I Don't Get It

How can I make my grandfather's face light up by saying that even though I working at BB, I will meet him and Dr. Swede for pie? If I were him I'd be disgusted with me or pity me at best.

I don't understand.

That's what Zub does. That what Clinical Motherfucking Depression does.

You may see good things in the world but they aren't connected to you. It's impaired vision.

No matter what anyone says, no melodrama involved, I owe my parents an apology and a have failed badly.

But I stay alive...for what, I don't know...but I stay alive. Above ground, as Dad says.

My Night Off

I don't write this blog to whine and have a pity party. I just want to get the poison inside me out. And, somebody needs to chronicle this disease and what it does to people--not in Lifetime movies, TV shows, Netflix series, and self-help books.

Zub robbed me of my dinner out. He took away my appetite and any energy I had to go out and get dinner. Leaving the house is and effort.

Please God, Christ, Mother Mary

I beg you...Help...

My Day Off--UPDATED 6.45 P.M. CT

Dear Hearts,

Clinical Depression is a special torture of Zub’s.

Your thinking is distorted. You can’t intellectualize or logicize your way out of it.  Shrinks, therapists, family—they all tell you that you are not a failure, you will feel better, you’re still young and pretty and just because G-Pa got thinks your driving sucks doesn’t means he doesn’t love you and you don’t have to keep apologizing to your parents for this illness that you suspect you could really just snap out of if you were strong enough and it doesn’t matter that you don’t have a $65,000 real job because you are happier now and when you have panic attacks and your brain is saying FLEE FLEE FLEE CRISIS DANGER that it’s really okay and that there is a future for you and bleeding out is not the best option.

You can’t see that. You can’t fucking feel that. You are disconnected. You take a day off.

Today, I am taking the day off and I am already chastising myself for not appreciating it more and then your sister says you are in this great place where you can restart your life but each is not any fun and then you berate yourself for wasting time even though all you really wanna do is die anyway.

If I am suicidal, why do I worry about germs? Why do I worry about how healthy I eat? (For me, I am somewhat careful because of my UC) What does it matter how many cigarettes I have? Why bother epilating my legs?

Depression is certainly not the only disease that attacks the brain. If it really is a disease at all, and not just some weak excuse for being pathetic. So if you can’t reason—you can’t solve the problem.

When I had a blocked sinus and I had to have surgery—I understood that. Okay, the surgery will unblock the sinus and straighten the deviated septum that didn’t bother you for 32 years. There is logic. The pain I endured before and after the surgery—I knew it would end. I knew I would get fixed. I went to an ENT because my sinus infection wouldn’t go away. After much ado, it was fixed. I have X, so I do Y, and then I am Z.

Depression don’t fucking work that way. It invades every part of who you are and twists it around. Zub robs you of happiness, enjoyment.

I took today off. As in no drives, no taking care of G-Pa (he doesn’t need me to feed him), no responsibilities. I am going to use my part of my “Abortion Fund”* to buy myself a grilled chicken sandwich with swiss, mushrooms, fries, and an extra think strawberry milkshake. Sans the Visine. Gallows humor. It was an exciting idea for a minute—but now…whatever…

Zub takes everything you enjoy and numbs you to it. Every day I lived with Arthur for a long time his goal was to make me suffer. He told me so. “I like to see you suffer,” he said. Zub has picked up in his place.

I couldn’t tell G-Pa the truth last night—that I needed a day off. So I concocted a note around 11 p.m. last night about how “It was 3.30 a.m. and I couldn’t sleep but I was hoping to after taking a sleeping pill and to not expect to see me before noon.” Total lie. (I know you don’t like me lying, Aunt Faerie. I’m sorry. I just…) I just wanted to lie in bed and read the post and drift back and forth between sleeping and waking. I didn’t eat breakfast until 1 p.m. Today is the perfect day to take off because Aunt Faerie is taking G-Pa (she didn’t ask me) to the Friendship dinner tonight. A small crew of old people and Aunt Faerie or I get together, get on a short bus, and go to a restaurant to eat together. G-Pa always gets his food last. He doesn’t like it. And, I don’t drive right. ‘Cuz I am not motherfucking getting on any short bus with old people. Let me clarify—with ANY people! I don’t do buses. So Aunt Faerie is taking G-Pa to dinner tonight beginning with picking him up at 4.30 p.m. Early Bird Special with a side of Ben Gay, anyone? Who the fuck eats at five-fucking-thirty in the afternoon?

The other night Bugsy had to jump in and say he did when he lived with his mom ‘cuz he got up at 4.30 a.m. Okay, Bugsy, fine. You’re right. There is an exception to every anyone says and you know what it is. Even when I got up at 4.30 a.m., I didn’t eat at 5.30 p.m.

