Whispers of 2018

Dear Hearts,

I hate myself.

That’s what the voice in head said to me last night when I was trying to fall asleep—or maybe it was this morning after I got up to the bathroom at 6 a.m. I was awakened by an especially rousing game of Mousey that Angel was playing.

I hate myself.

That is the in the shadows, unfiltered truth. And all the tattoos, Bible verses, Faith, and “self-care” is not going to change that.

There is one thing that makes me worthwhile: helping Papa.

There was a time I didn’t think that Angel could live without me. But, I think she could.

That is the only reason for my existence right now. I am helping Papa.

Until I don’t hate myself, Christ, St. Jude, Jed, Mother Mary, prayers—nothing will change.

I also hate New Year’s Eve. First, I am an East Coaster. Forever, baby. So when the ball drops at midnight in NYC and it is still 11 p.m. here—it’s just queer. It turning midnight here is meaningless.

And, then there are all these expectations. Oh, new year, fresh start, resolutions.

It’s another year gone. Wasted.

Mom texted me after “Epistles” the other night and said I was so dark again.

1.     I don’t want to work at a place where I have to cover my ass every second

2.     By staying at BB, I was dropping anchor and living in my trauma.

3.     Papa needs more help

4.     I can go Home now

5.     I can keep my own schedule

6.     I can prepare for my next “Great Opportunity”

7.     Forest through the trees and all that bullshit

That was the positive spins I was putting on losing my job.

But really, and I felt better after writing “Epistles” the other night, I got the Darkness on paper.

I feel like a fucking loser and failure. I don’t care of that is not objective reality. It’s like Papa who keeps causing himself pain by wearing tight pants and buttoning them up. Even wearing a belt. Nothing Aunt Faerie, Mom, or I say can change his mind even though we know that he is causing himself pain.

I feel like a fucking loser and failure. That’s what I feel. I haven’t liked myself for the better part of 30 years.

There are two wolves at war in me. One is Dark and one is Light. Even winners bleed in a fight.

Okay. Let’s take stock of 2017.

1.     House: a year ago today I COULD NOT say the words “getting rid of my house.” Now, I—well, I do give a fuck. I am mourning all of what that means too. But, I don’t give a fuck if the pipes freeze. Not my fucking problem. I am freed from the Albatross.

2.     I found, what I thought was my calling, my vocation and then was told to leave.

3.     I have been drawing, cross stitching, and writing.

4.     I have had good times in the past year. But, the Light is so crowded out by the Darkness.

5.     I learned and got the okay from a monsignor who knows Pope Francis that I don’t have to go to Mass to be a Catholic. Yesterday, sitting with E., who is 91 and lonely, was more important than attending Mass. She says she is ready for God to take her any day. (And her three-year-old grandson cannot really read—he is just parroting back a book he has heard repeatedly.

6.     I started running. I haven’t done that since early 2012 when things were at they’re best.

7.     I am becoming an Illinois resident. Eh. Aunt Faerie, I am sorry, but I will never be “At Home” here.

8.     I speak up for myself and don’t just let Papa have it his way all the fucking time because he is 97. I have told him NO on more than one occasion.

9.     I have learned that stuff will never bring me ultimate happiness. But, a  $5 Barbie from Walmart can bring a smile to my face—especially when I put on her the Barbie Club Exclusive Shoes.

10.  I know that I have so many, many, many Blessings from God that I don’t deserve.

11.  I’ve become a coffee snob.

12.  I turned 40 and kinda liked it. I am done apologizing for smoking (to which I have resigned myself—four a day is the same as a pack a day), swearing, sleeping in late, having tattoos, and being a Reagan/Bush Republican. I will just apologize for my general existence.

I owe my parents thousands of dollars. I can fall into a panic attack in seconds. Yes, there has been good this year. Really. God, I recognize that. I recognize all the blessings I have. I do. I really fucking do.

But, I still cannot see a future. I do not know how to not hate myself.

I wish I could be all profound and shit in this last blog of the year…but profundity can’t be planned.

Mother-fucking-Sweet-Mother-Of-Fuck nothing can be planned.

I am so afraid. I try…

“Do not be afraid; just believe.” Luke 8:50

Live…

Okay…here it is…my profound resolution.

Keep up the Good Fight with the Light Wolf.

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 Ailbhe; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

Grateful For:

UC Remission

Health

Family

Chocolate bars and brownies

Coffee

Cigarettes

My wolf night-light

Barbie

Clean sheets

Angel

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THANK YOU, GOD

God spoke to me.

