I wish I were my cat. I wish I could sleep all day, do only what I want to do, be taken care of and not feel guilty.
I finished Justified Season 6 last night. It ended well. I think the take-away is: most people are good and bad and complex. Most of us try to get through this life the best way we know how. I’m sad to see you go Raylan. I wouldn’t kick you out of my house for wearing shoes.
Now I gotta find another show to live for.
“Why do you have a HUGE picture of Rick Grimes on your wall?” asked Johnny, Gaia’s other half.
“Because I love The Walking Dead,” I said.
Either that answer was enough for him OR he was just entirely too overwhelmed by the 350 plus Barbies, hundreds of books, and collectibles of every kind taking up residence in my house.
That was one of my reasons for living in 2014. And part of my Nuclear Option. I started watching The Walking Dead on a whim when I was home with the beginning of my colitis and I got addicted. When Hershel gave her the handgun and said if you are going to do it, do it. She chose not to. I got inspiration from her. Of course, when she put a bullet in her head because she was bitten—I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information.
Andrea lived life on her own terms. She died on her own terms too.
I told the shrinks, therapists, and my family that I wanted to live to see what happened on Season 5 of The Walking Dead. Well, I’m still alive. Justified is over and I’m still alive. I don’t have any Nuclear Option plans for the near future.
Part of my original Nuclear Option plan was that I was going to OD on pills while watching TWD and smoking a cigarette. Oh, and eating vanilla Haagan Daz. I was still dealing with my UC then. Even on my way out I wasn’t going to treat myself to strawberry ice cream.
Rick, Micchone, Sasha, Daryl—they lost everything. And, everyone lost someone. Not just stuff. Not just their homes. Their everything. Yet they go on.
Gaia, Johnny, and I went to my house the other day. I hadn’t been since June and Johnny had never been. He was gob-smacked with all the things I have. They are all precious to me. Every Barbie, Pocket, Dragon, Faerie, doll, picture, book—they are all precious to me. Those things represent my life. I tried so hard for so long to fill the hole with things.
Don’t get me wrong. I love things. I love Barbie and stuffies and I will never be a minimalist like Gaia. But, I realize now on my limited income that I was trying to fill a hole, that couldn’t be filled, with things. Not even Fairy Barbie by Bob Mackie or Princess Kate and William could fill the hole.
I am own my house. Come January it’s gonna be a helluva lot tougher when my limited disability runs out and all I have is social security—for which I am grateful to God. I can afford the house and such—but that’s it. No food, no extras.
I’m gonna have another episode after I finish this post. I already had one today and took the milligram of Xanax. I was dealing with paperwork and life all day.
I fought Asshole for that house---literally, blood, sweat, tears, money, and my health. I had a nervous break-down when I lived there alone. I have a great house and property: six bedrooms, a huge peg 1850s barn, a big two, story two-car garage, and 5 acres. But the ghosts—most of which are mine I think have taken up residence.
I don’t know if I can live in that house without cutting my wrists. (The correct way, of course).
So why the fuck am I holding onto it? Because if I sold it now as is where would I put all my stuff? Seriously. I would owe money to the bank. And, I would take the Nuclear Option without hesitation.
So I have a house that I can’t live in…do I want to?...and not an extra penny to my name.
I may be on disability but I can still say, “I own a home.”
It is the ultimate conundrum.
Could all those ghosts of Me Past be exorcised?
Trust in God’s and Mother Mary’s plans.
I never admitted this on the record---I never felt at home there. But, it kept me safe from the world, just not myself.
All those years with Asshole, I never felt fully at home there. I moved in under terror and I moved out under terror.
But on the bedroom wall beside my bed and under the window I wrote “Here I Stay,” 8/1/13.
Here I stay. There I stay.
T. was gonna take care of me and help me keep the house. But, I don’t think God is gonna give me a man to save the house for me. I have to make that decision. But not tonight.
I want…God?
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: That house is proof that I existed. That house is proof that I accomplished something. That house is proof that I beat Asshole in the divorce. That house is proof that no matter what I have somewhere to belong (sans a working refrigerator and washing machine). That house is MINE.
PPS: In case you haven't followed the other posts--TWD and FTWD--they are so popular because all the materialism and paperwork and stuff that weighs us down in life is stripped away. All is left is a story about humans--who we really are without the masks, how far we can be pushed, what we'll do to survive, and what we are really about.
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