Redemption?

Dear Hearts,

Maybe I still have a shot at Redemption. Maybe all is not lost. Dad in out in 80-degree weather mowing the lawn after having done a whole bunch of shit with gravel and “buggy-luggin’” early this morning. He looks great for 70—for 50—fuck, even 40 years old. Although he did have more teeth and hair twenty years ago.

30 years ago I never thought I would: smoke, be divorced, be on disability, take care of G-Pa, cause my parents SO MUCH fucking grief, swear, want to die, have tattoos…I might have believed me if you’d told me that I’d be Catholic.

30 years ago, I was 10 years old. 10. Fucking 10.

The situations I experienced, my reaction to those situations, the choice I made and didn’t make, the people I let into and out of my life…all shaped Bridgette with the Wolf Tattoo (not yet—soon!).

In the packing, sorting and throwing away that is my job in life right now I came across my journal from the 1990-1991 school year. Or parts of the year. I was 13 then. Three years and my QUINTESSENTIAL perspective of life changed. That 10-year-old girl was beat up and down for the count.

I feel like shit. I am depressed and irritable. I am gonna make myself get dressed up in my little black dress and three-inch heels and go out to see Gaia and Johnny tonight. I don’t want to. But, I am going to make myself put on makeup and do my hair. I have already epilated and painted my nails. (If stored correctly, nail polish can last for years? I did not know that. I am using the fast drying stuff).

It’s three o’clock and I haven’t done shit.

But being at that house…it’s poison. Dad will not spend the night there. Dad will spend the night on the ground outside—but he will not sleep in the NY House.

My life is in boxes. Gaia says that it’s my things that are boxes, not me. I just bought a $5,000 storage shed. Dad will insulate and bug treat it. Well, Mom and Dad bought and I will pay them back. I owe them so much fucking money—we don’t even keep track.

Mom is at the horse race track with her friend. She needed a break. She is on a wire. I miss her. There’s no one here to cook for me and be my Mom. There is no one here to take care of me. I have to take care of Dad. He can’t boil noodles on the stove. That he can make rice is a fucking miracle!

I told him that he had better die first, before Mom. He said “Nah,” he’d get some woman to come in and take care of him. Yeah, right. He doesn’t exist without her. None of us do. He swore at Mom when we were at the NY House.

“You’re like those fucking Dot-Heads who can’t understand me.”

I hung up the phone. I told Mom that he does not get to talk to her that way. I told him that I had hung up the phone when I called back.

“Don’t lecture me, Kate, please.”

Then I felt bad. When we got home the next day I apologized---I know, I had nothing to apologize for. He said he wasn’t mad at me—I was worried he was—that he figured my being at the house and his comment triggered me. Fuck yeah, it did. But he recognized it. That is a miracle.

Both my parents are so stressed. Dad isn’t showing it—but we are at our limit.

How did I get here? How did we get here? Stressed doesn’t even begin to describe the situation.

Dad and I went to the movies yesterday—Atomic Blonde—eh. I was distracted. And, they kept smoking in the movie, which I love, but it made me want a cigarette so badly! But, he bought me my frozen yogurt treat. My frozen yogurt treat, cross stitching, smoking, reading, and watching Ray Donovan. The highlights of my day. Actually, those are a good number of highlights.

I know I have so much to be grateful for. So many blessings. After this whole House thing is over what will occupy my thoughts? My life?

6-4-91: “Over the weekend Nan and me had a huge (big) fight. Nothing will every be the same again between us. I think that God had that happen to show me that I can’t always be pleasing people. I have again sinned this time with Rachel and Mike’s notes.” (I read the note over Rachel’s shoulder.) “I do so think that I love him. No I don’t. I have a pain-stakingly crush on him. He is so perfect. I really have sinned. Religion is the most confusing thing in my life right now. I still don’t know how to interpret the light…I wish He would come down and give me a sign…”

6-?-91: “Oh God! The sinning I’ve done. I the ruining I’ve caused!  The pain the anguish. I’ve turned into everything I said I wouldn’t. I’ve become a teenager. It’s wrong! I’ve ruined my life. I’ve thrown away my speciality. And this time I don’t know what to do. I hate myself! If it wasn’t a sin I’d kill myself! It’s bad I’m gonna have to pull out the big guns now. I hate myself.”

Mike was the eighth-grade perfect boy. Catholic, cool, blonde hair, blue eyes, very smart. I thought he was “chosen” by God to be Special and Great. Around this time Nan turned on me one day—I had been her favorite, as she told me—but I remember the day—she just turned on me and I was the target of her vitriol instead of her praise. I didn’t and don’t know why. It just happened. Also, my best friend stopped talking to me because her parents were moving the family to England (their Homeland). We had been inseparable. I felt that Mike was the shining example and I could never compare. I don’t know what the big guns are…

In between the above and below entries I had my first kiss—eww! He was like a Saint Bernard. Then he “broke up” with me. Having a boyfriend was the one thing that made me feel validated.

8-12-91: “I was so horribly depressed I actually considered killing myself If it wasn’t a sin. I’ve thought seriously of running away to California. It’s the only place where one can blend in amongst nuts. My life sucks. I hate living here with Nan. When I’m 18. God help me, I’m outta this God forsaken Hell-hole of [a] town. I now understand why people kill themselves. They feel like I do today. Nothing matters anymore. There is nothing that God can take away from me. “

Pretty Woman was big at the time. When people asked what I wanted to do with my life—like any 13 year old kid does--I actually would say become a hooker on Hollywood Boulevard.

8-15-91: “I actually a pang of pain.” (For my first boyfriend. Nan told me we would get married and live happily ever after. Bitch.) “Tonight I came so close to killing myself.” (I had a couple of bottles of left over antibiotics in my dresser.) “I even tried. How? By hold my breath. I want to be dead…Next I might actually go further Nothing matters anymore.”

I think I had this notion that if I held my breath long enough I would pass out and die. I remember that night in very clear snap shot memories.

9-6-91: “Christian Slater saved my life. I went to [high] school…I will be O.K. A senior likes me Mike is what keeps me pushing. I am back to God. I’m still sort-of-trying to find myself…P.S. Glad 2 B Alive.”

I had a poster of him on my wall and I thought he smiled at me. I had a Beatles-like crush on C.S. I still do. I still have that poster. The senior was a total loser and was looking to fuck anything he could.

It would be a year before my life would revolve my first real high school boyfriend. Then I just went from on abusive relationship to another until grad school. A year and a half later I met Arthur.

I don’t know what all this means. But when I was 13 years old I wanted to die. When I was 37, I actually tried.

Depression. Bullying. Prozac. Anxiety. Therapy. Self-esteem. That shit was talked about then.

God, lead me on the path of righteousness for Your Namesake. Make clear my path and I will follow

Shit. I deserve some coffee and a cigarette now!

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 will try to figure what all this means later. After a smoke.

Grateful For:

Frozen yogurt treats

Health

Family

Faith

Coffee

Cigarettes

Hope that a year-a day-can change everything