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