What Now?

“But I don’t want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.
"Oh, you can’t help that," said the Cat: "we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad."
"How do you know I’m mad?" said Alice.
"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn’t have come here.” Lewis Carroll Alice in Wonderland

Dear Hearts,

Today is a five cigarette day. And I just took two preventative Xanax.

That used to my usual limit, but I’m down to four—even three sometimes. Three not so recently. Six was my limit when I was working. Fridays I’d allow myself an extra cigarette.

Friday nights when I was teaching were the best part of the whole week. I’d tell the kids I had a hot date with my couch and a book. I’d leave the cigarette part out. I’d shower and get CLEAN. I’d have a little tea and lay down on the couch covering myself with Gram’s afghan. Angel would settle in with me. I’d smoke a cigarette, read, and then nap. I’d eat a bakery-made pizza around ten o’clock. I’d watch my favorite shows that I’d taped during the week—on VHS!

I felt safe. The shotgun under the couch. The alarm system armed. A little lavender oil burning. That was the best part of the week. And, I’d allow myself a sixth cigarette.

Saturday I’d sleep in. Feel guilty and then rush around like mad doing what needed to be done in the way of chores and bills. I would maybe go to Mass—and then Sunday sucked. Saturday night wasn’t so bad. I would watch a movie and I’d save up my cigarettes for the even. I would really be frenetic on Sunday getting all my clothes laid out right down to my panties (with liners) and bras. I even had my jewelry selected. My lunches were made and packed: almond butter and natural apricot jelly, yogurt, banana, and two little peppermint patties. Everything was under strict control.

When I came home—there was a half hour of obsessive Lysol-ing and cleaning before I could breathe. Involving wiping down everything in my purse and lysoling my keys—I ruined the Hyundai and ADT key fobs. I would go over in my head again and again.

Purse: cigarette, keys, money, meds, mentos (I used to use mentos a long time ago, I used Listerine Fresh strips instead…hmmm…I wonder if T. ever thought of getting drunk off those….I digress. Clothes, bag for school, purse, lunch.

Those were my mantras. Cigarettes, keys, money, meds, mentos. Clothes, lunch, bag, purse. And then the complicated ritual of leaving the house safely locked up. That was no easy feat. I stopped using the stove because I’d have to touch the nobs 28 to 72 times.

I even had a ritual for falling asleep to try and help my stomach. I obsessively prayed/meditated every morning. I didn’t enjoy these things. I did them because in my world I had to or else BADNESS would happen.

Living like that was tiring. I would come in the house—get CLEAN and not want to leave. I’d look outside on a nice day and think, “It’s nice out there, but I’m not going out there. I’m only safe here.”

A lot of what lead up to first hospitalization I don’t remember because of the ECT. Mom and Dad said that I was in bad shape and they were spending weekends with me.

But, I think all of those rituals—the OCD—drove me mad. But, if I didn’t do those rituals—all those rituals—I would feel physically and mentally distressed. I am surprised I didn’t start panic attacks sooner.

I remember the day I planned my death. It was early June. I had the first period off. I made phone calls to the life insurance companies making sure there were no suicide clauses and I made sure my parents and Gaia were my designated beneficiaries. I had to call Mom to get their SS#s.

The actual suicide had been planned out for months. I would take all the Lithium and Klonopin (not Xanax at the time) I had. I would sit in my bed next to the window—which was not my sleeping side. I would watch The Walking Dead on my laptop, eat vanilla ice cream, smoke cigarettes, and have Angel with me.

FUCK! I was even adhering to my UC diet when I was planning my death.

I digress…That June day…

“It’s not for anything nefarious,” I said asking for the SS#s.

Dad said that he knew that with that word, nefarious, something was wrong.

“I’m coming up to spend the night.”

Pause.

“What if I want to be alone?”

“Then you can go upstairs.”

Pause

“You don’t have to come.”

“Well, I am.”

He came. I think we ordered dinner. After being home a couple of hours, I was sitting on the couch eating? Maybe.