So I will have this block of time all to myself at the house today!! No one will be here! I made coffee and put it in the fridge and even made coffee-ice-cubes! I can read, smoke, pray and howl all by my lonesome! OMG! Yay! And, maybe I open all the blinds and windows for the whole neighborhood to see me walking around the house in my somewhat-revealing summery dress! No body can get mad at me and I can’t disappoint anyone if I am alone!

Mom and I had a spat on the phone. I called her all kinda excited about this Catholic NJ Retreat Center. A week (or less, up to me) of silent retreat. You talk to a “Spiritual Director” once a day. You can go to Mass at 11.30 a.m.! Not some crazy-ass 7 a.m. hour. I don’t have to wear the mask. There is a place to smoke. Nebraska is a long way to go and I imagine the Ranch is pretty busy right now. The NJ Retreat Center doesn’t have wi-fi in the rooms, but they don’t take away sharp objects or search your person and luggage. If I don’t like it—I can leave. I can get from the NJ Retreat to my parents’ house. It’s a little over an hour. You can’t leave a nut house.

Mom, I am looking for a magic bullet—a cure, because I DON’T WANT TO FEEL LIKE THIS ANYMORE. I talk and talk and talk and still…so maybe if I don’t talk but pray, write, cross-stitch, draw, read scripture and connect to God in my way in a Holy Place—maybe that will work. Maybe I can hear God then.

I don’t expect any retreat to fix me. But, I need something else here…and drugs and talk therapy ain’t gonna fix it.

I am out of my life. No internet. No responsibilities. No social interaction unless I want. Me and God. No distractions.

I’m sorry, Mom. I am sorry about every fucking thing all the fucking time.

G-Pa drove himself to P. this morning for an MD appointment—I offered to go. Tonight, he is going back to P. to eat. About 35 miles round trip. Yet, he STILL ASKED ME TO TAKE HIM FOR A DRIVE TODAY?? WTF? I was vague and just said that Aunt Faerie was picking him up at 4.30 p.m. I feel responsible for him. I feel responsible to entertain him, to make sure he has all that he needs. I am being ALLOWED to live here after all.

OMFG. Aunt Faerie just got here to pick G-Pa up. 4.12 and, she already has the Ed, a cognitively impaired man G-Pa’s age in the car. I knew from her and G-Pa’s convo last night that she was trying to assure him that picking him up at 4.30 would be plenty of time—but that made G-Pa nervous. P. is 25 minutes away. She left work early, early to pick up Ed and then G-Pa to make him happy.

See, I come by my need to please genetically.

And Aunt Faerie heard from G-Pa about how her driving sucked all the way up to and back from Chicago when they went to the graduation party Sunday.

It can’t be fun for him to live like that. When we have guests—seldom—removing all traces of my actually using the living room. Shutting his bedroom door so the repairman won’t judge him.

I have a theory on him. First, Gram was and is a motherfucking saint to have been with him and loved him all those years. Second, he always had to be “Perfect” because not only was he an Orphanage Kid, but also his Dad, you know, did that THING. And, ever since appearance is everything. He is a good man and I love him, but I just want to bop him on his mostly bald head sometimes and say, “STOP IT!” He is good enough, better than, regardless of the lawn.

Good people in my life…not Arthur, T., Boss Lady, or The Principal Bitch…Good people tell me that I was smart and charismatic and funny and pretty and compassionate. But Zub’s voice is much fucking louder than everyone else.

People aren’t gonna change. Zub isn’t gonna change. I have to change.

*The Abortion Fund: When I was like 12 or 13 I found this cheap plastic gold-painted apple. It was sparkly. I loved it. I used it as a piggy bank. At some point—after the junior high bullying had taken its toll on me it was my “Emergency Fund.” In case I wanted to run away or I needed an abortion. I know. What? I was so far from having sex at that point—but in my mind, I guess, that was the worst trouble I could get in---pregnant out of wedlock? I didn’t fully comprehend was an abortion even was. But after Pretty Woman came out—that was my career goal going into High School. To be a hooker. Seriously. Men wanting me = love. That is a whole other therapy session, but the point is that when I older and Mom and I found this golden apple with like $120 in it, I told her what I had intended to use it for. We had a good laugh. She keeps it in her bedroom and borrows from it occasionally (quick cash) and tells me to use the Abortion Fund to buys things, like a tonight’s dinner.

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: Well, I didn't get to the Fatima Bible Study today--but expect for the spat with Mom, for which I feel sorry, it's been a good day off. And, know for my first cigarette and iced-coffee!

Makes life worth living.

