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