Yeah, maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it was my subconscious creating a “Burning Bush.” Maybe it was nothing. Or, Maybe it was God.

He doesn’t always talk in great booms. Sometimes He whispers and you just have to listen really hard.

When you express love for someone else—when you talk to them deeply and sincerely—do you shout it? Or do you sometimes whisper it?

Anyone who knows me knows that my CC&H is sacred. I make the joke that if Christ Himself Came, I would tell Him that I was going to finish my first cigarette of the day.

Patience. The answers to our prayers sometimes look different than we think…

One of the Bible reading for today was from Genesis. God promised Abram that he would have heirs as plentiful as the stars—even though he was old and his wife barren.

When I took out my Rosary to prayer before my first cigarette, it was tangled up. I remembered that it had been tangled last night and I was just too tired to untangle it. My Rosary has a picture Pope Francis on one side and Mother Mary Un-Doer of Knots on the other. Also, Pope Francis’s pectoral cross.

It gets tangled periodically.

It was a bitch this time to untangle. But, I persevered. The Rosary actually came apart. I was up and down those basement steps half a dozen times. Usually, when I  go down there with my coffee and cigarette, I am gone for an hour. (The basement is where my smoking nook is.)

I struggled with the Rosary. I used old pliers. Tweezers from Gram. My fingernails.

Finally, my Rosary was together again. My CC&H was cut in half because I had to get Papa’s dinner for him. Did I still enjoy both halves? Yes. I took Xanax the second half—but as the even wears on that is par for the course. The first half was perfect. The second part flawed, but still so worthwhile.

Patience. Perseverance. God’s Time. 

I am reading My Story by Elizabeth Smart. People make choices. For good or ill.

“And I also knew that God wouldn’t leave me to suffer through this alone.”

BB chose to fire me. I choose the next step out of spite or by following my Heart. AND it so just not about BB. That is just a small part of it.

I think I will wait for the whisper.

PS: I am going to watch the Twilight Zone marathon, because that is what Dad and Mom are watching at home. I will Face Time with them at 12 a.m. Eastern. I am going to color the angel wings I drew.

Faith. Hope.

2018-Bring it, Bitch. I slay. Hooooowwwwwlllll

A sign post up ahead...

Epistles

Dear Burning Bed,

Who the FUCK do you think you are?

You did not fire me because I couldn’t do the job. You fired me for personal, vindictive reasons. You are so tight on scheduling that you want people to come into work sick, then you get rid of me within the week?

WTF?

B, A, J, T---who the fuck was it? What did I do that was so heinous, so threatening that you had to get rid of me?

Was it something you read, B, in the personal papers you made me leave behind one day? I thought I took anything “incriminating” with me.

ED. Keep volunteering and I promise you a job.

Fuck you up your NY liberal ass.

I’m done.

I gave you a year and a fucking half of free time. Hours.

I work for 17 paid days (three of which were “closed” days) and you fire me, but expect me to volunteer.

K, you really fucking think that I am going to transport a fucking client for you at 8 fucking 30. Bit me, bitch.

You fucking hurt me. YOU FUCKING HURT ME. I have physical pain.

You lied, T. You lied. I could refute you claim for claim. But good does that do? I could keep a job where I’m not wanted and I am watching my back every day—even more so than I was?

Do you know what you took from me? Half my world. My confidence that I could re-enter the working world. A sense of doing something good. Hope.

You fucking took HOPE from me.

You had me in that office so stunned that I was signing my “pink slip” before I even had time to think.

I would love to go on the record with you and refute every single fucking lie put out there.

A month later and I still want to cry, sob, wail about it.

I was doing good.  At B or B- at worst.

You betrayed me.

I don’t know if you are the only game in town. I don’t even know if I am supposed to be here…AFTER…

Moving again. That really might bring back the suicidal thoughts and actions.

ED—you took a slam at my MFA? Fuck you! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! You believe gender is fluid, Trump is an asshole, and the Catholic Church is full of anti-gays and pedophiles. You are as impotent at T was at the end.

Ladies—no, bitches—play your high school games and destroy each other. The main advice in a job should not be “stay under the radar.”

I could have done such good there. I liked my job. I loved my job.

Kate would go back and volunteer like the dutiful little good girl.

Well, Bridgette don’t play that. Bridgette with the wolf tattoo, she doesn’t get fucked twice.

And, if I am throwing away some great future career based on your flimsy, unproven, ball-less word, ED—then I am.

Where am I gonna be in five years? Until the day I was fired, I woulda said here. Where are you gonna be, Mr. Humanitarian? Here? I would be the house that you won’t be Where I am gonna be in 20 years? What fucking right do you have to even ask that question. I will still be thirty years younger than your ass.

