Moving Day

Dear Hearts,

Tomorrow is moving day. I should be packing right now, but I am writing this blog instead. Writing justifies any time, right?

I don’t believe in PMS bitchiness and all that bullshit. That’s just a weak accuse for women to be nasty. I believe that a woman’s body changes hormonally. I’m bloating, tired, stomach’s a bit off, etc. I just got my Womanly Time before Moving Day.  WTF!

It’s such an messy, extra-time, gross, uncomfortable event.

I digress.

Today I am getting my longish hair trimmed and getting bangs! I have not had bangs in over 20 years. Actually I haven’t had a different hair-style in over 20 years. I’m doing it. I used to have long, beautiful wavy hair. Now it’s frizzy, damaged, and graying thanks to Prednisone, Ulcerative Colitis, Lithium, ECT, and father time. I want my hair to be pretty again.

But—damn! I got hair everywhere else! Lots of it. And my epilator will not be here before I leave. Fuckers. I just want to rip the body hair so I don’t have to deal with it. And I would like to put all it’s growing potential into my head hair.

So big changes today. Today was supposed to be my day to JUST pack, but my ADT system funked out on me so that was all of yesterday. Yes, thank God it happened while I was still here and able to deal with it. Modern technology is amazing—I am looking right now, after signing in with my fingerprint, at my living room via live camera. My Angel still protects the house.

A four a.m. phone call for ADT is disconcerting. The camera in your living room is detecting motion. Can you see your living room. Yeah, give me a minute, I don’t even know where the fuck I am right now (at my parents’ house). There is nothing going on in my living room. You don’t see anything? No. Got Ghosts?

I am leaving home. I have never really lived anywhere else. I commuted on the weekends from college. And, no matter where I lived—even with T.—I was a no more that a two hour drive from my parents’ or my house. Everything familiar to me was within reasonable distance. Not anymore. I am moving 850 miles to The Holy City in the middle of Corn Country USA. It’s scary. I can’t just see my parents anytime if I want to. I never really left home. At 39 I am.

(I am training myself to put only one space after the period at the end of a sentence, even though I was trained, as a freshman, by Mr. Sunshine Band to leave two spaces after a period on the electric typewriter. When did these rules change and who the fuck makes them up? I want that job.)

I digress. Martha would say that I’m deflecting. Perhaps. I don’t like moving or travelling—it makes me anxious. Did I forget anything? Did I lose anything? What if my stomach is not okay? What is my Womanly Time goes crime scene on me? What if I get sick? What if…what if…what if…

My sister came over last night. After we smoked and justified that what we smoked (less that five cigarettes a day each) is okay, we sat on my—her—the spare bed. She was INDIAN style—that’s right—not criss-cross-fucking-apple-sauce style—INDIAN style. I laid back again her body. My sister and I have never been this close. All of the deception and lies and pain and trauma with T.—was that worth a relationship with my sister? I think so.

I’m leaving my house, my job (yes, even though I really haven’t worked there for a year and a half), my whole adult life and going to The Holy City. I’ll have Angel, my pussy cat, Barbies, Pocket Dragons, familiar books, totems, and things. I will be with my grandfather in the house he and my dear grandmother shared for so many years. I will sleep in my mom’s old room. It’s a good house. Small, but good. Hey, at least neighbor got teeth. Maybe Agent Orange did fuck him up—or maybe he’s just crude by nature. He stays away from me—although I know he and his son watch me when I smoke outside.

I digress. I fucking tired. I hate my Womanly Time.

I have a HOME, a church, a therapist, a special place, a place for good coffee, the Eastern Star. I have all those things in The Holy City. And, oh, I think this is the most significant reason for my moving to The Holy City. I don’t feel like killing myself as much there as I do here. My panic attacks are less. G-Pa feeds me and takes care of my financial “needs” out there. (IE: food, groceries, etc.) Aunt Faerie is my surrogate mom, Bugsy is a reminder of why to not stay in a job you hate. There’s PIE. G-Pa lets me put Barbie in the living room. I can color, cross stitch, and watch my online shows all I want.

I won’t be home until after Christmas, if then. I’ve never been away for so long. Wait, I’m not away. I am living there. I have made the commitment to stay until the inevitable. Kennedys don’t put our people in nursing homes—not that G-Pa needs one, but if he did…I will take care of him as much as humanly possible. Right now that’s making sure he has a constant supply of chips and taking him for drives in the country when he’s bored. AHHH! MORE CORN! MORE DRIVES IN THE COUNTRY! I resent none of it. I am blessed to have The Holy City to go to. It’s a helluva lot better than a nut house.

I can hear Martha saying—this is an adventure, a new beginning, a you can be whomever you want to be…She’s right. I can be Bridgette (my alter self). I can be Kate or Katherine. But I thought I could be all those things here too. 20 years ago I believed in a future that never came close to fruition. I had hope 20 years ago. So, now I leave for The Holy City with forced-hope. I can be…

Um, what if I can’t be anything more than the failure I am here? There’s the crux of it. There’s the rub.

What if I am Samson? What if I just disappear into the wind like dust?

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.