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