It Hurts. Bad.

Dear Hearts,

I have 45 minutes before Pie Day begins and G-Pa is dressed and at the door.

We were supposed to picking up Mom at the airport at like 4.15 p.m. and DELTA fucked it all up and now she is getting in at 11 p.m. I don’t care about driving late—really. I am going to complain for a moment. G-Pa is determined to go to the airport with me.

NOOO!

I don’t want to be back-seat driven to Moline. I love him. But, I just wanted to drive, listen to Sirius, and smoke a cigarette on the way to get Mom. I haven’t seen her in over four months. I’m not sure if I have ever gone that long without seeing Mom. It would have been nice to have time with her—just the two us on an unexpected late airport-road trip.

We were also going to eat at The Attic and have shrimp and the best mother fucking chocolate cake I’ve ever had. Boo.

I was in bed by 12.30 last night. I had the Celtic Women playing softly on my iPhone. Angel was snuggled up next to me. 45 minutes later I was up watching the penultimate (second to last—SAT word from teaching) episode of American Horror Story Hotel. And I had another cigarette. So I guess yesterday was a five cigarette day.

I volunteered at The Burning Bed on Monday and Tuesday. I answered the phones on Tuesday for a staff meeting. Germs abound! Seriously. One of the staff said the BB had been a “cesspool” of germs. But I did it. I love me some Lysol.

This “client” (as they are called) was being kicked out because she was drinking. On of the staff was taking care of her little boy because the mom was too drunk. The mom to mouthy with me—but my professional skills took over. I didn’t get mouthy back. I let her vent and then pressed every button I could of the goddamn phone to page somebody who knew what the hell was going on.

While Drunk Mom was rampaging around there was another client there—Toni who has a eight, nine, or ten year old daughter. She kept apologizing for Drunk Mom’s behavior.

“Don’t ever apologize for someone else’s behavior,” I said. “That is on them.”

I’m such a hypocrite. I apologize just for being. Hell, I apologize for Kennedy Assassination.

Toni was waiting to pick meet her daughter off the school. I heard Toni on the phone before Daughter got there talking to someone about having enrolled in college classes but not being able to afford or get the books yet, so hopefully she could make a friend in class and borrow the books.

When Daughter got off the bus, she ran up to the BB doors, so happy, just because. She wasn’t miserable to be walking into a shelter. Toni showed Daughter the new college ID she got. She sounded out “student” with her Daughter.

“What does that mean?” asked Toni

“Um, that you have to take a test!”

“Yes, but what else does that mean?”

“Um…”

“It means I’m a college student!”

Daughter giggled and clapped her hands.

As I was leaving I saw Toni again. She was parked right next to me in a car that looked pretty beat up. Like at any moment, it could just stop.

I got in Saint Jude-Given Elantra and I just stopped. I called Mom and Dad.

“I had an epiphany of sorts…or a revelation, Mom. I am so fucking lucky to have you and Daddy, and G-Pa, and Aunt Faerie…I don’t have to drive a car like that. I don’t have to worry about health insurance. I will never want for the essentials (and then some). I am so fucking blessed to have you guys. I don’t deserve it.”

That is the truth.

But, then last night as I lay in bed with Angel in the crook of my arm and Celtic Women playing on an iPhone I don’t pay for…I hurt.

I hurt.

I was taking a tour of My House in my head. The spring, the swamp pond, the six bedrooms, the large closets, and hallways, the painting Mom and I did. All of my things there. Every precious thing of mine in that house.

I have to LET GO of My House. I hurt. I can’t afford it, unless I get a full-time 55 k (at least) a year job.

Okay. So I decided last night. I am going to work online. Yup. That’s what I’m gonna do. I am gonna find some kind of online work that I can do from home.

Then I thought about myself living alone in My House…

I hurt.

If somebody said they’d pay off My House and I could just keep it…I don’t know if that would be a good thing…fuck, that is hard to say. I have never said that out-loud. I think I have to let go of My House and that life. I wasn’t happy. I bought things that made me feel happy. I liked my TV shows. But, I wasn’t happy.

I have to Let Go…

It hurts inside so fucking much.

I know that I have a lot to be grateful for—so fucking much.

But, they are a lot of people worse off than I and a lot of people better off than I.

Fuck them. This is about me. I am a narcissistic bitch.

I hurt. And I just want it to stop.

Where is the bottom? I haven’t reached the bottom. How am I going to Let Go of that Dream—that Life that I was supposed to live? How?

I hurt.

"Oh, God! Where is the bottom! Where is the real honest-to-God bottom so [I] can't go any farther!" Raisin In The Sun. Lorraine Hansberry.

I hurt.

I’m selfish. I dislike myself. Life is hard. Am I just the laziest bitch in the world and malingering with all this shit?

I hurt.

I just hurt deep, deep inside and I want the pain to stop.

If I really do have this Clinical Depression thing legitimately and I’m not making any of this shit up. Then it really fucking sucks. CD is a terrible disease. CD is evil.

Xanax here we come.

“Here I Stay.” That is written on the wall in My House. I am totally dependent financially and emotionally on my family.

One woman—Janice—at BB. She has four kids, the oldest 14, the youngest 3, and one on the way. She is 37. I’m 39.

I guess I can congratulate myself…I chose to not drink or abuse prescription pills—which would have been so fucking easy! I chose to not have children that I couldn’t afford financially or emotionally. But, I shouldn’t congratulate myself on that. That’s what I am supposed to fucking do!! Oh, congratulations for fucking breathing.

I hurt. That’s what I know. I hurt inside and I’m tired of hurting. And the pain is gonna get worse. When I go back East I am gonna hafta deal with all this real life shit. It’s gonna hurt.

There’s been so much pain…Jesus? Mary? Jude? I hurt. It won’t stop hurting.

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: In 2008, Nan died on this day and on this day I got my MFA from Grad School. My Creative Writing MFA. I really have put it to good use! Nan, you bitch. I knew you were gonna die on my graduation day. Maybe you wanted to be there to see me or maybe you wanted to ensure I’d have no happy memories of that weekend—so you died.

PS:

“A Dream Deferred”

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode? 

Langston Hughes

PPS: No time to proof. Gotta get ready for pie. And take two Xanax. I want a cigarette.

PPPS: I really DO FEEL pain and hurt.