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WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS GRAPHIC CONTENT THAT IS SURE TO BE DISTURBING TO THOSE WHO READ IT.

Dear Hearts,

So, it is official. I mean like really official.

I am broke. As in three dollars in my checking account if it weren’t for Mom and Dad. And the government.

I feel so proud on the eve of my 40^th birthday. Look at all I have accomplished.

My student loans will be “forgiven,” since I am on disability. When I said to Mom that it didn’t feel fair—like why was I entitled to loan forgiveness and not others?—she got kind of mad. She reminded me of all the money (about $20,000) I had to give Arthur in alimony. And how because I filed for divorce at the beginning of the summer, when I had $10,000 in my savings I had to give him half. And the house. And the insurance. And the abuse. She said I deserved a break.

It feels downright fucking shitty to be dependent on other people to live. Never in my adult life have I been in this position. I’m not faking my disability. Fuck no, I never would have chosen this.

I remember my Covenant with God. I will not break that Covenant. But, since, this is my blog and I am supposed to be all honest and shit…I’ve thinking about it. It’s not even emotional at this point—I feel detached when I think about death. Like I could have chicken for dinner or take my own life. My parents would get a $25,000 insurance policy on me. I’ve just been thinking about it. It would be so much easier. I could just go away.  Just away. I could just go away. “To die, to sleep, no more…” “From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be…”

I’m sorry, Mom. I know this is making your blood run cold. I just hafta get it out of my head—throw it up.

I love Angel so. She lays or lies (I dunno) beside me sleeping with her little paw over her face. At night I like to fall asleep on my back and she kinda fits herself into the crook of my left arm and puts her head on my arm. I think she just does it for me. It’s such a comfort to fall to asleep with another living being besides you. And, this morning after I got up to use the bathroom, she let me hold her like a stuffie as I went back to sleep. She is twitching. What is she dreaming about? I hope they are good dreams. My dreams have not bee so good as of late. The PTSD sleep meds--

(Please, please, please G-Pa I love you but don’t ask me to take you for a drive. Please. Please. Please. I’m so tired. I know he wants me to offer. But I went to Star last night (84 miles last night). No more driving now please.)

The PTSD sleep meds mitigate my complete memories of the dreams but I know that my dreams are fitful at best.

When I was sitting at the Star Point of Adah in Star last night, it just hit me. I am fucking broke. Like seriously. I don’t have enough money to live on my own. For the first five months of my insurance plan, I have to pay between $500 and $700 for Asacol, my UC drug. It isn’t much cheaper out of Canada or the UK. Well, it would be if I didn’t have insurance. That is what’s killing me. The $3,000 I pay up front these first five months for a necessary drug. Even though these thoughts hit me--I still did well with my ritual work, according to J. What does that say?

I thought about it. Going off of it. Seeing what happens. But, my UC remission—every day I am so grateful. If I went back into active UC (God Forbid), I couldn’t…I just couldn’t…

If I have to go into foreclosure, I will. I will.

And, I was the responsible, “good,” daughter. I followed all the rules…

Other people go through what I go--

Fuck, he is going to P., about 25 minutes away, by himself. I said I was just too tired. It’s the truth but I still feel bad about it. See, I became Catholic to give me a reason for why I feel all the guilt I already do.

Other people go through what I go through and they don’t break down. There is something in me that is essentially weak. Or, those five months of living with Arthur under lock and key and having the full pressure of work…did that do it? I think that is what just broke me. I wish T. had killed me. I wish Arthur had killed me.

It’s like a warm comforting fantasy. Would I slit my wrists? That would be messy and it would hurt. Or would shock take over> Could I smoke a cigarette while bleeding out? Would Angel be afraid to be near me? If I did pills or Visine, I’d have to be by myself long enough to choke on my on vomit. I could smoke and watch my favorite movie with Angel though as I drifted off. A gun? Too messy. And, I am way too vain. I am not even sure if that is the surest way though, if my hand were to slip I could end up disfigured or a vegetable. CO2 poisoning—can’t smoke. And, I don’t relish the idea of burning to death. Drowning? I would want to go quietly. Just go to sleep sipping a strawberry milkshake, smoking a cigarette, being with Angel, and watching True Romance.

I shouldn’t even post this. It’s selfish and self-indulgent.

But there’s the rub! THERE IS THE FUCKING RUB!

I can write and think about it, but I will still make my iced coffee this afternoon, have my cigarette, and read before going to Aunt Faerie’s for dinner. That’s is unfuckingstanderable, unfuckingfathomable paradox of it.

It’s like how I used to go to England in my mind. Now I go to death. It’s a fantasy. Or more accurately, it’s like there are two of me. One is wanting to die and the other “a poor player who struts and frets his hour on the stage…

I am two people. I am Kate, hi Aunt Faerie, how are you? Thanks for dinner. And I am Kate, I want to die, but I made a Covenant with God. So, at least through next Easter, I am here. Would he forgive me a broken Covenant?

I could cut my femoral artery. How much would that hurt? I am just typing the words that come to mind. No filter.

Hail Mary, full of Grace, Blessed art Thou among women and Blessed is the Fruit of Thy Womb Jesus, Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.

Maybe somebody else will read these words some day and not feel so crazy or alone.

That girl who was convicted on “talking her boyfriend into committing suicide,” you can’t talk someone into that if they want it in the first place. It takes a lot of courage to take your own life.

It takes just as much courage to live, though, too.

“To be or not to be? That is the question? Which nobler? To bear the whips and scorns of time or to arm thyself against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them?”

I am not quoting Shakespeare and Donne to be all melodramatic. These are questions that have plagued man since, I don’t know, for at least a four thousand years. “Assent—you are sane/ Demur—you’re straightaway dangerous.”

“This too shall pass,” Gram. Tomorrow I will feel less like killing myself.

I just feel so utterly ashamed and defeated. I am 40 years old and my “peers” are raising kids and peaking in their careers and I have three dollars to my name.

If I could go back, I would. I don’t know to when…junior high maybe. Sixth grade. I would tell Kim who told me I had a goober in my hair to go fuck her nigger self. I would have started fucking screaming at Darwin like I really was crazy. Then he’d leave me alone. I would turn around and smack the shit out of little Steve for pounding the back of my desk so hard with his that my back hurt. I would tell Nan and Dad to JUST FUCKING STOP IT.

I don’t know what the future holds. I can’t see a future. I am scared. Truly afraid. Moreso than I thought--$3 to my name.

On the upside, all of my Barbie, faeries, and pocket dragons fit into my room. Yup, they all fit. I could go arrange them properly. Or nap. Or play a Kindle game until it’s time for that cigarette.

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:

Health

Family

Faith

Angel

The Star
Aunt Faerie
Cigarettes
Ice cream
UC remission

UPDATE:

So I took a nap. Those as good, if not better than, Xanax.

Today is the longest day of the year. Light.

I see the women at Burning Bed. They are broke, on welfare, food stamps, etc. But, they were born into that cycle. I was not. I have seven years of education. I have a middle-class upbringing. I am disappointed and ashamed. I should have done better than this.

I will live another day. God, you just gotta have a plan for me. Please, help me. Mother Mary Undoer of Knots, Saint Jude—HELP ME. I PROSTRATE MYSELF BEFORE YOU AND BEG MERCY.

God, I walk Your path. Direct me. I give it all up to You.

And, I am aware of all the incredible, awesome blessings God has Graced me with and I am grateful.