Dear Hearts,
I am so fucking tired. I am always tired. I more often than not feel like my body is futilely trying to shed its skin.
I did not go to Mass on Saturday. I am a Bad Catholic.
I just didn’t wanna. Instead, I sat in G-Pa and Gram’s backyard amongst their petunias (my favorite), read the readings and Gospel for the Sabbath, said some of the “obligatory” prayers, and then just talked to God.
I need the Church physically before and after my breakdown…but maybe not so much now?
I believe what I believe. There is no other way for Christ to be in me than my taking the Eucharist? I don’t believe that.
“Slow down! What’s the matter with you?! We’re not in any hurry to get home! I DON’T LIKE YOUR DRIVING!” barked G-Pa.
“I don’t know what to tell ya’!” I said exasperated
“You were speeding!”
“I was going 60 (actually 62 in a 55)!”
“Well, that’s speeding! You can’t drive like you drive like you drive in New York here! You have to obey street signs!”
“I do my best,” I said defeated, tears welling, and white-knuckling the steering wheel.
Fuck you. That’s what I wanted to say. But the Swedish side of my family doesn’t talk to each other that way and they do not talk about emotions.
With the Jersey side—well, Pop never would have said that to me. Nan would have, but I would snipe back at her. We would exchanged words and later apologize and makeup.
During those five weeks of suspended animation in which my parents and I were working on the house…OMFG. We screamed, we yelled, we swore, we cried, we talked, we hugged.
Aunt Faerie says the Kennedy (Jersey side) has too much drama. I don’t think so. I think it’s passion. We live out loud and we are all up in each other’s “bi’ness.” We touch and are loud and frenzied more than once a day.
Speaking to Mom and Dad last night on the phone, I had an epiphany. I can totally be myself at Home (with Mom and Dad). I wear low cut tank tops, expose cleavage, and sometimes just wear a bra. We touch, hug, are physically affectionate. I swear and let whatever I am feeling out. Well, some of the suicidal thoughts I keep to myself. It’s not fair to always put that on Mom and Dad.
Here,…
Okay: Mom and Dad’s Home = EC Home. The Holy City = MW Home. Get it? East Coast and Mid-West?
Here in my MW Home--
And, please don’t be mad at anything I’m gonna write Aunt Faerie. I am always so motherfucking worried that I am gonna get in trouble or do the wrong thing or not be good enough. I just gotta be honest in this blog.
Here in my MW Home, I am not totally myself. Or I am another version of myself? I am Bridgette. The good girl who takes care of her G-pa. EC I am a fucking Kennedy from Jersey. AHHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW! HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!
I can let the wolf in me out in the EC. I can scream and cry and make noise. I can be pouty.
Here is the MW we are reserved. Humorous, but reserved. Quiet. Loving. We don’t touch and I cover my best assets very conscientiously. We don’t necessarily swear although Aunt has dropped “fuck” a couple of time. We support one another. Aunt is like a second Mom. She is just so tired. Take my exhaustion and multiply it by 1,000% seriously. I am not pouty. I am living in Their World. And, I suspect a large part of that is my own projected feelings. I don’t “live out loud” like I do on the EC.
Oh, also in the MW we go by a clock. Kinda like school. Lunch at noon and dinner at six, whether you are hungry or not. You don’t deviate from the routine.
I can’t sit in the backyard and howl here. They’d call the cops. When I as the NY House the Troll across the way was actually back and forth with me. He was surely drunk and did not know it was I. (Isn’t that so weird? “me” sounds better but “I” is correct.
That why I like going to Gram’s Grave. I can sorta howl there and no one is gonna think I’m totally fucking nuts. But even there…
I am not saying (11 minutes until we leave for Aunt Faerie’s for dinner) that the EC is better than the MW. Fuck, I am way more suicidal on the EC.
It comes down to Freudian Roles. My parents are my parents, but I talk to them about sex and walk around in jeans and a bra because they are my friends. Pop and Nan, growing up were “The Parents.”
G-Pa is watering early so he can watch his three hours of WWF tonight. And he bitches through that too! Too many commercials, stupid this, stupid that…
In the MW I am the Granddaughter who knows how angry her G-Pa can get, like when she broke the glass in the front door TOTALLY accidentally. It was ready to break, my hand just touched the right spot.
In the MW I am living on G-Pa’s and Aunt Faeries generosity. Literally.
I mean like, my parents would let me move in with them and not begrudge food or any rent—because they are stupid enough to love me after everything I’ve put them through. But, here…I am ALLOWED to live here.
He has his slippers. I better get ready to go. It’s 5:05. To be continued at Aunt’s house…
In the car by 5.15. I did not get in trouble one for my driving. Except from the five cars behind me who were cursing the “slow bitch in the Mercury.” It’s a road that is 55—but it’s like an unwritten rule that everyone does about 60 to 65.
I am now on “study” the floor of Aunt’s house. Will she notice that I moved the chair two inches? She has her many, many papers spread on the floor like a fledging Stonehenge. I wrote my college papers and graduate thesis the same way. So I promised to not touch anything. Which I totally get! Don’t you dare move my fucking stuff! That’s how I knew someone had cleaned (Aunt Faerie) when I was in the EC. My things and others were just slightly out of place. (No resentment or indictment Aunt Faerie). Just saying that I get it. ‘
Let’s face it. I am still What Happened to Baby Jane fucked up. I feel like I am squatting—one leg on the EC and one on the MW.
I feel less mournful about leaving the NY House. Maybe it was good for me to feel the damage that place can do to me.
I am totally obsessing about how small my room is. Mom pointed that out and suggested that it is misplaced anxiety. I didn’t feel like that was I was living with T. and I couldn’t even have anything personal in the living room. G-Pa lets me have like 20 Barbies. Spread around tastefully. And, he is letting me use the bookcase that Gram had beside her computer.
I don’t know what’s gonna happen. I don’t know the future, but I know what it can be. I have a mailbox at Burning Bed now and I am going to the early fucking morning early staff meeting on Wednesday. Really? Why can’t the world start at like 10 a.m.? But I know I gotta go back to the EC at least twice more to take care of all the detritus that became my life after my breakdown. What if I fuck my chances of a job at the Burning Bed by being gone so much? What if I can’t handle a job at all.
I feel as though I am living in limbo.
I am putting out my things in my room—but I am just gonna have re-arrange everything when Dad brings the furniture out. And I will cut ties with NY for good…I pretty much spent my adult life there.
6:00 p.m. Time to eat.
Back after driving home, my after dinner cigarette and some Kindle gaming.
I look at the things I brought out and I know there won’t be room for all of them. I can live with fewer things.
Just what the fuck am I doing?
Just an all around general life question. What the fuck are you are doing?
What if I were just whatever—me—whoever that is.
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 had a bad, like bad two-hour episode last night. Looking at pictures of Nebraska helped me. That is like my holy place now. But Klonopin and four mg of Xanax. Wow. I was high last night. It rather scared me. I could watch Twin Peaks, but I was not fully cognizant. (He’s eating all the ice cream in the house—and not just his butter pecan!) I tried to enjoy it. I guess that is just a taste of the high people get with Xanax drugs. But, I didn’t like it. Being high. The problems were still there--I just didn't care. But, then it's worse when you crash and your problems smack you upside the head
PPS: I am so glad G-Pa has hearing aids that actually work. But Holy Fuck! I thought the OK Corral was happing in the next room over this morning! He likes Westerns.
Grateful For:
Angel
Aunt Faerie Feeding Me
Health
Family
Faith
Amish Pumpkin Cinnamon Rolls
Sleep
Cigarettes
My room
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