The Child is Father of the Man

Dear Hearts,

So I have no excuse to not blog tonight. Today was the first day that I didn’t feel “under the clock.” Well, after I got up at fucking 6 o’clock to get mom to the airport by 9.30. OH FUCK GRAMMAR. I AM HAVING AN EPISODE. But maybe if I get this shit out of me and into the abyss of the internet.

I just microwaved g-pa his dinner—mom’s lasagna and some vegetables. At least they were hot enough.

Anyway. We were up early. I slept most of the way to the airport. I had my head at an odd angle so apparently is whistled as I slept. I fucking hate airports. I hate the way they smell. I think the people are all suspicious. TSA makes me nervous. And the idea of getting on one of the germ incubators where they give you three peanuts is enough to induce a four milligram Xanax panic attack.

The fact that WORD corrects so much of your grammar and spelling for you is rather pathetic. I sound old, but no wonder kids don’t get grammar anymore. They don’t fucking need it. a machine does it for them. I digress.

My episode is moderate. I am shaking and fingers are spasming –how the sweet mother of fuck do you spell that word?! I am just kind of twitching all over. The best full body workout ever.

I’m not being pessimistic. Just realistic. I will probably have these episodes for the rest of my life. I can’t blame my OD. Even though Cunt-Face Shrink said God would punish me if I tried to kill myself. Disfigure me, were her words. Maybe that’s why my acne is back. Or my hormones are changing into pre-menopausal. There’s a fucking depressing thought. But I’ve had these episodes since I started the Lithium way back in 2014. That drug sucked.

Mom and I talked about it on the drive out. I never wanted kids. Not even in tenth grade when I have “twin egg babies” Amber Mahesh Star and Autumn Jade. Mahesh was teenage-angst epitomized boyfriend’s idea. We were just kids. But he was abusive too. He hated himself so much. He just didn’t belong. He is a genius. He just didn’t work on the same level as the rest of us. NOT AUSTIC. He just didn’t belong. Neither did i. I still feel like I don’t belong. I am digressing and my mind is starting to get involved in this episode too.

So I never wanted kids, but it was always an option. I feel rather…I don’t know the right word…sad…that it’s not an option anymore. Like now the decision has been made for me. God saved me—to have had kids with Arthur! Or T.! (T. did want to knock me up.) And, me. Uh, yeah, I’d be a great mom. The best of my child-bearing years are behind me and I would have to go off all my meds anyway. Should I really reproduce, anyway??

Since late April I’ve been with Mom and Dad. I was a daughter. I didn’t have to be the ADULT. I still don’t feel like a fucking adult. I mean I take care of all my shit, bills, responsibilities, etc. I appear to function like an adult, but I don’t feel like one. I just feel scared.

Mom left today. I laid my head on her lap last night and told her I was afraid. I think I know why now. Because I am alone. Mom is my best friend and well, Dad is my Daddy.

I have Aunt Faerie out here. But right now she is so sick. Poor, poor, Aunt Faerie. She is killing herself with like five different independent jobs. She is doing all of them perfectly—but she doesn’t think so. She is so stressed—she seems on the verge of tears all the time. I wish I could make it better for Aunt Faerie.

And Aunt Faerie I am sorry. I am sorry I am obsessing about you being sick. That is my number one OCD trigger. Germs. It just is. When I was in Jersey seeing my shrink—Dad and I stopped at a Starbucks after—I tried to open the door with my foot. There were no paper towels. And I forget what I was wearing. But after putting my boot on the handle there was not fucking way I was going to touch the knob. So the door kept banging as I tried to open it. Finally, a guy who worked there came to my aid and I pretended that the door lock got jammed. So Aunt Faerie—I love you—but your being sick just raises my OCD anxiety level to the top. Just being honest. I really am sorry.

I should just fucking tattoo "I’m sorry" backwards on my face so I could stop saying it so much.

I do want a tattoo of a wolf head and maybe something Christian. Small. I think I am gonna get it on my left shoulder IN THE FRONT, not on the side. I want it near my heart. And I want it not to sag with age. That’s a ways from now because I ain’t going back to that fucking freak who did my wrist tattoo. He wanted to lick my belly and thought Edward Snowden was a national fucking hero. He also thought Trump was a plant to make sure Hillary won. That worked out well. And he believed masturbation and sex were the answer to all woes. Eww.

I want to deserve the tattoo though. I would get it done with my guy on the East Coast.

