Is There An Antidote?

Dear Hearts,

I am just consumed by anxiety—snake venom literally coursing through my veins.

Money, disability, loss of teacher union benefits in January, relying only on SSD, the loss or sale of my house, my inability to work a ‘real job’ with a ‘real salary’ like I used to, cutting my budget to the bone including Barbies, ebooks, and ALL extras, germs, not getting a job at Burning Bed, getting a job at Burning Bed, not being a good enough volunteer at Burning Bed, money, my house, SSD, my future, money, my house, SSD, depression, not living in the moment, not going to Mass, is coloring is a waste, am I a loser?, Christmas, germs, the Eastern Star, money, house, SSD, retirement, marriage, dating, so tired, germs, not saying the full Rosary, not going to Bible Study, not visiting people who need company, getting fat, smoking, not exercising, not eating right, losing my looks, Angel scratching the furniture. And repeat.

I have a whole lotta enough Xanax to take the Nuclear Option. But, I don’t trust pills anymore. How do you avoid throwing them up? And, then if you fail, brain damage? Pills aren’t the best way. I wonder what my dear sister-in-law took? What was her killer combo? But, the Nuclear Option cannot be on G-Pa’s couch.

January is the last month I will get union benefits—then my income is cut in half.

Wednesday I went to visit Gram and said The Full Rosary. Usually I only say one decade, because honestly that’s all I can get through without my mind checking out.

A ROSARY EPIPHANY:

I don’t trust myself.

I don’t trust myself. Ever since I was a child I trusted my intuition—this gut instinct that tells me what to do. I can pretty much (NOT BRAGGING) read a person on a first impression. I have been wrong. Asshole. T.

Martha says ever woman lies to herself about men. So, it’s okay. Well, lots of women have sex like it’s no big deal either. That’s not okay. Just ‘cuz people do it, doesn’t make it right.

Martha says I don’t trust myself because I grew up in a home that was emotionally dramatic and abusive. (NOT YOUR FAULT MOM) And, I am not all about blaming the parents—you gotta take ownership at some point. Even if it were on a subconscious level, I never knew what kind of mood Nan or Daddy would be in.

Would Daddy be bad mad at Mommy? Would he punch the wall? Would Nan be mad at me or Mom? What do you mean, Nan, when you say Daddy is dead on the side of the road? What do you mean, Nan, that our house could burn down?

In first grade, I came to my mother outside and said, “Mommy, I’m worried and I don’t know why.”

Elementary School: worrying about not getting enough Smiley Faces on my kindergarten papers, not doing well on a spelling test: writing and misspelling, “I’m horrible” across the paper. (Dad found the paper and told me that I wasn’t horrible-he used to get the same kind of grades. And honestly, spelling is not my strong suit.) Could I name all the parts of the body Ms. Gym wanted us to? What if I failed fifth grade. (So not even close.) Could I sing in the concert and not have a panic attack? How come my best friends could memorize the multiplication tables so easily?  Was Santa real? I can’t zip my coat and Mrs. First Grade, said we can’t come outside without our coats zipped! Would Mrs. Third Grade go through and throw out the contents of my desk when I was absent. (I’d seen her to do this to other kids.)

Middle School: Would God send me to Hell? Would I get spit on in the hallway? I got a C in math!? (My first C. Yes, because I was afraid I was going to get called a fucking skank or that Steve was going to bang his against mine so bad that it would literally hurt my body.) Would they steal my backpack? Purse? Notebook? Would they make fun of me? Would they let me in the bathroom? Would I being called a fucking bitch? Would they hit me? Would they pull my hair out? Would anyone dance with me? (No.) Would I ever have a boyfriend? I forgot deodorant! I forgot a bra! “Free falling!” the boys would sing. Would they find out I played with Barbie? Where is E? Why did she stop talking to me? Why did her parents take her to England? “Please Mom, please, let me stay home. Please!”

High School: Are my legs hairless enough or will they throw pink razors at me again in the pool shower room? (First, I would dry shave before school. And now that I have an epilator I use it every day to get the leg hair off.) Am I dressed the right way? Will I have a boyfriend? I can’t be alone, so even if boyfriend is sleeping with other girls, you should stay. Whatever it takes to not be alone. Why can’t I get straight A’s no matter how hard I try? Why can’t I fit in no matter how hard I try? My best asset is giving good head.