I don’t understand. I gave my everything to you. Just like my ex-husband and T. And teaching. And, you just broke my nose for it.

Bridgette

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Dear God,

Job bitched a lot and there is a whole book in the Bible called Lamentations. I don’t want to bitch and complain, I just have some really serious questions.

What the fuck?

Jeremiah 29:11-13 (NIV Version on this rare occasion)

^“11 For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. ¹² Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. ¹³ You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.”

If I didn’t believe that you had a plan I would kill myself. I would. I know how too.

I am aware of all the blessings I have. My family. Love. A home. Never wanting for the basics PLUS. Health. UC Remission. A good body. Some talent. Intelligence. But mostly the health and incredible net of love that will catch me when I fall.

This is my prayer to you today. I am not going to pray before my sacred C&CH (Coffee and Cigarette Hour.) Well, yeah, I will.

So, I ask you once again, what the fuck?

“The Will of God will never take you where His Grace cannot keep you.”

What the fuck with Burning Bed?

If I didn’t think so much, I would say that I was fired just in time to take care of Papa.

But, Burning Bed was not just a job. It was like half my life.

Nan would say that you had me fired so I would be forced to turn to The Church for socialization. But I was doing Christ’s work at the shelter. I don’t buy that. That God is why I denounced Christianity years ago.

It’s fucking freezing and snowing out. Way too cold to run. I’ve been robbed of that too. I can’t run. Not in 10 or -5 degrees.

I am on disability. I have panic attacks. I don’t much care for myself. And, I failed yet again.

I swear if I were walking and the ground just fell away I would take the next step based on my Faith in You.

If I don’t get a break from Papa, soon I am going to lose it. I will. I lose my shit. We are locked in this house together and every major decision revolves around him. If I don’t get a break soon, I am going to split in two.

What do I want instead? I don’t fucking know! Peace. Health. Love. Joy.

I can’t see around the corner. At least when I was at BB, I was I really close to seeing around the corner—you know, with one of those military spy mirrors on a stick.

But, I don’t see around any corner now. I cannot see a future.

Actually, that’s not true. I see me alone in this house relying solely on my disability and cut to the necessities only. Alternating between salmon and eggs for dinner.  

That’s the future I see.

I miss wanting to kill myself. That was such a comforting way out. I don’t really think about that as a viable option anymore, but I miss it.

I know THEY say you don’t have a plan—giving kids leukemia, starving kids in Yemin, breast cancer for my sister-in-law. Shit happens. Evil happens. Free will happens. And, then we can choose to go to you to get us through the rough times.

Catholicism can’t be one big fake joke. The conspiracy would never have lasted this long.

But, why did I live and the neighborhood girl I play with as a child died of colon cancer in her 20s?

Paha Sapa wants to fucking scream and howl until every last person locks his door.

Why? Why did you take Burning Bed from me? Why did I lose Burning Bed?

I have been running on Faith for a long time…but it’s getting harder…

I’m sorry. But you had your chance back in 2014.

I can’t break these shackles that weigh so heavily on me.

I am listening. I am. Please. I need a burning bush. Just one little burning bush.

I am 40 fucking years old. What do you fucking want from me?

The fucking car problems! The niggardly things. The hours I get to spend at Walmart tomorrow as my break.

Maybe I was fired for some higher purpose. That’s what all of this fucking comes down to, God. I was just getting to feel like I could do something—that I could be something other than a failure… and then…

Help.

Bridgette

PS: You knew there would be a PS. Is this punishment for not going to Church enough? For my temper? For my selfishness? I’ll gladly give you a blood sacrifice to make it all better. But, didn’t Christ do that for us?

PS: For the first time since my conversion I am really struggling with my Faith. Fucking do something about it!  You promise to take care of every sparrow. Well, I can do more of your work than a fucking sparrow.

I am listening. I’m so scared…

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 Ailbhe; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

Grateful For:

Gaia's treats

Aunt Faerie's treats

Health

Family

Angel

Coffee

Cigarettes

Abso-fucking-lutely comfortable, ripped-knee Calvin Klein jeans

Miracles and The Balm of Gilead

Dear Hearts,

“There’s a land of beginning again where skies are always blue. Though we’ve made mistakes, that’s true. Let’s forget the past and start life anew.

Though we wander by a river of tears, where sunshine won’t come through, let’s find that paradise where sorrow can’t live and learn the teachings of forget and forgive--in the land of living again where broken dreams come true.” Bing Crosby The Bells of St. Mary’s

That was my Christmas movie. I still have to watch Abbot and Costello in March of the Wooden Soldiers.

