I May Crack...

Dear Hearts,

So I started this blog over 24 hours ago, but then I got distracted…oh Mom and I walked Up Town and I had Mass. And, of course there had to be time for a cigarette and coffee.

My posts are going to be more sporadic since I am going East Tuesday. I am going Home. PA, Mom and Dad’s House, My House, will always be Home. But, I also closing up My Life in New York. The House in Henry has not been My House for a long time, if ever. I am leaving The House, just like I left T. and Asshole. I am closing My Life in NY. I am not just leaving it; I am done with it.

I am terrified. See, I think I have learned to control the demons Here-to a certain extent. I had The Big One—a really bad episode Wednesday when I went to therapy. I cried and sobbed and pulled at my hair and babbled and blubbered. My filter was gone and it just all came out.

Martha called it a “Temper Tantrum.” I really don’t like that term. “Temper Tantrums” are what kids have when they are tired, cranky, hungry, don’t get their own way. While G-Pa was in and out of the hospital with all of this UTI business, I did not “lose it.” I had to be in control. Just like when Mom got the pacemaker (thanks to me), I was in control. I think I was getting suicidal toward the end of that month because I knew what I was going back to: T. I digress. I didn’t have a “Temper Tantrum.” I just let out verbally and physically all my fears, demons, and…fears. So, Martha, think on that. It wasn’t a “Temper Tantrum.” I woulda had it whether Mom were here or not.

I don’t have a proper segue here. I have cut and pasted this blog all around, which is unusual for me.

Honestly, I am not sure was worse: Asshole or T.

I do declare that hereupon Asshole will be known as Arthur. So let it be written, so let it be done.

I never really believed T. was the love of my life. I hadn’t lied to myself that badly in a long time. I read an article about Marilyn Monroe—her Brentwood House is for sale: 6.9 million. Fuck, I just try to come up with the 500 bucks my UC meds cost each month. Even though I loved Marilyn and always have, according to T. she was a fucking whore, bitch, cunt. Or some combination of the above.

My favorite movie ever, True Romance, that I tried to share with T.—he fucking criticized it the whole way through. That movie has a lot of me in it. I told him that if he wanted to know me, read Mists of Avalon. He never did. Arthur did love True Romance, but he read Mists. I remember tender moments with Arthur. I loved him. I married him. He was, I thought, the love of my life. I will always love him. He was my husband regardless of what the Catholic Church says. He was mentally ill. He didn’t choose to be mentally ill—yes, he bears plenty of responsibility for not getting help. But, T. chose to drink and be a fucking alcoholic.

I must have had no self-esteem, no ego, when I OD’ed. I guess you can’t OD and have an ego and self-esteem. I will never forget how clear my thoughts were that night as I prepared to die. So, T. was a rusted, broken anchor, but he was the only one I had. And, he said all the right fucking things. Blah, blah. I’ve been over this. But, Arthur never called me a “cunt.” Oh, he was “deliberately cruel,” but he never called me names (swear names) until I filed for divorce. Then from behind a closed door, I was a “fucking retard.” T. called me that too, actually—but then he would immediately apologize. He preferred “fucking bitch/cunt.” Oh, that’s better. And, the lies T. told—the delusions. What is my point? I don’t know, honestly.

I way digress.

I have been diagnosed with PTSD. It took me a long time to accept that diagnosis. Soldiers who risk their lives for our country have PTSD. Rape and assault victims have PTSD—not verbally abused women with graduate degrees. But, I do. When G-Pa told me to take down the picture, I heard T. and Asshole telling me what I could and couldn’t put on the wall. When G-Pa is all up in my business about how I mow the lawn I hear Asshole. When G-Pa criticizes my driving I hear G-Pa. When Bugsy swears at me, I hear Asshole and T. I have PTSD. I admit it. I declare it.

I mentioned this neighbor guy, Cocksucker in as PS in another post. I am going to refer to him as Cocksucker. Hey, this is my blog and if I wanna curse, I’m gonna. Fuck, yeah. I digress again.

Cocksucker is one of the neighbors. Not—shit, I can remember what I call the asshole neighbor who always checks out my tits when I smoke outside. Toothless. Even though he got a new pair of chompers.

Right across from my bedroom window is the window other neighbor’s living room. Cocksucker. Why is he a cocksucker? Because he abuses his family. I heard him through my bedroom window a week or so ago.

“You fucking worthless piece of shit. You fucking bitch. What the fuck is the matter with you? You’re fucking worthless…douche-bag. Fuck you.”

