Dear Hearts,
“This better be fucking good.”
That’s how I answered the phone Wednesday morning.
I was in a dream that was so real and sensual (as in engaging all the senses, not sex). My sister was trying to tell me something but every time she whispered in my ear I couldn’t understand her. But, whatever she had to say was important. I just couldn’t understand her. There was also a wedding, a guy in a tux who had something to do with me, and Eastern Star symbolism.
I was trying to understand Gaia with such great concentration---and my fucking phone rings.
Talk to my college roommates. They will attest that (yes, you’re right, T.) I can be a fucking bitch when I’m suddenly woken up. The alarm doesn’t seem to make me react that way—Pavlovian, maybe. But if someone or something startles me out of sleep I cannot always be held responsible for my words.
“This better be fucking good,” I said answering my chime iPhone ringtone. I was definitely in between dreaming and consciousness.
“This is L. from the bank.”
Fuck me. The bank with which I had worked with HUD for six fucking months trying to get an answer about what options I have in regards to the NY House.
It wasn’t fucking good. Not at all. Put miscommunication, lies, incompetency, bureaucracy (that’s a hard fucking word to spell for me), over-worked, under-paid, miles of paper work, and hours of different answers from the same agencies and you get a Fuckerole.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN I JUST COINED THAT PHRASE: FUCKEROLE.
FUCKEROLE: (originated from the noun casserole) a situation in which various situations, people, agencies, events, etc. all combine to create the total opposite intended result of hours of phone calls, time, meetings, and paperwork.
Fuckerole. That is the situation with The House right now. I keep going back to what I could/should have done differently…
11.54 a.m.—time for lunch whether you are hungry or not
I don’t know. I have officially applied for a DEED IN LIEU meaning I give The House back to the bank and walk away. But there will be financial consequences. There is no getting around it. My credit will take a hit. I debt will grow.
I have gone over it a thousand times in my head. June 14, 2012 I filed for divorce. It broke me. I broke. Or cracked badly. Where is the superglue. Actually, I feel like it was March 27, 2012 when Gram died. I knew my world was blowing up, but like those who tested the first atom bombs, I have know idea of the long-tern consequences.
I called Mom and Dad in tears. All I wanted to do was take four mg. of Xanax and sleep. Dad said I had to fight. I lay on my bed in the fetal position shaking and crying. Maybe I would just take the whole bottle and sleep. One bottle wouldn’t be enough to kill me by any means.
God. Mother Mary. I looked at my old calendar page of a wolf’s face.
Once more into the fray
Into the last good fight I’ll ever know
Live and die on this day…
Live and die on this day… The Grey film 2012
I will not let Him, Zub, win. I will fight. There is Evil in the world. It takes the form of man and disease. Mental Illness is a disease the Devil ultimately delights in. No drugs can numb the pain and your mind is your enemy.
In The Grey, Ottway wants to die…until he confronted with death. Then, he wants to live. Ottway will go out on his terms, not someone else’s. The armor of God…
I am tired of the fight. So, so tired.
And, this is real. I am leaving The NY House. The last vestige of a life interrupted. At least I had dreams there. In with all the financial implications is the fact that I am “losing” my house. It’s devastating. I know that it is my only option. Even I had the money, keeping the house would not be a good idea. That house wants me dead.
According the Book of Isaiah, a farmer does not plow continuously. He has to cut down the beautiful meadow and strip and turn the soil before he can plant what will be a good harvest.
I will be 40 a week from now. A life half-lived. So much time wasted. I was given the gift of “nature’s first green is gold” and I wasted it.
The DEED IN LIEU makes it really fucking real. Five years ago I said that I would kill myself if I lost the house. Now…
My entire insides recoil.
“That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all. Prufrock.
God will lift me up on eagles’ wings and make “my cup runneth over.” But, what about all those other people who are dying—the children in hospitals, the people in Syria…what makes me think that I am so important that God will prevent me from stumbling?
Seriously? How does God make it right for my Sister-in-Law’s husband and children after she died of breast cancer? There are so many people suffering worse fates than I. Why should I believe that God will help me?
WHY SHOULD I BELIEVE THAT GOD WILL HELP ME ABOVE ALL OTHERS?
