Hold On

Dear Hearts,

I am back in The Holy City.

I feel ambivalence.

Martha says that is okay.

We did not get the NY House packed or anywhere near finished. I am still living in 3 different houses. And, I left the portable keyboard in the NY House. I know exactly where it is. In my mind’s eye I can see it.

I am almost 40. If someone asked me if this were the life I wanted at 40…I wouldn’t say “yes.”

Interesting question. (By the by—I ought to be unpacking, but that is totally overwhelming.)

If I could have anything, what would I like my life to look like at 40?

Married. Happily. I know that no marriage is perfect—but married and in love. With that person I used to believe I was supposed to be with. I’d be a teacher who was not afraid of her principal. I would be a non-obsessive, fearful teacher. I might have written something.  I certainly wouldn’t choose panic attacks, PTSD, and Clinical Depression.

I know what I am doing here is good and important and I’m supposed to be here. As I have cleaned out the NY House more—I feel the squeeze of the small room here. And I am so grateful that I have a room of my own! In a house that I can call Home. But it’s not the same.

I just feel adrift. Turning 40. That is huge and it really, really bothers me. I have lived half my life. I am not “young” anymore. I am middle-aged. And, I don’t have a helluva a lot to show for except stuff.

I have been obsessing about getting a bunk or loft bed with storage underneath. I would just get a bunk bed that is empty underneath, but I don’t think Angel would want to climb up to a top bunk to sleep with me. Mom is exasperated with me and my “loft bed” obsession.

Cutting tethers and anchors is all good and fine—but you need something to hold onto. God. Family. But, my roots are exposed. I was uprooted in a storm and now my roots are just sitting above ground sustaining various “whips and scorns.”

I really don’t know how to get planted again.

And, I can’t. Because I know—even though I am not supposed to think about it, yada, yada—all the incredible work that still needs to be done on the East Coast.

Am I really gonna fit in here?

Tomorrow is my first day alone at Burning Bed. 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. I am alone with the clients, one of whom is clinically psychotic. I have to do rounds to make sure everything is kosher around the shelter tomorrow and answer the phone for any emergency shelter requests. Can I really do good at this? I am anxious about tomorrow, of course. I was gonna blog tomorrow, but my portable keyboard is on the Eastern Seaboard. Yeah, I can draw and surf my kindle or iPad. But, I am the only one in charge there. I’m it. Just me.

I haven’t drawn or cross-stitched since I got here. I have just been so fucking tired.

Tuesday night at 11 p.m., when Mom and I were in the hotel, Dad called. Maddie, the $17,000 dog, was throwing up. For a dog with Lar-Par, throwing up is the number one concern because of possible aspiration into the lungs and subsequent pneumonia. I heard such panic and abject fear in Dad’s voice.

“As long as Maddie is fine, I am fine.”

Those were Dad’s last words to us as we pulled out of the driveway. I decided that night that Mom would rent a car and drive home and I drive to The Holy City myself. Thanks to Saint Francis, Maddie seems to be doing better.

People can fucking criticize my parents all they fucking want for spending that kind of money on Maddie. But what the fuck do you do?

Your BELOVED dog is sick. Initial vet bill: $3,000.

“Okay, Doc. Just treat for up to two more grand, then we will put her down.”

$10,000 has been spent on the dog who is now suffocating in Dad’s arms.

“Go ahead and let her die, Doc.”

After $17,000 she has pneumonia?

“Let her die now, Doc.”

You can’t do that. You don't do that. Not if you have a bond with animals the way my parents (and I) do. Angel helps keep me alive. That was a big stressor at the NY House—Angel wasn’t with me.

The Vanilla Flavor of Blu E-Cigarettes is the best. It gives the best throat hit. I digress.

Mom and G-Pa are out on a drive. Fuck that. I am fucking sick of driving. I don’t drive for fucking fun. We’ve had pie and dinners and G-Pa seems happy that we’re here. But I am gonna get in trouble for the mess in the living room soon.

The other drama was that Thursday Mom ended up at the ENT with a LIVE FUCKING TICK IN HER EAR. IT WAS ALIVE AND ATTACHED TO THE POSTERIOR WALL OF HER EAR!

EWWWWWWWWWW!

For five days the fucker was in there.

Dr. Stephanie was so nice. She is the go-to gal for foreign object ear removal. She is saving Mom’s tick and is gonna name it. She didn’t make us feel like white trash—because Mom had a fucking tick in her ear!

Today, tomorrow is Pentecost. I was released from the first nut-house on Pentecost. So, I will go to Mass tonight even though I don’t wanna. Why? ‘Cuz I don’t feel like it.

It was on Pentecost that the Holy Spirit came to the Apostles and allowed them the power to spread Christ’s word across the world. My flame tattoo. A sign of Pentecost, The Holy Spirit and Saint Jude.

So, I guess you could say that the Apostles received all this wisdom and stuff—this ability to go out and do the work of God.

I can’t even unpack.

Life is hard. Life is scary. It would be so much easier not to…but I will and I am. Just sayin’, though.

Father, Son, Holy Spirit, Mother Mary—Guide Me…

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:

Café Pie!

Café Coffee!

Faith

Health

Warmer days—and being able to smoke outside at night

I’m gonna give packing the good ole’ college try.

Live in the moment. Yeah, fucking, right.

Or maybe I'll call Amazon about my non-charging Kindle and give myself another reason to slit my wrists. Gallows humor!