I woke up not evening thinking about it being Christmas day. My first thought was, “Does G-Pa need a painkiller or can I stay in bed later?”

It was later than I thought so he got the Hydrocodone with Acetaminophen. The last pill because his doctor is a Mother Fucker. The doctor and I had some words. I lost my temper badly. I own that. But, he is taking it out on my grandfather by now ignoring our calls. Pre-suprapubic catheter surgery the rule was that if I spoke to him one more time, he would stop treating my grandfather. I accidentally got transferred to him when calling the hospital with a question and he is making my 97-year-old WWII veteran grandfather suffer for his petulance. This will not stand. You don’t mess with G-Pa.

By the Grace of God, the regular Tylenol is cutting the pain, but now he is constipated. Another problem to solve.

That is what is so desiccating about caregiving: every single decision you make is based around another person and his needs. You get up six times during Swedish supper to help G-Pa after he threw up. You go to bed with the doorbell chime on the floor and subconsciously wait for the DINGDINGDINGDONNNNNG. You repeat yourself over and over and over…You love and care for this man, but he can be mean and scrappy. But, he is scared and doesn’t understand all of what is going around him. He doesn’t understand the world he lives in and his body is giving out on him. You remind him to drink water, you dress his wound, give him his pills, give him a full bath (and I do mean everywhere—I only had a problem when I was wiping the feces), you feed them, you always have an ear listening for him.

I love G-Pa. I really do. I resent none of this.

But, I don’t…feel close to G-Pa, not the way I did to Pop, my fraternal grandfather. I would not get into bed with G-Pa and hold him as cries for God to send help. I would have with Pop.

I digress.

Seeing Mom and Dad’s faces this morning on FaceTime—I couldn’t stop touching my dad’s face. I long for his masculinity, his strength, his chest to lay my head upon, his scraggly beard…and I miss Mom’s soft lap and her running her hands through my hair.

It’s not Christmas without being HOME. I waited and opened my Hallmark Holiday Barbie gift from Dad and then I wrapped up Day-To-Night Barbie for myself. Angel had a little stocking with 10 treats and a little mousy.

Aunt Faerie created a beautiful Christmas for us last night. Swedish supper and gifts. And, she is in this with me. I couldn’t do it alone, nor could she.

I don’t think it’s really Christmas for Aunt Faerie without Gram.

I have so many wonderful, truly Blessed, and awe-some memories of Christmas past. It will be like that again one day. I hope.

CHRIST-MAS is about Hope and Redemption. Christ is our Hope.

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” John 3:16

God didn’t “kill” his Son. Christ is God and vice versa. He came to US.

I went to one Mass this month: The Feast of the Immaculate Conception of Mary on December 8^th. That was a few days after Burning Bed fired me. Yes, Burning Bed fired me. (I am including a post about that situation at the end of this post.) I have attended Mass several times every week. Not the Mass as The Catechism defines Mass, but I think Pope Francis would approve.

I run.

But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint. Isaiah 40:31

I talk to God, I feel closer to God, I see the clear big sky over Bergman Park. I run and miss those days I can’t. God is not confined to a wafer. What can be healthier than talking to God and honoring my body? I feel so good afterward.

I didn’t go to Mass last night. I had my Nancy Reagan Dress laid out, but G-Pa was in pain…

I vacillated.

Then it came to me:

WHAT WOULD CHRIST DO?

Now, depending on when you catch me, if you were to ask me that question you would either get an eye-roll and/or a fuck you.

But seriously, what would Christ do? Would Christ leave a scared old man alone and in pain on Christmas Eve. No. No fucking way.

I digress again.

This Holy Day is about Hope and Salvation.

I have to believe God has a plan. I mean, Burning Bed?!

If I were running and the sidewalk disappeared and the next step was the abyss…and I was told, “Take a leap of Faith. Two results: God will either catch you or you will suffer all the pain you’ve had again…I would take the next stop. I really would.

Christ took away the sins of Adam. Mother Mary took away the sins of Eve. Christmas reminds us “nothing is impossible with God.”

I have to hold onto that sentiment. No, that covenant.

All the presents and cards, preparations (will anyone ever care that the table clothes were not ironed this year?), expectations…

It’s the quiet moments. It’s the moments when if we listen—if we close our eyes and just believe with our hearts and block all society out—we believe in the impossible.

