Why...How....--UPDATED

Dear Hearts,

Can a house be bad? Evil? Possessed?

From my Pagan perspective, this was an easy “yes.”

Houses, buildings, objects, places…they all can maintain the energy of things that happened in, to, at them before.

If Catholics believe that objects, places, buildings, etc. can be made Holy via a myriad of Blessings…then why not the opposite?

Actually, if you follow the Catholic Church’s teachings on Masonry, then yes, things and places can be evil.

Fuck what Catholics think or don’t think according to the Catechism. When I first became Catholic I was gonna all buck the system and believe what I wanted. Now I feel guilty for having beliefs outside the realm of the Church. I digress.

I know it. I’ve felt it.

When I visited the site of the Wounded Knee Massacre, I felt such inexplicable sorrow and despair. I have gone into homes that just “feel off.” Hell, I have met people that I just don’t trust from the first introduction without any evidence—usually I am right.

If displaying crucifixes, crosses, saints, and other symbols of the Church can bless a house, why can’t a house be cursed also? What about all those demons Christ drove out.

Can a house suck up, like the event horizon of a black hole, the badness it encounters and hold onto it? Can a house suck up people’s emotions and actions and not let go?

I AM NOT COMPARING THE NY HOUSE TO AUSCHWITZ. But, nobody is going there to just hang out and picnic.

Priest bless objects to make them Holy. So, can’t the Devil curse things?

If the Devil works through people, can people curse things?

I don’t mean like Charmed curses to make people forget all they know. I mean like if a place—a home experiences so much badness can that badness just become a part of it?

When I came downstairs in the NY House yesterday morning and fell sobbing into Daddy’s arms—he said he thought the House was bad. He’d had dark dreams all night.

The night before I’d heard voices before falling asleep—auditory hallucinations via lucid dreaming. I’ve seen things.

Fuck, when Arthur and I moved into the House it acted like it was possessed. The lights flickered, stuff didn’t work right…Arthur was in the middle of a psychotic break. I tried to exorcise the House with Holy Water from Glastonbury.  

I got to the NY House about 6.30 p.m. Thursday, by Friday I wanted to kill myself. That House makes me want to kill myself.

I mean, that is the whole idea of a Church, right? Or a Church Graveyard? It’s consecrated ground.

There was happiness in the NY House. I know there was. But, there was a lot of badness too. When I go back there, I am not Kate 2017. I am Kate 2010. That was the first time I seriously considered as an adult killing myself.

Dad made the decision that we were gonna get what needed getting and get the fuck out of the NY House. And, I was not to coming back there alone again.

Part of my liking to be there alone…the whole part of my liking to be there alone was just that. I was alone. I could walk around naked, smoke wherever I wanted, do whatever I wanted. Itch uncouth places, release gas from my colon, attend to my clogged nose, you know! all that eembarrassing stuff. I was alone in a place that was mine. It was mine. I belonged there. And, it’s not like I am living under martial law either here or in Illinois. But, there is something about just being alone. Totally all alone. But, the benefit of being alone doesn’t outweigh the liability of being alone in the NY House.

I slept 11 hours last night. To bed around midnight and I woke up at 11. I felt safe with my stuffies, my statues of Mother Mary, Saint Jude, Saint Therese, and my cat. Dad downstairs with his arsenal and Mom in the bedroom down the hall.

She just came into the “my bedroom.” I hugged her and just shook a little.

“It will be okay,” she said, “You just have to get through this.”

“You don’t know that,” I said.

Why do I have so many Blessings from God, so much Grace? I don’t deserve it. Why do kids is Chicago get shot, a mother survive her daughter in a NYC attack? Why?

“Aye, there’s the rub.”

Why the fuck me, God? Why the fuck me? I tried to be good. Why did you put T. in my life when I was so cognitively impaired? A test? You couldn’t think of a better way to keep my alive?

All I ever wanted was to be a wife and a teacher/writer. Why can’t I have that one really good person who will love me the way Johnny loves Gaia?

Why am I graced with adequate SSD, a choice of places to live, a totally loving and confoundingly loyal family, health? What did I do to deserve to never have to worry about the basics in life? What did I do to deserve my UC to go into remission?

Why do I feel so lost? Why can’t I look myself in the mirror? Why have the “you-stupid-bitch-voices” returned? Why am I am experiencing acne at my age, when I didn’t for most of my life? Why do I have a “good figure?” Why did all the Lithium I swallowed not damage my organs? Why is the wet wool blanket down between me and the world again?  Why can’t I just be good and believe what I am supposed to believe as a Catholic? Why am I “able to not work” and not be destitute? Why does my family love me?