It is any wonder, the pink skirt wearing girly-girl went all heavy, dark make-up, black combat boots and Wicca? They were afraid of me then. They didn’t tease me to my face. “Dyke.” (Not a big problem because from sophomore year on I had a boyfriend.) They left me the fuck alone. I was dating a senior. Then, they left me alone because I was dating Sociopath and all the druggies knew that you didn’t fuck with Sociopath.

College: GPA 4.0! BOYFRIEND! GPA 4.0! BOYFRIEND! GPA 4.0! BOYFRIEND! GPA 4.0! BOYFRIEND! GPA 4.0! BOYFRIEND! GPA 4.0! BOYFRIEND! GPA 4.0! BOYFRIEND! GPA 4.0! BOYFRIEND! GPA 4.0! BOYFRIEND! GPA 4.0! BOYFRIEND!

I went on Xanax in college.

My jobs, except my later college journalism one, and when I lifeguarded with Dad, all had bully bosses.

My God, I’m whining worse that Trump.

My life is a mess. Aunt Faerie calls it the “in-between time.” Yeah, well it’s been a long almost five years of “in-between time.”

I hit rock bottom last spring with T. I had three two choices: death or move here.

Seriously. I am not going back to a hospital again, and Martha knows it. Igor knows it. My family knows it. I was calling hospitals though—trying to find a smoker friendly hospital. HA! (Okay, you tried to kill yourself, but don’t you smoke!)

DISCLAIMER: MOM THIS BLOG IS SUPPOSED TO BE ME BEING ME AND BRUTALLY HONEST. SO I AM. I AM NOT GOING TO KILL MYSELF TODAY. OR THIS WEEKEND. I PROMISE.

Since my over-dose in 2014—as my Dad said last Christmas—the burden has been trying to keep me “Above Ground.”

I am “Above Ground.” But, what kind of life am I living?

That’s on me. Not the bullies. Not the old bosses. Not Nan. Not Dad. Not Mom. Not the boyfriends or husband. On me. But I got so used to living in a world of anxiety and fear that I don’t know how to live any other way. I don’t. Even and especially my relationship with T. PTSD. Maybe. I can’t let go of the anxiety. I can’t. I can’t let go of my house, my fear, my Barbies. Even if five of them are sitting in boxes untouched.

Highlights: cigarettes, coloring, iced-coffee, TV shows, Catholicism (when it doesn’t cause guilt,) Pie from Muriel’s (except last night’s—ew!), Amish Pumpkin yummy-whatever-the-fuck-it-is, Angel, vaping, sleeping, and reading while visiting Gram in the graveyard.

I am a lost fucking cause folks.

Yes, Martha I made a lot of progress—others have told me too—but that’s what you tell the person who will never walk again, but can finally move his foot side-to-side. What are people gonna tell me? Oh, you’re a loser.

Yet, tomorrow, I will go to the Burning Bed’s Fair and play Big-Nosed Kate, Doc Holliday’s woman, and entertain kids, even though I don’t want to. I won’t go to Mass. I’ll feel guilty. I’ll color and watch The Black List and The Walking Dead. I will keep on keepin’ on. But how long does that work for? Just doing what you're supposed to, but being tortured by anxiety every day?

I can’t see a future beyond this. I can’t.

When will the venom get to my heart or brain?

So, now I know the how the venom got in me. But, what's the antidote?

Is there an antidote?

God? Mother Mary? Jude?

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: I’m not even reading this over. I am going to go visit Gram and smoke a few cigarettes and read. First, I’ll stop by Muriel’s where Dr. Swede and G-Pa are having pie and coffee. I’ll get G-Pa to pay for a coffee for me before going to visit Gram. (And feel guilty about the coffee. And ask God's forgiveness, but do it anyway.)

Tonight is pizza night. Yay. But who the fuck eats pizza at 5:15??

I can’t read this over. My psyche just coughed it up. So it is…

PPS: even after prayers to SAINT JUDE AND GOD the episode hits. the venom does it's thing. i won't be going out for pizza tonight.  these episodes keep me isolated from the owrld

that's how i've learned to survive the rattler

ppps-i might as well give up on the house. i will never work againl. i'll never elive a normal life again. \this is it fir me. this is as good as it gets. who the fuck am i kildding. a full time job????i'm a fucking freak loser. i am am.