Mom just called. Drug insurance and student loan issues. Oh yeah, the government will forgive my student loans because I am disabled but then count the 30 grand as fucking income and tax me on it! then for three years, I can only make so much blah blah. I don’t want to suck off the government teat. That is the last thing I want to do. I have fucking paid into disability since I was working “legally” at 16.  I’ll deal tomorrow. I know G-pa is gonna wanna take a long ride in the country. Ugh. I do it for him without resentment. But I still don’t gotta like it. I am way digressing.

I feel like my wolf tattoo should be earned. Like if I can through all this shit—until after the house is outta my name and all my stuff is out—then I will deserve the wolf tattoo. But maybe the wolf tattoo would help remind me. There are a few saints that are actually associated with wolves. I dunno. I KNOW I am going back East for my 40^th. Maybe then…

I am kinda helping Aunt Faerie in a way. I’m feeding G-Pa tonight and tomorrow. I am already worrying about being near Aunt Faerie on Pie Day. What would life be like without Anxiety and OCD?

Episode calming. Just small twitches.

I fucking hate being this way Aunt Faerie. I love you. But…it’s just…like OCD is this evil serpent-worm that takes over all my sensibilities.

But Aunt Faerie has her own OCD anxieties…so I will just hope she will understand…

Mom and I rearranged the bedroom yesterday. We put the bed under the window so I do have more room. Now I gotta work up to courage to ask G-Pa if I can borrow the bookcase next to the computer until Dad brings my furniture out.

I need my sanctuary. My room has got to be it.

I took a great nap today. You know, the kind of nap that just makes you feel good. I love those. And I have my Amish Pumpkin Cinnamon Roll from when Mom and Debby went to the café over the weekend. I saved it for tonight because I knew I’d be sad after Mom left.

God, what do you want of me? If you are telling me and I’m not hearing you…I’m sorry. Knock me upside the head. I want to follow the Path of Righteousness For His Namesake.

I could not stay in Mass on Saturday. I left before the Lord’s prayer. The usual priest wasn’t preaching. If I had been exposed to this shit in NY—I never woulda become Catholic.

I’m not gonna dwell. I have reached my 1,500 word obligation. And I kinda want a cigarette. No. I do definitely want a cigarette.

Quick Note:

Dear Father Righteous,

1.     I’m sorry that like Christmas and Easter, Pentecost has no commercialized mascot. Maybe you can create one and then you could be a saint.

2.     Don’t fucking compare being on the golf course with being in the woods.

3.     God doesn’t need us to worship Him. He is Omnipotent and Omniscient. We need him.

4.     Don’t fucking tell me that you can’t worship God in the woods. You can only worship him in the Church with strangers that you really don’t have a personal stake in? Bull fucking moose cock.

5.     Who the sweet mother of fuck gave you the right to replace the Apostles' and Nicene Creeds with a song that I have a strong suspicion you wrote. And, by the by don’t quit your day job. My gift to God is to not sing in Church. Consider that idea.

6.     My father, who “walks alone” with God doesn’t need your fucking prayers. I have—Dad has seen the face of God in the woods. Where do think God might be more present: a55,000-acree ranch where the land looks that same way it did 10,000 years ago or in your nice little building?

7.     I don’t like you.

8.     Jesus and Pope Francis would never talk like you. Christ wouldn’t make me cry and feel bad about myself—nor would Papa Francis.

9.     PS: To the bitch would gave me the “second look over” because I was wearing a veil…”You wanna go, bitch? ‘Cuz I’ll do it right fucking here in the pews.

Oh, and a comment about working at Burning Bed Friday. You’re right A. bruises heal—the word-wounds don’t so much. And Boss Lady, I can stay calm, call 911 and, do a decent job of reassuring a snot-sobbing (you know that level of crying) woman on the phone. But, I can’t arrange your fucking china the way you want? Fuck you and the minivan you rode in on.

To be clear: I am not giving myself all kinds of laurels for my convo with A. on Sunday. But she wasn’t snot-sobbing when we hung up. So that’s something.

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: Um, God, G-Pa randomly exclaiming loudly intelligible words—like “I need someone” and “Help me…” Give me a hand there. I don’t want to fail him.

Grateful For:

All my blessings—that I will never have three-year-old, late rent, and $26 dollars to my name

Faith

Family

Angel

Amish Pumpkin Cinnamon Rolls

Cigarettes

Naps
Health
UC Remission

God, please don’t give up on me.