Yeah, just the put the above on repeat and add some other swears and cruelty in. I didn’t hear the word “cunt.” T. had no problem with “cunt,” he even called his daughter that—in private.  

I was back with T. and Arthur when I heard Cocksucker.

I was so hoping I was wrong. I was so hoping that Cocksucker was on the phone or just having a fit. I have been known to have those. And, those Comcast service reps can be intolerable. But, no, Cocksucker was talking to his wife. And Fran hears it all. And, Fran will date and marry men just like Dear Ole’ Cocksucker.

Fran is the the acne-stricken young daughter with red hair and freckles who confidently put out her hand for me to shake. I shook hands with her. Don’t worry—I washed thoroughly. They were having a yard sale. I went over with the purpose of determining…well, whether I was right or wrong.

We chatted. I won’t do a blow-by-blow. She is home-schooled. But, she told me that if I needed her between 8 and 3 p.m., I’d have to knock on the door really hard, since she had music blaring in her ears. Odd. Something isn’t right there. Anyway, her mom or step-mom and friend/step-something were also there. Just the women.

I gave Fran a Burning Bed card and I put my number on the back. She confirmed that her dad yells at her mom.

Toothless and his family yell at each other: “Why did you fucking cook chicken again?” Fuck you.”

Cockersucker abuses his family: “You stupid, fucking bitch. You worthless piece of shit, douche-bag. What the fuck is the matter with you? You are so fucking stupid. You asshole.”

Today, I was telling Dr. Swede about Fran and Cocksucker. He has worked with Burning Bed for years. I told Fran—in a month—she could call me and/or come to My House 24/7. Yes, G-Pa’s House is My House, too. (Even if I can’t hang a picture I made for Gram in the living room because it’s not in a proper frame). I digress. I gave her a brief on Burning Bed’s resources.

But when I was telling Dr. Swede about Fran I had a Flashback.

“It meant so much to me to know that I could go to Amy’s house anytime of the day or night when I was living with Arthur and things were really bad—dangerous. It meant so much to me to have a safe place to go if necessary.”

I remembered the little To Go back I kept in the closet with my meds, essential numbers, a change of clothes, Angel’s meds, and a bit of food.

I remember exactly what that bag looked like and where I kept it. I remember the material of the bag. Two milligrams of Xanax.

I have done all I can do for Fran. I can’t get involved in her life. I can’t save her. I couldn’t save myself when Dad was abusive to Mom. (DON’T FEEL GUILTY MOM!) I can’t save Fran. I am still trying to save myself.

I want the Second Act of my life to be better than the First Act.

I don’t want to go home. The demons are there. The Badness and Darkness are there…just waiting for me. So, WHY THE FUCK DO I STILL HAVE AMBIVALENCE ABOUT LEAVING THE HOUSE? I don’t want to fall back into the well—having to tread water in the dark, when it would be so easy to slip under.

I just wanna stay here. Home. But…

Like that tornado that I was waiting for that night…if it were going to kill me, I was going to look that motherfucker in the face…

I need to look My NY Life—that Motherfucker in the face. You won’t fucking beat me. I made a promise, an oath to God—you won’t win. I will fight you, Motherfucker. I will fight you with everything I’ve fucking got.

“I may crack, but I’ll never shatter.”

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: Now I am gonna have my second cigarette for the day, shower and eat. Then color or draw.

PPS: GOD, PLEASE HELP ME. CHRIST I THROW MYSELF ON YOUR MERCY. SAINT JUDE, PLEASE I BEAR WITNESS TO YOU EVERY DAY, HELP ME. MOTHER MARY…

PPPS: Not proofing this one at all, just posting it.

PPPPS: My PTSD ain't bad enough to not make me want to go over there to fat Cocksucker and say, "Bring it! See how a Jersey girl can fight back, Mo-Fo."

PPPPPS: And I hate fucking traveling and packing!

Grateful For:

Amish Pumpkin Cinnamon Rolls

Orange is the New Black Season 2

Faith

Health

Family

“Shatter” Meredith Brooks.