Grateful For:

UC in remission

Health

Amish pumpkin cinnamon rolls being bigger again

Family

Faith

A day off

Angel

Coffee

Cigarettes

Cross-stitiching

UPDATE:

Mom is 100% correct. A silent retreat—where I have to share a bathroom and can’t have my own food-is not going to fucking help me. That’s why, just being honest, I want to die sometimes: hopelessness. It’s never gonna be any different than right now except I’ll be older and less attractive. I gotta find the hope…”the thing with feathers…”

Little Things

Dear Hearts,

I am blogging now. I have an hour and five to 10 minutes before we leave for dinner.

I am going to smoke my first cigarette and have coffee at Aunt Faerie’s. I think that will piss of Bugsy, ‘cuz he’ll hafta close the door to the deck while I am offending. I can’t please everyone.

Fuck.

I can’t or especially can’t please G-Pa. So we went for a ride today. I said a short one—not 75 miles. He agreed. I tried to do so good. I kept it within the speed limit to like give or take 2 or 3 MPH. If I were going over five MPH, I slowed down. I did hit the shoulder on a back road and took a turn too fast. But I thought I really did well. He gave me $70 to spend in Walmart. I just needed to pick up some bananas, muffins, toilet scrubbies, and super glue. He got a lot of change back. He is so generous. I offered to take him to McDonald’s for his coffee and pie, but after I took a wrong turn in the Walmart parking lot he said to forget it. Come to think of it, I did miss several roads he told me to take while we were on our drive.

I know country roads. I cut my teeth on them.

But, it’s fucking flat out here—and there are specific farm roads that are private or gravel. And, saying turning left at the next road isn’t always specific. The corn is changing the landscape visibility.

As I was pulling into the driveway, “Did you enjoy the drive?”

“Yah,” he muttered.

Okay, Kate, don’t take one word from G-Pa and blow it all out of proportion. But he seemed out of sorts.

I went into his back room where he was watching TV.

“That was a nice ride,” I said.

“You drive too fast.”

“I drove the speed limit.”

“I know. But when we go driving we don’t drive the speed limit, we drive slower.”

Speechless.

I fucking give the motherfuck up. I do. I wanted to yell at him. But, instead I took a walk with Mom (on the phone in EC).

How many miles under the speed limit? 5, 10, varies…?

I can’t…I couldn’t please Arthur or T. Mom could never please G-Pa. Mom—for many years—could never please Dad. A pattern perhaps?

I am so tired. My eyes don’t feel fully open or awake—even though I slept plenty last night. The drive was beautiful but I couldn’t connect…

That’s it. I was trying to find a way to articulate this Depression, this feeling…

You go through life acting your part. You laugh. Tell jokes. Whatever. But you are not connected.

It’s like the one time I was on Demoral. I could feel the pain—but I was far away from it that I didn’t care. The pain wasn’t attached to me. That’s how I feel about life.

I really fucking scared myself Thursday night. It took willpower to not kill myself.

If the Devil exists—and Ultimate Evil has to exist if an Ultimate Good exists—the Devil, Satan, Beelzebub, The Deceiver…

Zeb. Zeb for short. Zeb lives in CD (Clinical Depression). The voices in your head are telling you to kill yourself—to just go away even though you know the pain, angst, and terrorism it was cause those around you. Zeb wants me to die.

I was looking at these “Cadillac Psych Centers,” because they provide art therapy, spiritual in-touchness, pet therapy, group reflection, smoking, napping. They give you a break.

What happens when making the decision about whether or not to “eat a peach” is just too much of a decision for you to make. The Hospital takes care of that for you. You are not attached to the real world. No electronics. No demands.

I was looking at Cadillac Hospitals because I feel like maybe they could fucking fix me.

If I go the local ER and say, “I want to put Visine into a strawberry milkshake and chase it with a couple bottles of Xanax…”

They will lock you up. But, you are locked up just to keep you “safe.” In that fucking warehouse I was in—there was NO therapy. The fucking priest was like, “what do you want from me?” They keep you away from sharp objects. But, they don’t help you. I want to be fixed. I don’t want to feel like this.

It’s the little things. Saturday night, I go to Mass, not dinner at Aunt Faerie’s, she sent home for me chicken, peas, and MASHED POTATOES. My favorite. She doesn’t usually send food home Saturdays. It brought tears to my eyes. That gesture meant more to be than I can express to Aunt Faerie. Then yesterday when I got home from Burning Bed, I found a $20 gift certificate for the Garden House. Aunt Faerie and I used to go there every Sunday afternoon—but now I work at BB. That $20 that I know she worked so fucking hard for—that gift certificate means so much.

Even if ironically, I bought myself a $20 gift certificate there yesterday too. I told Mom (RUNNING ON TIME HERE) that I would give up the $6.00 treats. She said, no, even if they had to help me with the mortgage I still needed that treat. So, I got a gift certificate so that Garden House, a small wonderful business, won’t be charged so much every time I use my credit card to pay.

