Howl...

Dear Hearts,

Mickey asked me what depression felt like. Do you feel sad or just empty? Sure.

Today was fine. I slept till ten and leisurely read the Post. I had breakfast/lunch with mom. We talked a bit and then I felt…IT.

“The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.”

“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” T.S. Eliot

I love My Angel, my pussycat—but I have also known some mean cats in my life.This is how it feels—depression—like you are being wrapped up in fog. Your senses are skewed—what you see and hear and smell. It’s “like a patient etherized upon a table.”

You just don’t care about any of it.

I even took a short break and walked with Mom. Mickey suggested I run.

I used to. Like four times a week in three-mile clips.

I just want to go to sleep. Running…I don’t think so.

Thursday was a decent day…I drew, blogged, and corresponded with people. Gaia and Johnny were singing at The Rolling River Café in town. Well, Johnny performs with his band and Gaia does some songs with him. I didn’t want to go. Nope. I wanted to Hobbit-Hole, as I call it. Just hide away.

I had two very bad panic attacks. The second one lasted for two and a half hours—including my hour and a half at The Rolling River Café. I went only because I love Gaia and Johnny. Gaia was beautiful and too bad I couldn’t hear her voice totally over the keyboardist! But, she was great and of course, Johnny is the consummate performer. I was literally trying to force a slight smile on my face, so I would look sociable.

I just looked at all the different kinds of people there and thought—

Go home. Why are you here? Do you have nothing better to do? Eating out and drinking alcohol and listening to Kurt-Cobain-Wanna-Be-Rejects (with the exception of the time Johnny performed.) 40-Something, no one wants to see you dance in your chair. Hat-Lady—you’re fucking creepy. Take your hat and your notebook and go. This isn’t the Horses. You’re not betting, you're not drawing in a sketchpad, are you doing word searches? WTF? Really? Just go home.

Gaia, I’m sorry I didn’t have a good time. I wanted to. I just…failed.

Maddie, my Mom and Dad’s remaining dog, was like on over-drive Thursday night. St. Francis, thank you. St. Francis saved Maddie’s life. She has A-Typical Addison’s and a thyroid problem. She also gets panicky and worked up. But the last few days she has not been behaving well. Then Friday night she made sounds that I never heard an animal make—and Dad and Mom rushed her to Animal ER. She is fine now. But, guess what the covering doctor proclaimed---no smoking, fires, sprays, candles, etc. in the house. Fucking Yay. She stayed over night and then the covering doctor the next day said that –eh, that environmental stuff didn’t really matter.

I am now out smoking in the cold. I know how selfish and petty I sound. I love Maddie. But she does not have this…LP…thing she was quasi-maybe-perhaps-diagnosed-with-until-Maddie’s-regular doctor could say. So, I can’t smoke in the basement anymore. I was allowed on the glassed in porch with the door closed, the window open, and some Febreeze. Now I have to go out in the cold.

People are fucking dying of starvation and I am complaining about where I can smoke! What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m in The Fog. Cigarettes make me feel…I smoke four a day. I need them. Everything else can be going to shit in my life, but if I can have a cigarette, then things are at least a modicum better. I know how pathetic that sounds. But, it’s the truth.

4 o’clock coffee and cigarette make the life worth living. So, I know I am a horrible person for having these feelings—but I promised myself to be honest here. So, there it is.

None of my anxiety of depression has ANYTHING to do with the fact that Friday Mom and I drove to My House and met with a realtor. Martha wanted me to pack up one box. I packed two Tupperware-tubs: ike 10 Barbies!; books, faeries, Pocket Dragons, pictures. The Realtor, Randi, told me in her thick NYC Accent that I would be lucky to get what I owe on My House.

Really, I can’t “process” (I motherfucking hate that word) being at My House Friday. It’s the last vestige of the life I thought I wanted, of the life I had—the last vestige of me before I fell apart.

That night Mom and Dad took Maddie to the ER—Gaia had come over and Mom and I were gonna have pizza. Gaia—my wonderful sister---

As I stood shaking, “I can’t give you anything. I can’t be sociable. All I can do is watch  Shameless with you and eat pizza.

“That sounds like a great plan to me.”

After I was done with my pizza I schooched—yes, that’s a word—over to Gaia and put my head on her shoulder. I was glad she was there and I didn’t have to “give” anything.

I am so fucking Blessed by God. Then why am I fucking complaining!!???

I have four more days home. We leave Friday. I have an appointment every day. Tomorrow is HUD in Albany—please, Christ, take me now. Just take me now.

I didn’t go to Mass last night, because I was at Mom’s Friend’s House. Jillian. Jillian is a “decorative artist,” meaning she creates beautiful things to make things beautiful. She was taking the time to critique my drawings and give me advice. She is amazing. She is suffering so badly with physical and medical issues related to her cancer, that is now is remission. She hurts all the time. Yet, Jillian had on make-up, her hair done, stockings!, pretty, sparkly Uggs, a sparkly, tasteful sweater, and black skirt. She looked beautiful.

Jillian used to teach art and she taught Mom a lot. Mom can draw. Mom has talent.

And, guess what?

What?

She said I had some “very good” drawings. That I had “knack” for it—maybe even a little talent.

I don’t suck! My drawings don’t suck! Totally. And Jillian doesn’t compliment unless she means it. I can do the basics! Me! She said I can draw a human body! Me! I was so grateful for her time and compassion. And, so sorry for her pain.

But there is a big-ass cat that is curled on top of me and I can’t breathe.

Mom has never thought about suicide. Really? Doesn’t everybody? I told Jillian last night—about the bloody razor blade motif in my drawings—that it was the surest way to go, because you could throw up pills.

Tuesday is the accountant and lawyer. Wednesday the GI doctor down in Jersey.

Gaia and Johnny are coming for spaghetti tonight. I love spaghetti. I should be happy.

I just feel alone. 

Howl...

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: To the preppy-sweater-wearing motherfucker—you had best not been taking pictures of my sister’s tits! Yeah, I saw your fucking camera—you had better have been taking pictures of her bracelet and or her shirt design and not her tits. I will hurt you, Mo-Fo. I will.