Prick of a pin, no blood on me
I've been tested, total wasted, in too deep
To the zone, I retreat
What doesn't kill ya makes you strong eventually
Blade to my skin, blurring the edge
Seven doves are waiting for me up ahead
I just breathe in, I just breathe out
I've taken every hairpin curve by now
I may crack but I'll never shatter
I may crack but it doesn't matter
I may crack but I'll never shatter
I may crack

Promised the world, dropped in a pool
Was it fun, did you enjoy acting so cool
Well, here's the thing, still have my head
I stumble hard but I'm not sleepin' in your bed
Saved by the sun, no shame on me
We come out screaming it's the only time we're free
I just breathe out, I just breathe in
I ride the wave until I come again

I may crack but I'll never shatter
I may crack but it doesn't matter
I may crack but I'll never shatter
I may crack but I'll never shatter
Cuz I still have a secret
In the dark I keep it close
I still have a secret no one knows

I may crack but I'll never shatter
Tested, wasted, over and over
I may crack but it doesn't matter
In the darkness I am the shatter
Shake down, twisted and tied
It's amusing that I'm doing fine
I just breathe in, I just breathe out
I may crack, but I'll never shatter
Cuz I still have a secret
In the dark I keep it close
I still have a secret no one knows

Just Being There

Dear Hearts,

I have a choice at this 2.30 p.m. Central Time: pay bills or blog. My choice is obvious. Tomorrow is official bill day anyway. Angel is nestled on Mom’s bed. Traitor!

The reality of what is before me weighs on me now that I am no longer in crisis mode. I felt such a sense of serenity after Easter Vigil Mass.

Mom just took G-Pa out for a drive.

“Kate’s not going? I thought she liked taking drives,” said G-Pa.

“She does,” said Mom. “She just has some computer work that she has been putting off.”

And the Oscar for Best Actress goes to Kate Therese Kennedy!

I fought G-Pa and G-Pa won by telling Mom to tell me to take the picture I made for Gram down. I did. I hung it in my bedroom.

Post Blog Events Sunday:

I broke THE CARDINAL RULE. My first cigarette and coffee of the day are sacred. I have said it before and I mean it. If Christ to come while I was having my first cigarette and coffee of the day, he’d just have to wait. Because of G-Pa, that Sacred Ritual was interrupted. Oh, Hell, No. This did not bode well.

My only goal for Easter Sunday was to watch the Ten Commandments and blog. I blogged. I relaxed with a few cigarettes and coffee. About 9.00 or so, I was showered and ready to eat Aunt Faerie’s leftover pasta and watch Heston at his best. Then G-Pa decided that yes, we should go to the ER. Did he go willingly? Abso-fucking-lutely not.

Let’s put it this way, I fought G-Pa and I won.

Easter night I learned how to change a catheter night bag to a day bag and how to empty the said bags.

Aunt Faerie came to the hospital to “just be there.” What a difference another person can make. Just to have someone else there. You’re not alone. It’s not all on you. Just her being there…Thank you, God.

Don’t tell Aunt Faerie, cause I was really gonna eat the past Sunday night, but then I got home so late I couldn’t…I had to throw it away (after a week). Instead, I had oatmeal and a banana to justify my eating the Amish Pumpkin Cinnamon Roll she bought me from The Garden House.

I got as far as Moses returning to Egypt to demand Pharaoh “Let my people go.”

Monday, Mom Flying In At 4.15:

I had to get up early to make phone calls and appointments for G-Pa about the catheter and doctor. I did. He had taken care of the catheter all by himself. It was only selfishness, wishful thinking, and exhaustion that allowed me to go back to sleep thinking that.

I wake up around 10 a.m. and realize G-Pa is in the garden pulling weeds! WTF?! His pants are wet because he didn’t connect the catheter at all.

Okay. I got G-Pa inside and got the catheter connected. I am now really, really concerned about his judgment. I know that he didn’t recognize me for a minute when I was in the hospital. I am freaked now.

“What do you want for lunch? There is turkey and potatoes from Aunt Faeire?”

“No, I just want something light. I’ll eat this cherry pie”

Okay, well the cherry pie is homemade and is fruit. The day before for lunch he had canned pears and chips. So, that’s an improvement.

Taking his car keys and my car, I do a Walmart run for Prozac and the Eastern food I am supposed to bring to the meeting Tuesday.

“What kind of platter would you like? Would could make you one for tomorrow.”

“I don’t give a shit…I am not trying to impress anyone and I don’t care. Salami and pepperoni?...no…these are old people…yeah, I’ll stick with Hormel’s honeyed ham and turkey.

I decided to forgo my first cigarette and coffee until I got home from the airport because we had to leave at 3 p.m. I am not gonna rush my cigarette.

G-Pa and I drive to Moline. At least he doesn’t criticize my driving because we’re in my car and he can’t see the speedometer. I do not smoke. I do not drink coffee. I drive in silence for an hour with G-Pa.

UNDERSTAND that I love G-Pa and even with all the stuff that had gone down at this point…I still would rather be here than in NY. But I gotta get it out.

