Disoriented

Dear Hearts,

I would slash out this introduction with a red pen if one of my students wrote it.

Disoriented: make someone lose his sense of direction AND/OR may one feel confused

That’s how I feel right now.

Like I can get a footing. I am just sliding around on the ice and there are some pretty big crack and even holes in the ice.

I filled—no—Gaia, Johnny, Dad, and I filled up a dumpster full of…shit…from the House. Heather and Saint Jude got me through it.

For one of our last anniversaries, Arthur and I bought a dining room table. It was “bar” height. It is or rather was a nice table with leaves and four chairs to the tune of $700. It was practically brand new except for the cigarette burn that Arthur left on the table top.

You can’t throw away a perfectly good $700 table! I could sell it. I could store it…

My dad is a saver—worse than I. He didn’t want to get rid of the table. He could use the bar chairs in his house.

“This is your stuff, Kate,” said Gaia looking directly at me. Her hazel eyes were the stormy-ocean color they turn when she gets pissed off. “You have the final say. This is your stuff.”

“Just let Dad make the decision. I can’t fight it,” I said just wanting to be anywhere other than my NY House.

“No! This is your stuff and it’s your decision.”

Even now, thinking about that table literally turns my stomach. I saw the table, partially covered by old plastic party table covers, that day in the garage and my eyes narrowed. I was reliving that night.

The night that the police came.

I am not going to write about it all again. I have fucking re-lived it enough in the past few days. I legitimately have PTSD—so I told by therapists and shrinks. I still feel PTSD should be reserved for veterans. But people who are abused, raped, witness a horrible tragedy, are in a car accident—they have PTSD.

PTSD is like a thumbprint. No two people have it the same way. My worst PTSD moments are on permanent replay in that fucking house.

That night he threatened to call the police on me (a phobia of mine, he knew). Oh, call the police on me and my Barbies to have us thrown out. My gut tightens and face twists just writing this. I sat at that table and choked down food he cooked (how little could I eat without getting in trouble. I sat at that table and listened to his clinically psychotic ideas. I fucking hated that table. I went to a nearby town and got Chinese food that night. On the way I bumped a deer. I was so afraid I would get in trouble if there were any dents and Arthur found out. I wasn’t into full on lying yet.

Yes, Arthur, I lied to you about the green Wedgwood dish. I have it and I always have. Yes, T I have your Reagan/Bush ’84 Convention pin. Neither of you is getting those things back. I lied to you. “I ain’t sorry nigga, nah.”

“No. The table goes. I fucking hate that table.”

Gaia and Johnny helped me carry all the pieces. But, I took the top part—the one with the cigarette burn. The part of the table that my pain seeped into. I took that motherfucking table it in the dumpster like a Frisbee. It felt good.

And bad. All of this feels bad. Throwing out the detritus of over 10 years of my life. Packing. Sorting. Deciding what to store. What to take. What can go with me. What to store. It’s a nightmare.

I woke up yesterday morning at 6.30 a.m. hyperventilating and ran downstairs to my parents. I dreamt they’d rejected me. They wanted nothing more to do with me. They were just done. They assured me it was okay and to go back to bed.

Mom and I went up belatedly to the House yesterday. We got work done after wasting an hour…let’s just say my grand plan to throw the second-hand recliner out and Mom’s idea to open the back dumpster door were not worthy of our intelligence. Thank you, drunken angel.

I am made in the image and likeness of God and nothing can change that. That’s what Dr. Swede said.

I stand on my property and just look—it is beautiful. The plans…dreams…I don’t know if I even had those when Arthur and I moved in. No, I did. I was focusing primarily on my MFA, but I had other dreams and plans. Going into possible foreclosure was not on the list.

I threw out a broken fairy fountain Arthur bought me before we even moved to the House. There more than several—maybe a dozen boxes marked “Marriage” that are not going to be gone through. They are just gonna get stored.

What THINGS do I really need?

I am not my THIINGS.

What THINGS do I really want?

This morning I woke myself up from a nightmare by screaming. I don’t know what it was about but it was bad and my subconscious brought me out of it by making me scream. And, I mean scream.

Mom and Dad ran errands today and got me my Strawberry Frozen Yogurt treat. I am so looking forward to that! That made my day!

I know they are bad for me—but whatever gets me through this.

I am averaging two mg rescue Xanax a day. Yesterday, I took the Xanax with my Klonopin (as directed) and got a little high while Mom and I were wrapping things. Not a pleasant feeling. Maybe it was just my subconscious trying to get the fuck away from me.

In a while—when it cools down Mom and I are gonna walk/run with Maddie. I run and Mom walks. Then I am going to come back shower, pray, and have my first cigarette and coffee of the day. Life worth living.

A woman with a wolf tattoo doesn’t worry about getting in trouble from people who are supposed to love her. Or, even bosses. A woman with a wolf tattoo doesn’t act hedonistic, but she does not give a flying mother-cock-sucking-fuck about “getting in trouble.”

I am tired. So tired. Deep down bone weary.

“But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”  Isaiah 40:31

When I told Gaia on dumpster day that I couldn’t do. I just couldn’t. She hugged and said, “you can and you are.”

I am. Please, God, sustain 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.

PPS: Father Fuckhead—the one who called me and adulterer and fornicator. He is out and a 33 year old priest is in. This is the Church right in the Holy City. If that Priest isn’t in the vein of Pope Francis, I will show his collar up one nostril and pull it out the other. He never seen no Jersey Girl.

PPS: 14 years ago Wednesday Arthur and I were married and made wedding vows. 

How? What? I don't understand...

Grateful For:

Strawberry frozen yogurt treats

Ray Donovan

Faith

Health

Family

Gaia

Angel

Coffee

Cigarettes

**********

I am reading this book, Rooms, and it’s…the intent is good and he’s not a bad writer, but he’s not consistent either. However, it’s about finding oneself and God. I have given up on it and been charmed by it…

But my main point is:

CHRISTIAN CAN SMOKE, DRINK, SWEAR AND WATCH VIOLENT, GRAPHIC MOVIES, AND READ TRASHY BOOKS.

Ray Donovan putting a bullet in the head of the priest who molested him and his brother—that doesn’t let The Thief into my heart. It lets me live vicariously.

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, CHRISTIAN FICTION IS SO OFTEN PRUDISH.