I can give it all up to you. All of it. But, how do I know if I am following the path I am supposed to—the one you want me to? How do I know that your not a cosmic joke?

What should I do? What is the “next thing?”

                                                                H         E          L          P

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: Not proofing this post and I am sorry for being all teenage-angsty. I am just sorry for being.

PPS: I am so sorry for my doubts...forgive me.

Grateful For:

Cigarettes

Coffee

Buffalo meat

Ruby’s frozen yogurt

Health

Family

Angel

UPDATE

It's like being in that House brings on a type of

(Angel just gingerly walked across my laptop and the angle where the screen and keyboard meet--she did not touch one key. Amaz-fucking.)

It's like being the NY House brings on a type of psychosis in me. Where my perspective is skewed and I can't think right. I am not blaming the House for Arthur's psychotic breaks. But, for me--it's like...it continues to torture me. Because I was tortured there.

Reckoning

Dear Hearts,

I have half an hour. ‘Cuz I am gonna eat by eight.

I am back at The House.

Mom woke Dad up last night after reading my blog—I imagine the gun reference put her over the top. Just because you think about a second donut doesn’t mean you’ll eat one. Just because you want to dress someone down to the core, doesn’t mean you’re gonna do it.

I don’t write any of this for attention. It’s just what I feel and I am not going to swallow what I feel anymore.

Yeah, I’m depressed. Yeah, it would be easier to just fall apart.

I’d rather have the thoughts—the demons—out there, outside of me—so they can’t be exclusive to me. Maybe I can deal better?

There was no fuss about my going to The House today. Mom woke me up before she left and said that she would forget Gaia’s Saturday plant walk and come up Friday and Saturday to be with me. I decided to go today.

I have a reckoning with The House.

I’m not even sure what that means, but that’s the phrase that comes to mind. I will mourn my Faerie and Tea Rooms.

I am not going to have Gaia put second because I’m nuts. The focus has been on me for way too long, because I am the injured, PTSD, damaged daughter.

I don’t know what I want. Just peace. To just feel quiet.

This morning I dreamt that I was with Gaia and Johnny—and someone else. He was older than I, with a flop of curly blonde hair, blue eyes, a sun-weathered face. We were swimming in a river and it felt so freeing.

There was also that extra room in "a house" that I found. That’s a reoccurring dream—I’m in a house and find a whole extra room.

But I remember this guy. We were laughing and then laying side by side. I was gently moving my fingers over his face as we looked each other in the eyes. It’s seemed so real. I can still feel his skin. I want that so badly…that’s all I’ve ever wanted. But I have nothing to give anyone at least right now. Hope?

As I was getting ready to leave Mom and Dad’s today, I packed Angel—my pink, lavender smelling Build-A-Bear my parents got me before I had ECT. There is a recording (my voice) that says, “Do not be afraid, just believe. Luke.” If you press his paw the recording plays. It went off like three or four times as I was packing in PA and then like five times when I was bringing the suitcase into The House.

I also found out that I had no fucking bananas. A staple of my diet. So I had to go back to Town—a 16-mile round trip. I was pissed.

But in the car, I was listening to the Catholic Station…this woman was talking about she was “called by God” to have seven kids, she wants another, and she doesn’t believe in birth control. Whatever.

She talked about how she used to be so anxious and worried all the time and the worst things she worried about didn’t usually come to pass. Good for fucking her.

But she also said that we need to put our lives in God’s hands. He will provide. He will give us what we need. Albeit there will be suffering along the way. Live in the moment, she said. To just really have in God and His Plan. I struggle sometimes…I do doubt…But what else can I do?

God will provide. We make choices—free will and all that—but God helps us along the way with the consequence of those choices, maybe.

If I had bananas in The House, I wouldn’t have heard that message.

God talks to us. Through stuffed bears, dreams, and the radio.

I lit a candle, opened the windows, put on the overhead fan, made Gaia’s great coffee, read and smoked two cigarettes in the Tea Room for like over an hour. I liked that.

It’s like The House was my freedom—even though I haven’t lived her for almost three years—it was here. I knew that a place that was mine and mine alone with only rules was here.

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: Thank you God for letting me see the lilacs in their peak.

PPS: Please God…Christ…Mother Mary…Jude…Brigid…Jed…please…

PPPS: 7.58—I stuck to my time limit. Soup and Wasa bread for me!

PPPPS: The Superintenda-Cunt who is coming after Mom's job. Fuck you, bitch. Wouldn't it be a shame if the newspapers found out...