Mommy. Mom. I hugged her. When did she get so small? She is the Mom, she is supposed to be bigger than me and envelop me in her arms.

Mom takes G-Pa to dinner at Aunt Faerie’s house. I still have an omelet (shouldn’t there be two “l’s?) to eat. Aunt Faerie took the hit for me Sunday night and went out to dinner with G-Pa and let me stay home. She brought home dinner to me. I was so grateful. I just needed a break.

G-Pa was cognitively declining and fast. He didn’t understand the catheter, his meds…his judgment was severely impaired.

So, Mom takes G-Pa to Aunt Faerie’s for dinner. I sit and have the best fucking cup of coffee and cigarette ever! I taste the coffee. I hold it in my mouth, letting all my taste buds explore the flavor. I can’t easily describe it…the Gevalia Coffee I drink…it tastes just the right amount of bitter…and earthy. That’s the best I could come up with. Earthy. I relax. I have TWO cigarettes with my coffee while reading The Forgotten Room, a great book by Lincoln Child.

By the time Mom and G-Pa come home, I am doing okay. Tired. But, okay. I shower, take my time, eat, watch some of The Ten Commandments. Mom comforts me by just sitting in Gram’s chair and doing her thing.

After wrestling is over for G-Pa at 10 p.m. Mom and I would help G-Pa with his cath bag. I am quietly watching Moses and Sephora and starting to outline my St. Michael Wolf drawing in ink. Mom is in the kitchen.

“I think I have a problem,” I hear G-Pa say.

“OH MY GOD, DAD!” screams my mother as I hatefully, but carefully put down my drawing and fly into the kitchen.

How can I describe the scene?

Mom compared the scene to an abortion! I didn’t know she even had any abortion points of reference.

For women, it might be a typical Monday night when her period has gotten really heavy and she’s been caught unawares.

When blood is covering your 96-year-old grandfather underwear and pants and he has ripped out his catheter, you don’t think—you move.

“I don’t need to go to the hospital. It’s stopped bleeding.”

Mom was yelling, I, clad in jeans and a bra, was pleading with G-Pa that we were going to the ER. He is pissed. We “women are just getting all excited.”

The doctor and nurses tended to agree with us “excited women.”

“You pulled the catheter out yourself!?” asked the stunned doctor.

“Well, it’s been in there long enough. I have seen doctors take them out. I could do it.”

By the Grace of God, he did not do any serious damage. The sent us home with Depends and a sorry G-Pa.

I got as far as Moses and his people crossing the Red Sea, when I went to bed at 1.21 a.m.

Tuesday, Urology Appointment Day:

Mom took the hit and took G-Pa to the urologist who fucking stupid ass nurses said there was no appointment. Mom rarely gets mad, but there was that time at Friendly’s when Gaia and her friend order $35 worth of appetizers…and this time…the MD was in surgery. They called him. Mom can be formidable. She didn’t get the money back at Friendly’s, but she got the nurses to call the MD. He confirmed the appointment. BAM! BITCHES! YOU BEEN SERVED!

I was so tired I was incoherent. I took a “hard” nap in the afternoon. You know, the ones where as soon as you lie down you start dreaming a bit and then there is nothing until you wake.

Slowly as the day wore on, G-Pa became less confused and more himself. I can’t remember how many Xanxes I had taken since Thursday. I know I had an episode at the hospital Monday night.

Last night G-Pa went to his Club meeting and Mom had Chinese food with Aunt Faerie and Bugsy. I relaxed with my cigarette and coffee. Again, earthy. Mom and I took a walk. We found a swastika spray-painted on the sidewalk outside a Protestant Church.

Who does that?

I have not had time so much to think about me leaving here and ending my life in NY, but it’s creeping back.

I don’t wanna.

This past week I have been worried, frustrated, mad, sad, and bewildered with G-Pa, but I still love him, and I still want to be Here.

Oh, and by the way, Moses passed the Staff to Joshua who finally led the Hebrews to the Promised Land.  

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: Bitch, next time you get pushy with me at the pharmacy counter in Walmart, I won’t take a minute to hold my temper with the help of Mother Mary. I will go Jersey on your wrinkled ass.

PPS: Time for cigarette and coffee. Hell, yeah. 

Grateful For:

Bunnies

Angel sleeping with me

Mom

Drawing

Coffee

Cigarettes

A good book

Warm days

Warm nights

He Is Risen

Dear Hearts

God Bless You This Easter Day!

I had such serenity going into the day. That is gone now.