I said, “Dad, I have something to tell you. I planned my death today.”

I don’t really remember what happened after that. I think my therapist and shrink were called. The next day I Googled nut-houses that allowed e-cigarettes. God guided me to the right one.

It was all so horrible after that. But, I did meet my shrink—the best shrink ever. He let me keep my rosary, my germ gel, and my stuffed purple worry bear that I have had since I was in college. Mom gave him to me. He goes everywhere with me. I still sleep with him every night. Asshole wouldn’t allow me to have my bear and go to sleep with him—but I slept with my bear when I was with T.

In the ambulance on the way from the ER to the nut-house I was tied down on a gurney. Standard procedure for safety.

All I could think was:

“I wish I’d done it.” “I wish I’d done it.” “I wish I’d done it.” “I wish I’d done it.” “I wish I’d done it.” “I wish I’d done it.” “I wish I’d done it.” “I wish I’d done it.” “I wish I’d done it.” “I wish I’d done it.”

Nothing was the same after that. Nothing would ever be the same after that. Nothing can ever be the same after that. I actually thought I could go back to school?! HA FUCKING HA. That was June 2014. I OD’ed six months later. I was deep in the abusive relationship with T.

“You fucking cunt. I’m going to fucking kill you.” The newspaper you reading if fucking stupid. Tom Selleck (a hero of mine) is a fag. Jackie O. (a heroine of mine) was a fucking gold-digger cunt. If I liked it and he didn’t it was fucking stupid. T. wasn’t even that bad. Although he did accuse me of being a murderer for supporting the second Iraq war.

So, I OD’ed and ended up thinking that the only way I could not OD again was to stay with T. He’d fix it. But, he was the problem. In November of 2015, I cut myself on my arm with a serrated knife. It was in the bedroom—here in The Holy City. I just wanted to see if I could do it. I’d fled here to get away from T.

(Tip: a serrated knife is not the best thing to cut yourself with—you really gotta saw!)

June 2016, I was calling nut-houses again. I would rather have been in a nut-house than with T. I went to Ala-Non and on the way home (in Albany with T.) I stopped at the graveyard—my solace spot—and laid on the ground smoking a cigarette. I thought about how to die. That was not long ago.

The panic attacks have plagued me since 2014.

I CHOSE TO ELECTRICALLY SHOCK MY BRAIN! I LOST OVER A YEAR AND A HALF OF MEMORY AND I BEHAVED LIKE A DIFFERENT PERSON.

Gee, Kate, why aren’t you teaching full-time or even working at Walmart?

Um, because I still CANNOT promise that I will not kill myself. I wish I could. But, I can’t. I can promise that I won’t kill myself in small sections of time.

Mom—God—Aunt Faerie—I promise to not kill myself through the inauguration. I swear to God, Mother Mary, and on Angel’s life. That’s what I can promise for now.

I talked to a woman today at Burning Bed—she lived in a house that was literally making her sick. Black mold. I said my marriage had made me sick.

Maybe the house made me sick too.

I fled here for healing and safety every time. Every time in my life The Holy City was a refuge from cheating, lying, drunk, controlling, abusive boyfriends, Nan, and a husband.

My Plains of Happiness is here. Or so I said in Gram’s eulogy in 2012.

I survived the loss of Gram. My only real grandmother. I survived the loss of my marriage. I survived the loss of the only career I ever knew. I survived the loss of a deep-seated illusion with T.

 Maybe, I’m NOT losing My House. Maybe I am leaving My House so that I can live.

Under my window in the bedroom I have a title from a book written on the wall “Here I Stay 8/1/12” (Or 8/1/13.) Maybe if I do stay there—I will never be able to live. Maybe I will just be one of the Walking Dead.

I can’t see a future—a tomorrow. I wish my I’d followed through in 2014. But, I’m here.

God and Mother Mary didn’t want me.

So now what?

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: Not what I expected to write. It just all came out that way. Not proofing—just posting. Time to go to Aunt Faerie’s for dinner. G-Pa has his coat on. Shit. I don’t even have time to pee.