I am back at The House. Alone. As soon as I got in the door I felt compelled to arm the security system, which is unnecessary. I don’t feel safe here.
I could write a tome of the happenings of the last six days—all the messy stuff that is life. But, I’m not. I’m tired.
I got here and got everything put away—including a dead mouse with live MAGGOTS! OMG! EWWWWW!
I lysoled the shit out of this house—but I am by myself so I can do that.
The Ghosts of the House just float through the rooms mumbling.
I’ll never own six-bedroom house again. But, I guess I should resign myself to the living the rest of my life in The Holy City. I know that plans—well, they erupt like Mount Vesuvius and you have to deal with all the fallout.
Arthur bought me a Jag. I had a Saab in high school. I’ve driven a Volvo and an Audi. Well, I only drove the Volvo for like two days because Arthur totaled it.
I felt so good about myself driving to Cambridge (grad school) in my Jag.
But those cars…they didn’t bring me happiness.
My Sonata—the first new car I ever leased. That made me happy. It was mine and I could afford it. And, everything worked! There were no weird “pre-owned” glitches. My Elantra, a step down from the Sonata, but given to me by SAINT JUDE.
I do admit that I miss the Sonata’s seat warmers—but, I am more grateful for the Elantra than any other car (except the Saab maybe—my first) than I have ever had. It ain’t fancy. But zero down and $194 a month payments. Saint Jude made that happen.
I’m still a Calvin girl. There ain’t no way I am wearing anything but Calvins on my fine ass. But I also wear shirts from Walmart. I have designer bags—nothing over $100. All the perceived status (a six bedroom house sounds pretty fucking impressive) has not saved me from this THING I am in.
It is gut wrenching to let go—but I know I must. I woke up screaming the other night because I saw a man (don’t know who), but somebody by the bedroom door.
I’ve already taken two mgs of Xanax.
I remember filling out this stupid job survey in junior high—which said I would be a good match as a florist. WTF? Prestige was one of the boxes I checked for what I wanted in a career. I felt shitty about myself. I have felt shitty about myself since junior high—27 years give or take. But, no Coach Bag or 2,300 square foot house, or Burberry scarf is gonna fill the hole.
I really haven’t lived anywhere since I left The House in the fall of 2014 and moved in with my parents temporarily because I was suicidal and ended up getting ECT. Then I lived at T.’s. I need to set down roots. I am like English Ivy. I grow and sprawl—and I want to attach myself to whatever I can to create a sure footing. It is time for me to put down roots. And here ain’t the place—but it still hurts like a motherfucker.
I CAN’T EXPLAIN IT, OKAY?! I DON’T TOTALLY GET IT! I JUST KNOW THAT LEAVING THIS HOUSE FUCKING HURTS. I REALLY DON’T GIVE A FUCK WHY. IT JUST DOES.
I know I got Ulcerative Colitis because of stress. But, medically it’s an idiopathic disease. Well, I don’t know why…I just am severing the last remaining tie of my old life. AND IF MOTHERFUCKING, COCKSUCKER, GODDAMN, SWEET MOTHER OF FUCK, MOOSECOCK, FUCKING CUNT, BITCH-ASS HURTS. A lot. Physically hurts.
SO I DON’T FUCKING KNOW WHY—BUT THERE IT IS. THAT IS MY FUCKING TRUTH.
I told my shrink yesterday that I had made a Covenant with God that I would not kill myself from this Easter to the next and then I would hopefully renew the contract. He said I should stand in front of my parents and tell then that they will never bury me…Dad confirmed to the shrink that my Promise to God was very real.
“You are one of the few, lucky ones who really believe,” the shrink said.
Yesterday during a phone therapy session with Mom—for the first time I heard in her voice the fear—or I realized the terror she had over the fact that I tried to kill myself and could do it again. At this point killing myself would be selfish. It would be cowardly.
“The hardest thing in this world is to live in it. Be brave. Live.” Buffy The Vampire Slayer.
I am not gonna lie and say that I don’t wanna kill myself sometimes and I know I think about it a lot as all of this packing crescendos. But, I won’t. I promised God, Christ, and Mother Mary.
All the stuff that I used to think would make me happy or content or whatever didn’t. (Well, not all of it…but the really big parts.)
I am not Guinevere anymore. I am not a Faerie anymore. I am Brigid (my Catholic Confirmation name)…God help me…St Jude…Christ…Mother Mary…
My OD was a long time in the making. Resurrecting from the ashes…well, I guess that is gonna take time too.
I am staring down the barrel of 40 and I have to start all over again…Boom goes Mount Vesuvius.
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:
Lilacs
Bleeding Hearts
Angel—even if she hid from me and did not say goodbye
Faith
Health
Family
Cigarettes
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