Grateful For:

God talking to me

Reading

Cigarettes

Health

Family

Drawing

Muffins

If I Could Do Anything...

Dear Hearts,

I am tired. So tired. I can put on the Mask. It’s habit really. When I am out and about with the living I can laugh and interact and be sincere—but it doesn’t feel sincere. It doesn’t feel real. That scrim…the veil between the world and me has fallen again.

I look at Dad’s .44 on the dining room table. 

Remember my promise, Mom? So don't freak.

Maybe I am just going fucking crazy.

I was listening to Beyonce on the way home from errands and I paused the music. I “heard” God saying that it will be all right. That I will have a Home again. I will have a place to put my things.

“I have always relied on the kindness of strangers...” (A Streetcar Named Desire)

I am so blessed in so many ways. I have a home—two home, my parents’ and G-pa’s to go to. I could live in either one. But, it’s not my home. I am literally living on my family’s generosity. That’s what family does…I know…but still…I am turning 40 in less than two months and I am reliant on the government and my family. So much to be proud of.

I-We-Mom—hit the wall with packing. We were gonna stay through Monday but we went home Sunday. I felt like I was close to losing my grip on reality. Everywhere I looked, I was just panicked. (Why does “panicked” have a “k” in it?”)

I am supposed to go on a walk with Mom. I don’t wanna. But it will justify my decadent frozen yogurt treat tonight.

My new mission is to fill two plastics containers to take back to The Holy City with me.

I know I’ve lived…

I got one sneak partially on and wondered what it would be like to be totally free? To just do what I wanted instead of what I OUGHT to do. So I said fuck it. I’m not gonna walk.

I do not recognize the person in the mirror.

I digress.

I know I’ve lived without “my things” in the House for several years. But, they were there. I knew exactly where my fluorite crystal ball was. I knew the exact location of my: stickers, fluorite wand, each Barbie, Fitzgerald and Steinbeck books, the pencil tin that I used to keep my clandestine cigarettes in, the Figment Dragon from Disney World, the ink well from the cheap gift store, the oil burner...Now these things are all in prioritized boxes.

I know that God was trying to reassure me, but…I believe…I have Faith. I do.

My life came apart at the scenes in 2012 when Gram died. The fabric can’t be put back together the way it was. It has to be mended and sewn into a totally new design. And, I don’t sew.

I keep going back in my mind to those two pieces of paper I found in my “secret space” in my desk.

The one had insurance and beneficiary information from 2014 with the clear assertion that my insurance had no suicide clauses. Those customer service reps I called that day…what did they think when I was asking about suicide clauses?

The other had what I wanted to be buried in: green dress (I don’t know which one now), cowboy boots (I didn’t have my Cross Cowboy boots yet), my tan and brown hat, my purple worry bear, and the Rosary from Salisbury in England.

I don’t know why I keep going back to those two pieces of yellow legal note paper. Finding them knocked the breath out of me. It scared me. I was fucked up. Seven months later I calculatingly took 150 pills.

I just keep going back to that note about what I wanted to be buried in.

My health for a job? My health for a house? My happiness? When was I lastly truly happy? A while ago I would have said when I first met T. But, no. My honeymoon? I don’t know. Does it matter?

I don’t know where this blog is going. It’s just tumbling out of me like rocks. Little jagged rocks.

Living life an holding it together is hard. That Dear Hearts, who don't have CD, is a full-time fucking job.

I just want to have coffee and a cigarette.

So if I lived in a world where I could do whatever the fuck I wanted—that’s what I would do right now. So that’s what I’m gonna do right now.

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: The Jackalope is so coming with me

PPS: I am spending my 40th Birthday on the East Coast.

PPPS: I decided to not eat with Mom and Dad and read and smoke with my coffee. That's what I wanted to do. I did it.

PPPPS: It'd be easier to fall apart.

Grateful For:

Ruby’s Frozen Yogurt

Health

Angel

Family

Faith

Cigarettes

Gaia’s great coffee

God not giving up on me
Drawing

me

Dear Hearts,

I have a limited amount of blogging time. Like half and hour.

Mom is watching The Preakness and I am sitting on the floor in the Spring Room.

I have been “functionally episodic for over an hour now.” Whatever. It doesn’t compare to the really bad one I had last night.

My average cigarette intake is up to five a day. OMG. I fucking deserve it. And I deserve that third little Peppermint Pattie at lunch. Last night the chocolate and peanut butter sundae from the local ice cream place was so motherfucking good.

I just closed the door to the room. It reminds me of when Arthur lived here and I had to lock myself in. But I don’t really care to hear the horse race “trumpet call.”

