New. Fears.

Dear Hearts,

So this is totally bizarre. I am typing this post on a wireless keypad with my gently used “new” iPad. I don’t go as far back as learning on a manual typewriter—but I learned on an electric one. I remember Mom typing away on a manual.

CLACK. CLACK. CLACK…CLACKCLACKCLACK…CLACK. CLACKCLACKCLACKCLACKCLACK.

That’s the sound I remember anyway and it was comforting. I would ask her to sit and type in my room when I took a nap or went to sleep.

I remember napping once and deciding that it was all God’s fault.

I hated napping as a child. What the fuck is wrong with children? Why don’t they realize how precious sleep really is? I digress.

My logic was this: Mom was the making me take a nap; my Grandparents made Mom; my Grandparents were made by their parents; and so on. Until you get to the beginning of creation. Give a break. I was like under five years old, so my grasp of Evolution was tenuous at best.

It was God’s fault I had to take a nap.

I digress. I digress because what I need to write about is not what I want to write about.

Anyway, one more little digression.

I remember electric typewriters, word processors, and non-color computers. I remember the Commodore 64, the Vic 120, the early Mac desktops, the dot matrix printing, and the first Mac laptop I got in 1995 that couldn’t even keep up with a basic phone today. I remember dial-up, long distances charges, AOL…

When people talk about technology they seem the act superior if they learned on a manual typewriter. Like—they are tougher and walked backward-uphill-in molasses-in-January to get to school.

But what is wrong with the new?

My keyboard isn’t even a foot long and my iPad—that I can watch movies on and is mostly comparable to my laptop is maybe seven inches. They are not connected by wires. There is no mouse because I have a touch screen. It’s fucking crazy. But awesome at the same time.

My iPhone. Oh, cell phones are the root of all evil or fire if it’s a Samsung. In my freshman Mass Media Class, I was the only Communications major that wrote and opinion defending television and its virtues. We didn’t have internet at all particularly that I can't recall. Jay (RIP), the professor, said that I was the only one to not denigrate TV, even though we were all Comm. Majors. He congratulated me for writing what I believed instead of what I thought I was supposed to say.

Cellphones have a helluva lot of drawbacks. But, I have am never without help. I am always connected in case of an emergency. I can text Gaia and Johnny in Guatemala. My parents knew that Asshole didn’t kill me in the night or that I didn’t kill myself when I called them every morning when I got to school. When Maddie was dying in Dad’s arms, he was able to call me directly—not wait and leave messages for Mom. He had no idea where she was. My Dad called me immediately when Mom had her Heart Issue (Thanks Be to God).

So the new is not necessarily bad. Hell, yes, I got along with an iPhone until 2014. But, now I am totally dependent on it. That is my only phone number. Fuck, even in Nebraska I had Wi-Fi.

The new is not evil.

Which brings me to my real point and the reason I took two Xanax before coming over to Aunt Faerie’s for dinner.

My House. Last night I was having an episode as predicted and I figured let’s do this. I took three Xanax and Mom and I talked about what the hell we are going to do about…

My moving out of My House…

That hurts a lot. There is pain there that I don’t want to even open the door to. I know I will backslide. But, maybe knowing that…I can be ready. I didn’t expect to have a nervous breakdown and end up in a nuthouse. But, I expect there to be pain, sorrow, and loss when I move…

We went room by room through my precious house, that never felt like a true home, but that I fought and bled for. I cross-stitched a little picture of a house with the title: “Kate’s House.”

Mom and Dad bought me a bed and a couch. I don’t know how to let go…

That house is the last vestige of my past life. The life that I tried so motherfucking, cocksucking hard to make successful.

Room by room we discussed what furniture would go into storage, the few items that would come to The Holy City, and what I’d need to let go of. I was detached as we went through the house…I had to be…

I cannot imagine packing it all up. I have so much shit there that I don’t need. A big house catered to my predilection to “save everything just in case or because of sentimental value.”

Paying bills today, for the first time, I regretting having to pay my mortgage.

There is nothing good for me in Henry or in My House (living in it, I mean.) I can’t leave G-Pa.

Can I be happy in a tiny house like G-Pa’s? Was I happy in my big house? No. Is a house going to make me happy?

I am so scared. It’s like I am untethering myself from the last of the chains. But, like Red in The Shawshank Redemption, I don’t know how to live without My House and the remnants of that life. I, at least, could say, I own a home. Can I be happy at all?

I am terrified to let go of the past and I am terrified to go forward.

What do I do with that?

I don’t want to volunteer at Burning Bed tomorrow or go the The Star tomorrow. I just want to hide. Hide. I want a promise from God that it will all be okay. Because things haven’t been okay in a long time. Maybe suicide is cowardly. It’s fucking hard to live.

The next time I open my eyes, I’ll be with Mother Mary.

She didn’t want me.

What do I do with all the pain that is imminently going to break the levees and flood my world?

Noah, how did you do it?

It’s right under the surface—the pain. I am keeping those demons mostly locked up, but they will break out and I am afraid.

PS: They are rattling the prison bars. I fear a riot.

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:

Ice cream

Angel

Health

Family

A Room of One’s Own