Now I can “splurge” on Cold Brew during the week too!

That cold brew that I drank yesterday afternoon. Per-fucking-fection. Aunt Faerie took G-Pa to a cousin’s graduation party in Chicago. EEK! Poor Aunt Faerie. I knew I had until about 6.30 p.m. to enjoy myself on the back patio: reading, drinking cold brew with coffee-ice-cubes (brilliant), and reading. I so appreciated that time.

G-Pa bringing me back a piece of pie from the Orphanage Reunion Saturday brought tears to my eyes. I wanted him to save me a piece, but I wasn’t going to ask since I just staying home. That pie was so good. And the family friends who came, K., understanding that I needed to just sleep because I am depressed meant so much to me.

I do remember that from the year before my ECT, the same year I checked myself into the good nuthouse. Mom would come up on the weekends and vacuum or cook or iron and that was worth gold to me.

I owe God. He threw me back when OD’ed. That’s on him. By His Grace and only by His Grace, I had no organ or brain damage. And a full bottle of 80 mg Lithium—will fuck up your body. That’s why I used it. It would shut down my organs and the Klonopin would put me sleep and slow down my respiration. I had researched it. I was on dialysis.

But, I owe God. I’m here.

“Thy Will Be Done.”

You don’t break covenants to God. You just don’t.

I owe it to God to see where he takes me even if the highlights of my day are coffee, cigarettes, and cuddling with Angel.

Moses found the Bedouins and their well and generosity saved him in the desert.  I will keep crawling through the desert toward a well that I have to have Faith is there.

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: Asshole, the only reason I didn’t go full Jersey on you because you were wearing a Marines’ hat. Next time, you’ll understand what Jersey is about.

PPS: I know you just left your abusive husband and your life is way more fucked up than mine. You took me once; you won’t take me twice. Breaking one and dropping another American Spirit cigarette on the bathroom floor? Those are expensive, bitch!

Grateful For:

Cigarettes

Coffee

Angel

Health

Amish pumpkin cinnamon rolls (even if they are smaller!)

Family

Knowing that I will never want for the basics, more than the basics

Dr. Swede

Martha

Receiving Grace

Thank you, God, Christ, Mother Mary...Father at St. Patrick's

Thank you.

Grateful for:

G-pa saving me a piece of pie
health
family
love
Angel
naps
Chicago Firre, PD, Med, Justice, SVU, and Twin Peaks.

so tired

Dear Hearts,

I am so tired.

Until I blogged the other night, I didn’t realize all of that was inside me. God, typing this is an effort. But it is.

I felt like I was losing it last night. I just wanted to die. I was looking at hospitals, but all the good ones don’t take Medicare. They take private insurance (what I used to have) or credit.

Why a hospital? To get a break. To just get away from life. The decisions, the effort, the…I couldn’t fake it anymore.

I didn’t trust myself fully last night. But, I awoke with Angel and I know that no hospital is going to give me what I really need. Not even intensive therapy. This is shit I have to work out myself. It is a disease—the Devil?—deep inside me and no one is going to therapy it out for me.

I totally fucked up Mom and Dad. I called them today. I promised God that I would not take my own life—even if I wanted to—I would reach out for help.

People in this world are fighting to stay alive and last night I just wanted to go away. “What dreams may come…” Can they be worse than this feeling of desolation?

Dad was ready to jump in the car and come get me. He still may have to do that. I don’t know. We’ll see how the next few days ago. I am obligated to Burning Bed. And I don’t want to piss them off because I want a job with them if I am gonna live here, yada, yada.

I picture this “bleak” future here, because at least it is a future. I can’t see any future. But, I don’t want to be Lot’s wife.

Dr. Swede—he pushed the darkness, the overwhelming urge to die away—told me I was in the desert. But, like Moses, I will come to an oasis soon.

“I am a failure.”

“You are made in the image and likeness of God and nobody can touch that,” said Dr. Swede.

God, Christ, Mother Mary I want to receive your Grace and Mercy. Please. I can’t be in this desert much longer…

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 AM JUST SO FUCKING SORRY THAT I AM SUCH A FUCKING BURDEN ON THOSE GOOD PEOPLE I LOVE .

Grateful For:

Pie

Health

Family

UC remission

Angel

A Room of One’s Own

Dr. Swede.

Mom

Dad

CONTINUED

Mickey, Jersey Cousin, I am okay. This is not the first time I’ve been down this road.

Mickey, a nurse, said that it must suck to emotionally suffer every day. I’ve gotten used to it. I was in plateau depression, now I am in a valley.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil…”