Dear Hearts,
This will not be a long post. I want to listen to some videos online (I know I date myself) that accompany the book, The Bible and the Virgin Mary. I am learning stuff that is like OMG—do all priests know this? Other Catholics? I’m blown away—a Second Creation? Mary the New Eve? Mary the Ark of the Covenant? WHAT?
I hate Christmas cards. They are stupid. Has anyone ever said, “Oh, I love doing Christmas cards?” No. Because they are stupid and you send cards with just your name and some aggrandized letter about your past year. You send cards to people you don’t even like, because they sent you one. Dumb.
But, G-Pa’s cards are all made out and most are in the mail.
At School, I used to get mad when I’d get a Christmas card.
Christmas is about joy, happiness, lights, love, fun, magic, gifts, and Christ. (The Christ part is good.) The rest of it just makes me feel like shit. All the red, blinking, sparkly shit augments that I am in The Well looking up and I can’t get out. And, I remember the Bob Marleys of Christmas Past. I was so truly filled with joy when Asshole proposed…
Marcia, Asshole’s sister, was brilliant. She was a good person, had her PhD in psychology, had a counseling practice, was attractive, had amazing friends, (shitty family, especially Asshole, but good nephews,) hobbies, and Bi-Polar Depression. She took the right dose of pills to go to The Other Side in 2013. She was a good person. She had bad shit happen to her—she had the breast cancer gene (his mom and sister both died from it)—so she had a double mastectomy and reconstructive work.
She tried. The best psychiatric facilities in the country. Marcia was not a loser. She was in one hospital for months. She fought The Demons so hard. Maybe I am not a total fucking loser either. I wish I could talk to Marcia.
G-Pa is “disgusted” with how Dad had all his “junk” in the living room during his stay—which G-Pa really enjoyed otherwise. But how could Dad have all that junk in the living room?
I am angry with G-Pa. I love him, but I am angry and that’s okay.
When am I going to fuck-up and disgust him?
I feel like I am eight years old again and having decide to whom to be loyal. Mom and Dad said that’s not the case. And, it’s not. But, that’s how it FEELS.
Tomorrow is Pie Day. I have to work at Burning Bed in the morning. Why? ‘Cuz maybe I will get a job that I do or don’t want (or can actually do.) I don’t wanna go to Burning Bed. I don’t wanna go out for Sacred Pie Day. I want to stay home and just draw. Be alone.
There’s a symptom of my depression worsening. When I isolate myself.
After we finished Christmas cards today, we took a loooong ride in the country, and stopped at McDonald’s for pie and coffee. God Bless, G-Pa—he loves their pie and coffee. I always take the pie home and secretly dispose of it. I AM NOT eating anything that doesn’t even have ingredients listed and is from Puss-Pocket Palace (McDonald’s—college story there.)
I skipped dinner at Aunt Faeries because I wanted to be alone. I don’t want to go for Pie and dinner tomorrow. I just want to hole up and batten down the hatches. My highlight of tomorrow will be a cigarette and coffee if I can get one in before dinner, eating the Amazing Pie before bed, drawing, watching my shows, and smoking. Everything I do in my day is motivated by those rewards—and duty. I love G-Pa and Aunt Faerie. I want to take him for a drive, because he needs to get out of the house. I want to help Aunt Faerie and be there to support her musical concerts. I do—but I just wait for each event to be over. It’s the truth. I wish it weren’t.
This is why the suicide rate sky-rockets during Christmas—the Expectation of Happiness.
I’m sorry God. I’m so fucking sorry that I am not more grateful and good and worthwhile. I am so sorry that I am…
I’ll always have Nebraska.
Not even reading this one over—just gonna post it.
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, Jed.
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