Gut Punch

Dear Hearts,

I was gut-punched. By whom? I dunno. Maybe God…maybe life…maybe just the laws of nature…maybe because of my own fucking stupidity.

I cannot let go of My House. I can’t figure out how to do. And, I pray and pray and pray…

Today I went out to the Graveyard and just screamed and cried out and hollered until my throat hurt.

I really don’t ask God why a lot. Today, I did.

“Scream…crying…fuck! Fuck! I deserve a fucking answer! Why is this happening to me and mom and Dad. Fuck! I’ve had enough. Please…please…fuck! I am so fucking angry with you. Five fucking years I have been suffering! I don’t fucking care about the refugees or kids in the hospital with cancer. I HURT!”

I went Jersey Job on God’s ass.

Three emails last night: Overdraw charge at the bank; realtor’s assessment of My House; and ADT notice that my furnace has turned itself off.

Yesterday Mom went with me to therapy. I cried and sobbed.

I think I finally figure it.

My House which I’ve had for the better part of my adult life is My House. I can smoke anywhere I want. I can recreate the Cuban Missile Crisis with Barbie. I can leave a spoon on the floor in the middle. It’s mine. My rules. I’m not a charity case.

I am so fucking ambivalent—I think this may be harder than my divorce. I dreamt I was in England last night—but it was a feeling of total peace, like those dreams, usually are.

Where is my Urchfont?

Will I ever find a house that big again with a spring? Did or could that house even make me happy? Do I want to live there in Henry?

G-Pa is pissed off because Mom and I were on the phone today during Pie Day.

Dad was driving 85 miles an hour down Route 80 with Maddie dying, suffocating beside him. They made it to the hospital. She’s gonna have surgery tomorrow. Poor Dad…poor Maddie…poor Mom.

I don’t want strangers walking through and appraising my house.

Do I want to live here, in The Holy City? G-Pa got mad at Mom for being on the phone with Dad.

“What’s the matter with him? Can’t he take care take of things himself?”

“No! He can’t fucking dealwith a dog dying beside him! He needs his wife!”

*****

Old man, G-Pa, I love you. I do. But I also fear getting in trouble with you. The water bottles couldn’t be in the living room when we were having a friend of the family come over? Fucking really?

Yes, I married and dated rejects. A man (God forbid he has facial hair) who has been divorced is a reject. I’m divorced. Am I a reject? I guess so. No, I can’t just walk away from My House.

I will wear a hat wherever the fuck I want. And I WILL NEVER WEAR STOCKINGS AND SANDALS. And I wear tank tops that show off my cleavage—I’m not putting on a show—they are comfortable. Fucking deal with it.

My Dad is not a loser! T. is not seeing other women? Why the fuck would you say that? No, the house just isn’t on the market...with a snap of my fingers.

I can’t get my head around—come to peace with a decision to let go of that house and it physically hurts.

Suicide has crossed my mind—but not in a specific way. That’s a feat. I guess if I couldn’t stand the loss of My House I could also knock myself off then.

You don’t get to yell at me with I drive in a way you don’t like. You put fucking napkins in the freezer!!

I guess you want me here. I don’t really fucking know. Ya, know what G-Pa—and I stress again, I love you. But I am a package fucking deal. I come with Barbie and cigarettes. And, I am not turning off my fucking phone. It’s not gonna happen. So, if you want me here—then you’re gonna hafta accept my smoking in the basement and my stuff in the living room.

Yeah, I fucking use the microwave and I’m sorry I married and fell in love with rejects. You do really understand that I tried to kill myself??

Oh, and eating! I will fucking eat when I want!

*****

Something died when I OD’ed. Some part of me died. I crossed a line and I can’t ever go back.

Maddie has to live.

I just want some fucking peace. Just peace. Just make it stop hurting.

God, after five fucking years I deserve a Burning Bush—fucking tell me what to do and tell me plain!

Without the house what the fuck do I have to show for my life? Where the fuck do I belong?

Nowhere.

All my things…the pink walls…my couch…the beautiful shelves…the big closets.

Can houses be bad?

I don’t know what I want to do, who I am, or where I belong.

FUCK.

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.

Grateful For:

Health

Angel--please Saint Francis don't make me hafta take her to the vet

Shameless

Cigarettes 

Pie

Ice-Coffee

Mom 

Dad

SSD