonic life out here, my epilator, his breathalyzer-car starter locking him out (a real serious legal issue), and politics.

I was sending him info on the breathalyzer and helping him find answers. I was helping him. Secretly, I was a little, or more than a little, glad that he’s “in trouble.” But talking to him about OES and politics—it was easy. I remembered why we liked being together. There were good times. Yes, he was drunk or at least under the influence all of those times, but there were good times. I think he did love me.

But, he lost the privilege to be in my life and I needed to tell him that. I needed to speak my truth. Oh God, that sounds so Oprah. I needed to be honest with him and say that we can’t be in each other’s lives anymore because it’s not healthy for me. Or him.

The idea of cutting him out of my life felt…bad. It hurt. But, I know that I have to do it. I can’t just accept the apologies anymore. I have to move forward with my life here. So, cutting the ties that bind—it hurt a lot.

I shan’t go into everything that was said. To T.’s credit, he did not get angry or abusive. He really listened and heard me, I think. He was mostly honest with me.

You lied to me and broke my heart. You always said I was never to lie to you, but you lied to me every single day. You made up stories that never happened—or maybe you do think they happened. I don’t know. YOU CHOSE TO BE ABUSIVE. I OD’ed that night because I knew I was in re-run of my marriage. I was cognitively impaired when I met you. I loved the idea of us and wanted it to work so badly. You were my reason for living after my OD. You were my port in the storm. But threatening to fucking kill me is not okay. I offered you help again and again. I prevented you from hitting rock bottom because I literally picked you up off the floor. I think—know that you are drinking. You need to look have a convo with your demons and look at yourself honestly in the mirror. You have a problem and rehab for you was a joke. You were dying. Drinking Listerine is pretty fucking indicative of a severe problem. You hurt people in your life-you damaged people. You have lost the privilege of being in my life. I can’t have you in my life.

(I’m blogging with G-Pa who is eating dinner. I don’t want to eat this early. It’s like only 6 p.m. Is just sitting here with him in quiet good enough?)

T. apologized, “I never wanted to hurt you.”

I believe you, but I have heard that so many times.

You have this perfect, wonderful thing in your life: Cinderella. And you are worth fighting for.

“No, I’m not,” he said. “Everything I touch turns to shit. It’s my mother’s fault..I was never good enough.”

I told him about my revelations from the Burning Bed classes and my therapy—I grew in a domestically abusive household. I was violently bullied. I chose abusive men to be in my life because that’s why I knew. I am understanding why I made the choices I did. And, I’m trying to do Act II.

“How? Help me?”

I can’t help you. I can’t help you. I can’t help you. Ask for help yourself—rehab, AA, your parents, etc. I can’t do it. I can’t be the one.

Basically, he admitted he was still drinking and not just over all of it—that he didn’t know why he was abusive. He was fucked-up. I never heard that before. He was sincerely humble and asking for help.

He wanted me to keep talking about my revelations and my new perspective of life (that sound so Oprah!) because he said I was helping him.

I was honest. Then I lied about having to take G-Pa to the VA hospital early in the morning because I needed to be off the phone and it was 11.30. I wanted to watch a True Blood episode before I went to sleep. And, I couldn’t keep talking to him. I knew it would be too easy to keep him in my life if I kept talking to him—to easy to imagine a future…lie to myself again.

T. make ammends. 

I loved you and part of me will always love you. Good-bye.

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; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel.

PS: God, please? Help me?