G-Pa needs to go to the hospital and won’t. He’s mad because I put up a picture I painted for Gram? I put it up on the wall above her chair with little bits of tape. Nothing is being ruined. I am not fucking taking it down. I am having an episode. Popped two milligrams of Xanax. He has a UTI. He was in the hospital for 24 hours with low BP and dehydration. Now he can’t go to the bathroom and he’s bloated but refuses to drink water.

This was supposed to be MY DAY. MY BREAK. I had to get that out there. I am not taking him on any fucking drive. And the picture is not fucking coming down.

That’ what I said to her every night before I went to bed. She would be reading in her chair and I would kiss her on the check and her fragrance would come to me as I felt her hair tickled my cheek. Yes, that picture is free-hand, with the help of tutorials.

I am trying really hard to recapture that Serenity…

*******

Dear God,

Thank you for Mass last night. I talked to you among the burbling fountain, fragrant lilacs, colorful tulips, and elegant daffodils.

I swear to you, God, that I will not take my own life, I will not commit suicide, I will not kill myself from this Easter to next Easter. Next Easter I want to, I intend to renew my vow. Give me the conviction and strength to do renew that vow. But, from now until next Easter I will not take my own life.

I will want to. I will think about it. I will obsess about it. I will plan it out and mourn the loss of my Exit Strategy. But, I won’t do it. I will give Mom or Aunt Faerie the pills, Visine, sharp objects if I have to…I will not go back to a hospital. I will not take my own life no matter how great the desire. I swear.

I cannot do this…I cannot pack up my New York life…

Without You.

I cannot do it alone. I need You.

That’s what I heard over and over in my head last night during prayer until I heard a whisper.

“I can’t do it…” I said.

“Without me…” You said. “Without me.”

I need you, Jesus.

I throw myself at your feet; I give all of my life up to you. I follow your Path. Thy Will Be Done. You are The Alpha and Omega. The light in the darkness.

I turn all of the good, bad, and ugly over to you.

Ever Faithful and Cautiously Hopeful,

Kate

*******

Dear Harper,

You are such a beautiful little girl. I will never forget how you lit my Easter candle. And that I walked in front of you so you wouldn’t have to worry about “burning anyone.” Your lavender and eyelet lace dress was much prettier than mine. Your freckles and eyes…I wish all good things for you, Harper. I see God’s face in you. Never lose Hope. Be better than I. Thank you.

Lovingly,

Bridgette

*******

Dear T.

I forgive you. Father said forgiveness is a choice, an act of will. You don’t forget and you may not always feel forgiving, but you can make the choice to forgive.

I watched the RCIA candidates with their sponsors last night…regardless of what happened between us, you will always be my sponsor. You stood beside me as I joined Mother Church. That bond will never be broken. I forgive you.

I will always love you.

I did LIKE you picture of you and Cinderella on Facebook last night. You messaged me that you are a Royal Arch Mason now. I don’t know if you are telling the truth or not. I will not be in your life. You cannot be in my life. I am still angry with you, but I forgive you.

Kate

*******

Dear Asshole,

I forgive you, too. You were my husband. I will always love you and sometimes even miss you.

Then…Kate

*******

What a vastly different Easter than last year, or any other year.

I felt so disconnected from Easter until last night. I didn’t go to Mass Thursday or Friday. I was with G-Pa. Yesterday, in the 80-degree sun, after not being out of the hospital 24 hours, he was weeding.

I stopped that.

I made a wish upon the first star I saw last night.

I may have lost a fingernail or two, but I clawed my way up the slippery walls of the well. I see light…

I smiled at myself in the mirror today. For the first time in a long, long time, I think may have Hope.

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: Even on Easter—to the woman who yelled at me yesterday from the passing car “to put some clothes on!”—I, clad in my work out two-piece, was sweeping up grass clippings after mowing the lawn—my “Fuck You!” still stands. I’m almost 40. Do you got what I got? I doubt it. My milkshake is better than yours. My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.

AND, I was not being “sexy,” I was being comfortable. You think I am going be all sexy on the Avenue across from the elementary school? Yeah, that’s my grand plan for finding a husband.

Just remember, My Milkshake is better than yours. “Who's the little mouse now? Bitch!”

PPS: I'm gonna make that lion my BITCH.

PPPS: Angel snores quietly beside me. Tonight, sleep with me! I feed you, cat!

PPPPS: Me and The Ten Commandments, baby. I love it when Charlton Heston parts the red sea. Ramses, you been served!

PPPPPS: Thank you Aunt Faerie! You rule!

Grateful For:

Health

Faith

Family

Pie and pastries

Being Here

Coffee

Warm nights