I survived almost 72 hours here by myself. I did it. I came close a time or two, but I did it.

In the last blog, the article about returning to the place of the trauma…it all makes so much fucking sense. But I am still gonna miss this house---the lilacs, the Spring Room…

The Faerie Room—that’s what Mom and I worked on yesterday and today. The Faerie Room was my refuge. All my most precious things were in there.

Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s only stuff, you can’t take it with you, don’t worship the mundane.

But I—well, I do have junk—but what Mom and I were packing in the Faerie Room was not junk. Gifts from Gram. Beautiful collectibles. (NOT FUCKING KNICK NACKS).

I am burying the lead.

This is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. I think harder than filing for divorce…

I am packing my life away. Yes, some of the stuff can get packed away. I don’t NEED the Barbie Burger King on display. But what about: the first collector Barbie Dad got me…the music box from Gram…my books…spiritual things that have had meaning to me for years beyond Arthur.

It’s not like I am just moving and I’m gonna set up shop somewhere else. I am packing up my life and I have to decide what to store and what I can take with me to My One Room at G-Pa’s. God, I am grateful for that room. I am. And, the potential for that to be my home. But, I am not like the Drunk Farmer I dated in college…I am not waiting for G-Pa (Cross myself) to die and then just think I can put all my stuff out. I don’t want him to die—I am not ready for that and I’m convinced we can give him some good times before…

Aunt Faerie, I’m sorry, but I have to put it out there. It took all my self-control to not call Bugsy the night of the fire at G-Pa’s house. When Mom called him—his response was “What kind of idiot puts plastic on a live burner on a stove?” A 96 year old man who has live a life extraordinaire. I’m sorry Aunt Faerie, but I promised myself to not “hold back” in this blog. I wanted to fucking kill Bugsy that night. But G-Pa is okay. And I will be back soon.

I digress…

Will I ever be able to display—to be with all my precious things again? Things do have meaning. They do and it’s not a flaw or sin or a sign of shallowness. Wedding rings have meaning. The little coin purse Gram bought for me but never got to give me, because she died, has meaning.

Fuck. Catholics are way attached to their sacred medals and statues…and no, Barbie is not a sacred metal…but those sacred objects have power, energy. I am packing my sacred objects up.

Yes, G-Pa’s is My Home, but not really.

I am screaming inside. I don’t know---no, I do—by the Grace of God I am keeping it together. All I want to do is smoke cigarettes and not be dealing with this.

I found the notes that I had made in 2014, before I went into the first nut house. The insurance notes about beneficiaries and not suicide clauses. And then I found a list: green dress, brown and tan hat, Cross cowboy boots, Maurice (purple worry bear I sleep with always), and Rosary from Salisbury Cathedral. WTF? I realized that the list was what I wanted to buried in.

I was in serious trouble for a long time for me to reach that point. My breakdown was a long time in coming.

Yes, I have not lived almost three years in this house with my things. But, I always knew the option was there.

I could come back here.

So fuck me! So condemn me! Say I am fucking greedy and materialistic and a bad Catholic! Seriously, say it. This is me for better or most likely worse. BUT MY PRECIOUS THINGS MATTER TO ME. THEY ARE A PART OF ME. I am dissecting myself among, one bedroom, my parents’ house, and a storage shed.

As Father said, I am letting go of the tethers…but what can I hold onto now? God, family, yes. Abso-fucking-lutely.

But ME. I am taking my life a part in a very final way. (I am running on time…) Dreams failed, wishes wished…external assurances of who the fuck I am.

I cannot express…

AND DON’T TELL ME THERE ARE KIDS IN ALEPPO SUFFERING MORE, ‘CUZ YA’ KNOW WHAT? THERE ARE ALSO PEOPLE WHO AREN’T SUFFERING LIKE ME. WHO DON’T CARRY XANAX ON THEIR PERSON.

I cannot express the visceral, spiritual, emotional pain and fear.

Two minutes…

I lied to myself for a long time about this house. I had to lie—I had to lie to survive. But, I feel like I am being torn apart at the seams. It hurts so fucking much.

And, I can’t see a future…

By the Grace of God, I am not think of offing myself…but that doesn’t mean that this doesn’t hurt.

If I really let all the hurt out—I don’t know what would happen…

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: I went two minutes over. Gotta go.

PPS: No time to proofread

Grateful For:

Mom’s help

Chocolate and Peanut Butter Sundays

Cigarettes

Health

Faith

Mickey

Family

Lilacs

E-cigarettes

Buffalo meat