Please Have A Plan, God

Dear Hearts,

So today was gonna be the day or evening that I blogged a decent post. I dunno if that is gonna happen. I can feel the familiar tingling in my legs. I haven’t taken the Xanax yet. I have a whole list of stuff I wanna talk about, but I am putting myself on a 30-minute limit, because I haven’t eaten yet (it’s 7.44 p.m.) and we all know what happens when I get on an OCD -fueled “Gotta Discuss It All Rant.”

That’s why I stopped journaling in the first place. It had become an obsession. Not something I enjoyed or even cared to do. It was an obsession that I disliked but I had to do every night.

I answer to no one with this blog!

Martha and I were talking—oh, before I forget—

That anxiety and restlessness that I have been feeling—it’s not Wellbutrin. It is fucking CD (Clinical Depression)! It’s just one of the joys of having CD—free floating almost constant anxiety. And, I know what’s coming with My House. I hold out…I still want to keep it. There. I said it. I want to keep it. But…God’s given me enough signs…I can’t. Can I?

Also, I decided that I need more “alone time.” Yeah, G-Pa and I do our own thing at night, but it’s not the same as Solitude. Being with Gram at the Graveyard is solitude. I went there today for almost two hours. I let down my hair literally and just stood in the Sunshine. It was in the warm 50s. (How come when I throw my totally biodegradable banana peel into any woods or bushes of any sort, it always catches on a branch for all to see?) I prayed. Smoked. Read.

That spot…Gram’s Spot…is My Church. I am already waffling on Mass tomorrow. I fucking hate St. Patrick’s Day. He was a fucking murderer who made it his life’s duty to kill Pagans in Ireland. Today is just an excuse to get drunk and eat green shit. Oh! But the Bishop declared a special dispensation today—we can eat meat because even though St. Patrick’s day is on a Lenten Friday, it’s Irish Tradition!

WTF? If the Bishop can do that, then I can interpret the rules about going to Mass every single week, eating meat on Fridays, and swearing more liberally. Whatever.

I digress!

Just because I don’t want to blow my brains out (I’d never do it that way) doesn’t mean I still don’t struggle with CD. The absence of suicidal thoughts does not mean that I am “sucking off the government teat” and ought to be working a 40-hour a week job. Just because I don’t blow my brains out doesn’t mean that I’m all good and cured. I made that mistake before.

When I was in the hospital with UC for nine days, they didn’t send me home and say go back to eating whatever you want and resume all normal activities. They encouraged me to take a leave from work. I don’t remember how it was when I went back. And I taught for another year and a half. The ECT took that away, but maybe that’s not entirely a bad thing. When I quit teaching my UC (GLORY BE TO GOD) went into remission. And, when I was in remission I was not living at My House.

Huh. Never thought of that

When I went into remission from UC, I was not living at my house…

I digressed from what I was going to say: (You can put a colon after a verb-huh.)

Martha and I were…I have no fucking idea what I was gonna say. The list of subjects that I want to talk about (dangling prep) at the bottom of this Word Doc is growing. And my half hour is half up.

Like I am gonna stick to that limit.

In the basement after before, during, after my shower, I was thinking and had a Hopeful thought.

“Stop” is what I said to myself. “Just stop.” And, I meant it. I am too old and fucked up for fairytales.

I took down the picture of Marcia (my beloved Sister-In-Law who killed herself) in my room. She was resting atop the Divine Mercy Image of Christ. Ironic, being that she was a Jew. I did love her. It was like she was my template, though—I “heard her say” when I was in the first Nut House “Live.” But, she was (is?) my template: If she can do it, so can I…I placed her picture reverently in a Bible My Mother gave me. I still have the dragonfly necklace she gave me hanging in my room. But, I put her picture away.

Time’s up.

I still don’t see a future. I can’t imagine a future beyond this—what I am living now. There’s that OBE again.

Who are you? What is this life your living?

Martha and I (remembered!) were talking about Fate. She doesn’t think it exists. I have to believe Fate is so. That Christ was planned out before Creation. I have to believe in Fate, because if there is no Plan to this and it’s all random then I blow my brains out. Seriously. Please God, have a plan. Please. I beg you. Faith.

I told you I wouldn’t stick to the limit.

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 pharmacist to whom I was rude today, I’m sorry. God forgive me. I should have just politely told you to cover your damn mouth when you cough. You think I wanna take a prescription from you after you’ve hacked on it. Ew. Damn. It doesn’t excuse my behavior. But, damn.

PPS: I went over by ten minutes, but I got my 1000 words in! Somehow that is the criteria I hold myself to for a good post. Told you, OCD

PPS: Ain't proofreading this one at all.

Grateful For:

Angel

Pie

Family

Cigarette and coffee

Faith