My favorite gift this year is a small ceramic statue of Mother Mary kneeling with her hands crossed as in prayer. Aunt Faerie picked it up at a thrift shop for problem nothing. But, that is the gift…

I feel Christ and Mother Mary…

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 Ailbhe; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

Grateful For:

German Chocolate Pie

Health

Aunt Faerie’s chocolate “cookie” bars

Family

Faith

All those who love me and whom I love

Angel

Coffee

Cigarettes

All my blessings
The young lady who shoveled for me
FaceTime

PS: I have no idea if this post is as profound as I hoped or even articulate. But, I did it.

Now it is Coffee Hour!

There is a land of beginning again. There has to be. Humanity couldn’t have made it this far without…

Many scoffed and didn't believe--but "You must pray and keep on praying...God's Will be done...And may God's will be our will...More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of...therefore let our voice rise like a fountain night and day."

The Sun revolved around the Earth until it didn't. 

Christ, I am open to you. I am your vessel. I give it all up to Thee.

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December 17, 2016—iPad propped up in cowboy hat and portable keyboard on my lap

“I have measured out my  life with coffee spoons.” Eliot

I feel like I measure out my life in hours.

I have an hour at the Garden Café from 3 p.m. To 4 p.m. While G-Pa is at Aunt Faerie’s concert to myself. I have an hour to enjoy my Sacred Coffee and Cigarettes before I have to pick G-Pa up form Aunt Faerie’s. I have an hour before Aunt Faerie picks us up for pie. I have an hour to watch one of my TV shows and get to bed around 11 p.m.

This, from the woman who never wore a watch outside of work.

“It takes time to live.” Jungle

How much time does it take to REALLY fucking live? I mean like really fucking suck the marrow-out-of-life living?

More energy and time than I can muster…

“We can no longer utilize you in the front office.”

Translation: You’re fired. Your best isn’t good enough. You are not wanted here. I just don’t fucking like you because…

Yep. I got fired from first job. Burning Bed. Tonya, my supervisor on whom I wrote such a stellar recommendation fired me.

“But we still want you involved with Burning Bed and volunteering.”

A job I loved—until recently when the politics were worthy of Chicago and Albany. Did my lack of “please, please, help me, Tonya?” Do me in. She wanted me out. She wrote an unfair evaluation. I am GREAT with clients and all the staff love me but the staff also complains about me all the time and I just can’t do the job.

“Okay, I understand.”

Grabbing my Lysol (that stuff is expensive) from the front office, “Do you have everything of yours?” asked the Front Desk.

Wow. Everybody fucking knows already. And I was literally fired 20 seconds ago.

Thursday: I am on the three-month shift cover schedule

Thursday: I turn in my evaluations

Friday: Tonya asks me about the Christmas party—am I going?

Monday: I am fired.

Tuesday: Can you help transport a client?

Friday: The ED (Executive Director) says that if I had been working for him he wouldn’t have fired me and if I continue to volunteer at Burning Bed he will find me a job. “I promise.”

Big Breath.

Fuck you. Fuck you and the sweet mother of fucking horse you rode in on. Kiss my white ass on the crack, motherfucker.

ED (executive director or erectile dysfunction….just saying both ED…maybe I taught high school too long.)

ED, I know down and dirty school politics. I know that administrators will smile at you and makes the promises you want to..you need to hear…and then fuck up the ass while they are doing it.

ED—you can’t override your own staff, even you tell me that you, yourself were shocked with Tonya said I couldn’t do the job.

I have cried. Wailed. Hyperventilated. Mourned. Felt physical pain. Cried to God. Tried to logically figure it out…

I have been running. And part of my run is when I reach my turn-around spot in Bergman Park. (When I was little and not yet crushed by life, there was old this old wooden playground set in Troll Park. There was a bridge and Aunt Faerie and I would pretend that a troll was under the bridge. If only trolls were my biggest threat.) I walk diagonally across the park before I run home. If I fucking stop near the road to catch my breath, people fucking are stopping to make sure I’m okay. Geez. Can’t you just leave people alone? So, I have taken to walking across the park where people are less able to stop their cars and get all in business. I turn and look at the horizon. It’s fucking flat. You can see a lot more sky than you can see in the East.

I was working at BB (my hour is almost up) and set to have my future there. Perhaps, likely beloved mountains on the East Coast, having that job at BB was like a mountain obstructing my view of the sky. Now that BB is over, maybe I will see something in the sky that I would have otherwise not have noticed. Maybe it will be a shooting star.

I just feel sad tonight.

Fuck me once, shame on you. Fuck me twice, shame on me. I’m talking to you, Burning Bed.

The Woman with the Wolf tattoo—she doesn’t ALLOW herself to get fucked twice.