The Promise Of A New Year

Dear Hearts,

The last day of 2016. Our society puts up such expectations for this time of year: the Hallmark-Rockwell-Perfect Christmas; the great New Year’s Eve parties; and the promise of a new and better than ever New Year.

Last New Year’s Day, I was with T. and my parents. They had told me that he’d drank Gaia’s whiskey and replaced it with water. I thought he was sick. He was black-out, alcohol poisoning-ly drunk.

“I couldn't believe her story and go on living with [T]. A Streetcar Named Desire.

And I had to believe T. and the snake-oil he was selling, because I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted someone to make all of this fuck-uppery better. I NEEDED someone to make it better. I have always depended on the kindness of [men].

I don’t know where that statement came from. I would have told you no. I was not happy after the divorce—I was fucked up. But, I didn’t want a man. However, I had a dream of a man…someday.

I am lonely. I’ll admit it. I just want Prince Charming to make it all better and T. said he could do that. I was so numb to the verbal abuse from Asshole by that point—at least T. said he was sorry. And, being with T. I didn’t have to deal with my shit. I dealt with his shit.

Now I am dealing with my shit.

Good-mother-fucking-cock-sucking-bye to 2016.

Will 2017 be better? I don’t know. I really can’t see the light. I am down in that well and the cover is over the well. I am just treading water.

I did not go to Mass today—a double violation of my Holy Obligation, since tonight’s Mass would have counted for Sunday obligation and January 1, The Solemnity of Mary, the Mother of God Obligation. I was talking myself out of it anyway.

G-Pa has something wrong with his ear, neck—I don’t know. But he is in pain and the doctors can’t figure it out. So I went to the ER today with me—when I was supposed to be blogging, or so I’d planned.

G-Pa I love you.

BUT

I CAN PARK A FUCKING CAR! I CAN PULL THROUGH TO THE EMPTY SPACE IN FRONT OF ME. I CAN FUCKING DRIVE. I HAVE BEEN DOING IT FOR 23 YEARS AND I AM SO SICK AND FUCKING TIRED OF MEN TELLING ME THAT I DON’T DRIVE GOOD ENOUGH. YOU’RE LUCKY YOU FEED AND HOUSE ME. YOU’RE LUCKY YOUR OLD. YOU’RE LUCKY I LOVE YOU OR ELSE JERSEY-KATE WOULD BE ALL OVER THAT SHIT.

PS: I KNOW THERE’S A FUCKING CAR COMING. I CAN SEE IT!

Had to get that out. My Aunt Faerie is better with that stuff—I am better with the taking care of stuff and getting stuff done. Dr. ER got a little bit of Kate-Jersey. No, we are not just gonna put 96-year-oldold grandfather on narcotic without doing some diagnostics first. Asshole.

So I am blogging now and I am going to drive G-Pa to Aunt Faerie’s for dinner. Tomorrow we go to Steve’s. Or Aunt Faerie and G-Pa go to Steve’s for ham loaf. BLUCK! Seriously. Whatever goes on top of the ham loaf is a singularly moving jelly-like organism. And, what the fuck is ham loaf? Ew. I may sneak out of this one. Oh! The Christmas decorations have to be taken down!

I was gonna go out to see Gram and pray, smoke, and read out there for a while—instead of Mass. But, G-Pa took a painkiller and I’m not leaving him alone until I know he won’t have bad side effects.

Okay. I’m back. We can’t find his better pair of glasses. At that stuff I am good. I am good with the helpful stuff. I am just wearing thin on the drives. Seriously thin. I grew up and lived my adult life in the country. Going for rides is the country is not fun for me.

Fuck the Catholic Church (as an administrative whole—not God, Christ, Mother Mary, the Angels, Jed, the Saints, or Pope Francis). Just fuck this Holy Day Obligation shit. You have to go to church on those days—unless the days fall close to a weekend. Christ didn’t make that up. Peter didn’t institute that. Catholicism has a past, some if it quite dark, those jag-offs are the ones who put the HDO into effect.

Actually, my reason for staying home would be legitimate in the eyes of the Church.

Last night I curled into a ball on the couch and felt as though I could not move. I could not keep going. I started drawing. I made myself. That helped. I don’t know why. I will let CD make me miserable, suicidal, cognitively impaired--

…Time to go. He said 5.10. But that really means 5…

I’m back. After driving to Aunt Faerie’s house. At least Bugsy is gonna make portabella mushrooms for my cream of mushroom soup.  But then I had to call the ER and then the pharmacist and then the other pharmacist with questions about the painkiller G-Pa got. People are fucking idiots! The berocracy and red tape is so fucked up. I digress. Then my computer acted wonky. It’s like I am having to work very hard to write this fucking blog tonight. But I am determined.

I will let CD make me miserable, suicidal, cognitively impaired—but I won’t let it make me immobile. It won’t put me to bed all day. Then the Demons would fully possess me and take over.

Last I was desperate. I sat on the couch after dinner. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t think. I just wanted to go away. I’d didn’t want to smoke or color or draw or cross stitch or watch TV—when that happens that is a sign I am really at a low point.

I MADE myself pick up a pencil and start drawing. I followed the YouTube video tutorial. I felt…less despairing. I pushed the Demons out of me.

Also I visited Gram yesterday. I greeted her and then put my hands on my head on the top of the stone and wailed. And screamed. And I do mean wailing and gnashing of teeth. I begged her forgiveness and begged her for help.

You can’t wail and gnash your teeth in a Church without drawing some unwanted attention. According to the Catechism, any one who reaches Heaven is a Saint and can therefore intercede with God on our behalf. I figure if anyone is in Heaven, my Gram and Pop are there. I said asked for her help.

“This too shall pass.” The last words I remember her saying to me.

Tonight my big party is me, Angel, Leo DiCaprio in The Departed, I think, chocolate peanut butter pie, a little of Bugsy’s mead, and watching the ball drop. The last party I went to was in high school in 1993. No alcohol. Totally legit. But, my first real boyfriend kissed me. He has all kinds of mental issues. I wonder if I were to go back to that night…I remember what I wearing. I remember I didn’t eat anything for fear my stomach would get upset. I remember dancing on the porch. If I could go back to 12/31/92, could I change the trajectory of my life?

I don’t have ravishing, sweeping hopes or plans for 2017. I guess I won’t be disappointed. I know I have so many blessings I don’t deserve.

So I can promise God that I won’t commit adultery. I can swear that I will not steal. I can promise I will never let another man treat me badly. I can swear lots of things. But I can’t swear to God that I won’t kill myself. I wish I could. I want to. In my heart, I just cant. I know I have so many blessings I don’t deserve. I am hoping that God’s timer is different than ours—that he’ll wait for me…If  I let my mind go to what could be, it takes my breath away and crushes my soul…I believe God wants me to make the Oath more for myself than Him…but, today I can promise to do my best, which probably isn’t good enough. Tomorrow, I swear God, I will…try.

I am hanging on.

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.

PS: 100 legitmate posts since July. That's something...