I have so many blessings. I appreciated them. I prostrate myself before God with gratitude for them…but…still…the fight.
Maybe this is karma or punishment or I don’t know. Some moments I can barely move.
I have always loved birthdays, Christmases, holidays—but I don’t want to turn 40. Every goal, realistic or not, that I set for myself my forty—failed.
I was supposed to work at Burning Bed today and tomorrow. When I showed up this morning Nosy Bitch was there pitching a fit that it was her shift and I shouldn’t be there. Fuck you, I’m not getting paid for this shit. I have no problem going back home to bed.
“Well, I do it every week! I work until midnight then am back at work at 8 a.m.”
“I can’t.”
“I bounce back.”
“I can’t.”
“Well, I do. This is my shift! This is my regular shift! She screwed up! You’re not supposed to be here. This is my shift!”
Slowing your fucking roll, bitch. You think I wanted to get up at six a.m. and come in this morning? You think I have some burning desire to work for no money all day?
(Yes, it is a means to an end. Even a part-time job is impossible right now with the house.)
But, yeah, it’d be nice to get a pay check or something. So don’t give me fucking attitude, cunt. How much are you selling your house for? Are you rich? Why don’t you have kids?
FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU.
Suma Cum Laude, bitch.
But, that still put me here.
So I have a “free day” that I didn’t think I’d get. I come home and fall right back to sleep. I’m grateful. I am. Now I am going to take G-Pa for a drive. We are gonna get pizza take-out tonight. He really likes that idea. I’m not going to Mass. Wrong phone number or a priest who doesn’t give a shit. I have left two desperate messages and heard nothing. I can pray to God just fine right here.
I don’t give a fuck about anybody in that Church—except maybe the little baby and Hannah—and no one gives a fuck about me.
After said ride, a stop at McDonald’s for coffee and nuclear-fallout-proof apple pie, and a visit to Walmart for bananas and yogurt…then I will have my coffee, cigarettes, and read. Pray first.
I know how I sound. Pathetic.
Hope is a thing with feathers and I think mine flew away.
Next, week packing and then one day from MW to EC.
This is my blog and I’ll have a fucking pity party if I want to.
I don’t want to go back there. And, I wanted my 40th Birthday to be something special. Change my perspective…perhaps…eating buffalo balls is special.
I am tired, ashamed, afraid, and lost.
Fight…fight…fight…
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:
Faith
Café pie
Pizza
Health
Family
A home
Never going without what I need and then some
Cigarettes
Coffee
I am tired of this game. So very tired. But, “once more into the fray…”
UPDATE:
I took G-pa for a ride today and then McDonald’s where we met with Dr. Swede and his wife.
I have been feeling guilty about the post I wrote today.
Me, feel guilt? No way!
It is perspective. Dad sent me this devotional book that helped him through the crisis with Maddie.
This woman came upon a beautiful meadow with wildlife and birds in perfect harmony. The grass was soft and the place was peaceful. When she returned the next day, the meadow has been ploughed and tilled. She was disgusted that anyone would destroy such a beautiful place. But, then she thought about how this seemingly barren field would turn into a plentiful harvest. The meadow was destroyed, just changed.
Perspective.
Okay, I am turning 40 and I am broke and on disability.
But, for the first time in my life I am not lying to myself. I am not basing my decisions on a husband or boyfriend. And I have so much to be grateful for. My family. Health. I am not alone in this barren field. I have options. This is Act II. I can start again. But I need to be willing to RECEIVE God’s Grace.
I have to Hope and Fight.
Special and sparkly things---they are things. But the love—spending my 40th
Birthday with my parents. Eating Sacred Buffalo meat, watching my favorite movie
(True Romance)—these are events that matter more than all the Barbies and gifts I
could ever get.
Zub. CD. They distort your perspective. I don’t know the answers about why some suffer more or way less than I. I don’t even have all the questions. But, I know what I feel in my Heart. I have touched God and seen His Face.
“HERE I AM, LORD”
Okay. Now shower, pizza, Chicago PD, Med, Fire, Justice, SVU, cross stitch or drawing and pie.
I am grateful
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