Dear Hearts,
HAPPY 4TH OF JULY!
yay…
The Fourth used to be my favorite holiday when I was a kid. I loved the sparklers. I would run around with abandon the front lawn writing my name and pretending to be a faerie. Dad would pull out his “contraband” fireworks and Nan would yell at him about losing a hand. He would let out that belly child-man laugh of benign defiance.
I could NOT wait until it got dark.
The lights and sparkles. That’s what I remember.
I got my first period around the Fourth when I was 13. I remember using so many pads that I felt like I had a diaper on.
When Arthur and I were married we would go to Mom and Dad’s and I would run around like a nymph as he sat, absent of fervor. Mom said I was “Lucy” to his “Ricky.” That must have been pretty early on in our marriage.
T. got us some fireworks and I ran around the apartment lawn with “a truly happy smile on my face” playing with sparklers. A few days later he had an alcohol-induced/diabetic blackout and was nasty to me. Fucking bitch, yada, yada. I remember slumping on the couch thinking about having my first cigarette when Dad called and told me that Mom had a heart attack. Thanks be to God, she did not. But, she ended up with a pacemaker. She had fluid around her heart from when she had the flu, which I gave her the same month I OD’ed. You know I am totally fucking honest in this blog. And I don’t write it to be dramatic or seek attention. Even if nobody read it—it’s out there. But, you will never convince me that she didn’t get over the flu properly because of the stress with me and my OD. The pacemaker—my fault. My ulcerative colitis—Arthur’s fault essentially.
Last year, Mom and I were here for the Fourth. It was either get me off the EC or bury me. Before the fireworks, I talked to my cousin who lives here and I was totally open about my fuck-uppery.
I don’t want to go to fireworks tonight. I want to stay home and watch my TV shows and draw or cross stitch. BUT I am going to go. It will mean a lot to G-Pa. And Aunt Faerie needs back-up. When Mom told me that I should go
Aunt Faerie said in a whisper at the diner Sunday night, “If I have to go, so do you!”
I had already come to empowered peace that I wasn’t going to go. When I called Mom she said I should go because Aunt Faerie enjoys my company.
That struck me. Really? The thought never really occurred to me. I figured I was just another “thing” in her life.
So, she is sending dinner home tonight, so I can smoke and drink my coffee leisurely and eat at a reasonable hour.
I am so appreciative that Aunt Faerie cooks for me. Fuck, man. I would be surviving on soup, potatoes, green beans, eggs, and dried out salmon and chicken. But, that four p.m. to six p.m.—that’s like my time. My favorite time of the day. A coffee, my first cigarette, and reading. So it means a lot for her to send dinner home. More than she knows or I can express. Because, the best part of my day with be that Coffee Time.
When I was married to Arthur, I used to have to plan it just right. Because he shopped on Saturdays and he would come home around then. And, I had to be there to greet him and hear about everything he bought with my money. I didn’t give a shit.
So now that Coffee Time is sacred. Christ himself could Come Again and I’d tell him to “hold up.”
When I went out with Boots on Friday, I missed Coffee Time. What I got in exchange was worth it, I guess, but still. I MISSED my Coffee Time. The coffee has to be drunk WITH the cigarette.
I have done a lot thinking about Boots. Not him. No physical pleasure. Not sex.
But I smile when I think of that afternoon. I just spontaneously smile.
It’s not the same kissing a man who has called you a “fucking cunt” and threatened “to fucking kill you.” It’s not the same to kiss a husband who never realized how little I cared about sex with him. According to the Catechism, what we did was lustful and a sin. I am becoming less and less a “Good Catholic.”
After T. I just shut that part of me down. He made me feel desired in a way Arthur never did. He also was verbally abusive in ways Arthur never was. G-Pa gets embarrassed by my tank tops and dresses I wear in summer. I am not doing it to be sexy. That is how I am comfortable.
I think I understand why people have one-night stands.
You connect with another person in way that makes you feel sexual—a natural desire, even according the Catholics. You have physical intimacy. You can pretend for a moment as you lay you head on his chest that it will all be okay. You feel somewhere deep in your soul…
Was I soulfully connecting with the boyfriends I had when we made out? Hell, no. With Arthur and T., yes. But that part of me was just coming to maturity.
I didn’t realize how reverent and holy sex can be.
I do now.
You can get that same feeling with another person—without love—but who needs that holiness as much as you do. Boots is gutted. Heartbroken. He still believes he and his Ex belong together. I get that. If felt that with T. for a long while.
No one telling you what to watch at night. No one telling you that you are wrong, stupid, crazy…no one telling you to come to dinner…to make dinner…to come to bed…to clean up…to not put up that picture of Brad Pitt.
I have digressed so badly that I am not even going to try to undo the knots.
Friday afternoon, I was reminded that there is this whole piece of me that I have just locked up. I wonder what else I’ve locked up?
Last night I dreamt G-Pa threw out all of my yogurt (the foundation of my diet) and was yelling at Angel. I was calling Mom and Dad AGAIN to tell them I was coming home.
Would G-Pa ever get disgusted with me enough to want me to leave?
I done good! Two days I took him for rides and McDonald’s. He kept the rides to about forty minutes. I drove 10-15 miles below the speed limit and pissed off all those people “who are in such a hurry.” “Life is slower here than in New York.” When did I become a fucking New Yorker?
Life is slower for G-Pa here and now. Except when he eats. He cannot taste that Banana Cream Pie at the rate at which he eats it. Or his dinners. Ironically, he doesn’t see how really impatient he is. For what reason…to get back to what…? I don’t know.
Um, pardon me. HOW MOTHERFUCKING HARD IS IT TO NOT GIVE ME A FULL CUP OF YOUR STANK-ASS COFFEE WHEN I TELL YOU OUT OF THE OLD MAN’S EARSHOT THAT I WANT TO MAKE IT LOOK LIKE I AM DRINKING COFFEE WITH HIM. DON’T FUCKING REPEAT THE ORDER BACK TO HIM INCLUDING MY AMENDED COFFEE. CHRIST ON A CRACKER. IT’S NOT THE GOP HEALTH CARE BILL.
Just had to get that out there.
I don’t resent the time I give to G-Pa. Not one Goddamn bit. But, I worry about doing it right.
In a week I will be headed toward the EC. What awaits me there makes me want to find a firearm or scalpel.
Mom, you feel the same damn way.
I am turning 40 years old. I am rootless.
Happy Fucking Birthday, Loser.
I don’t know what I want or even find out to figure out what I want. And, half my life is gone. Good job.
“My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.”
Wordsworth
I used to have so much hope and so many dreams and I wasted them.
God, show me the way.
Off for Coffee Time.
Now is not a good time to Come Again, Christ.
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:
Coffee Time
Health
UC Remission
Angel
Family
Xanax
Disability
Medicare
Being and American—When I put up G-Pa’s flag I felt proud to of my flag and my country and what she stands for. I felt proud to be an American.
UPDATE
PPPS: I do know what I want. I want life to not be such a fucking effort. I want to enjoy it. Or at least not be afraid of it. Not be anxious, fretful, morose, worried...
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