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