A...Start...?

Dear Hearts,

Again I come to you from Burning Bed.

When you are on 2^nd, 3^rd, or weekend shifts you are supposed to clean the office and bathroom.

Um, no. Not gonna happen. Even if they are paying me—I will not do it. I don’t care if I sound snobby: I didn’t go to school for seven years to clean.

So, I took some Clorox wipes and wiped down any “visible” dust and Lysoled everything. At first, I was just using a tissue. So when I said in my Shift Report that “I dusted/sanitized the office, back room, counters and computers with Clorox Wipes, Lysol, and other designated cleaning products” I didn’t lie. A tissue can be a “designated cleaning product.” I did spray a lot of Lysol. The bathroom does look fine.

I am so fucking tired even though I got to bed at 10.30 last night. I snoozed the 6 o’clock alarm till 6.30. I used to get up at 4.30. I wasn’t as healthy then. I feel like it’s more than just getting used to getting up early. I feel like it’s getting used to being in the world again.

Yeah, yeah, I volunteered for a year—but volunteering for is different than being paid for a job. It’s kinda non-negotiable when you’re paid.

Amber is another employee who used to also be a resident here when she was a kid. She has suffered mental, physical, and sexual abuse. Her disabled husband (a veteran, God Bless) died last two years ago. She adopted her sister’s Fetal Alcohol child. She loves her dogs and cats. She is a good person. She is in her 30s or late 20s. She is drawn to kids, young people, and special needs kids. Strays of a sort—because that’s how she feels. She also is one of the ones responsible for the dress code crackdown. She likes to dye her short hair a rainbow of colors. There is something permanently damaged in her. Something that is not right—that prevents her from “climbing the ladder” so to speak. And boy does she like to speak and speak and speak and speak and speak.

She was warning me about the hazardous politics here. “I need to watch what I say to anyone.” Yet, she is naming names and giving me an earful. Of course, I am dying to ask to the “deets,” but I don’t. Like why did the Spanish advocate get in trouble? I am digressing. Maybe not. Maybe I am giving an example.

Last night, I tutored Jaimie. Not the most likable girl. Like Tonya, she is also permanently damaged in her. But, she shares Amber’s story. Abused in every way, sex trafficked, beaten up…and she herself can be abusive. She is working on maybe a middle school level—maybe at best. And, she is in a college class where she has to write a six-paragraph essay about Hep B.

Continuing Sunday:

I worked with Jamie again for the last two hours of my shift Saturday. I cannot help her make up for the deficit in learning that she has. I can’t. She would have to put down the phone, focus, stop whining, and deal with all the other drama in her life that is dragging her down. That’s not gonna happen. She has been living this way her whole life.

So I wrote the fucking essay for her. I had to dumb it down. Efficacy? Her teacher will know that there is no way Jamie would use that word. I think that maybe it was a C paper at best. I wouldn’t accept such a paper from one of my students. I might mercifully give it a D.

It was just easier for me to write it for her. She was all annoyed and not feeling well (UTI, antibiotic, etc.). She was tired and had to help her friend move out of her abusive boyfriend’s house. Oh, yeah, and then that’s daughter she has. She was dismissive, snappy, and rushed. I just did the fucking essay. Did you know there are four vaccines for Hep B? Twinix is usually used on adults because it protects again Hep B and A.

I was annoyed with Jaimie. But I didn’t take the matter in hand. I needed to say to her—like I would a 16-year-old kid, “Put the phone down and listen to me. I can’t help you unless you let me help you.” It’s like the boundaries of my being an employee and “serving” the clients and public got all mixed up with being a tutor. This essay will not break or make Jaimie’s dental worker career. It’s just a drop in the bucket.

But, how do you come back from what Jaimie has gone through? She literally does not have the educational skills that she needs to write this essay. And, she will not acquire them. I was in survival mode for a long time—I didn’t run, I didn’t draw, I didn’t write, I didn’t read “intelligent” books. I couldn’t. I was so deep in that well there was no light or room for those things. Just staying above water was taking all my effort. 

I talked to Amber about Jaimie. She is in a similar situation. She will never have certain skills, because she was so severely damaged at a young age. Yet, Amber, gets out of bed every day and comes to work and does her job. Yeah, she is longer on excuses and a bit immature—but the abuse she suffered.

My grades in middle school dropped because I was more worried about being spit on and hit and called a fucking skank that solving Mr. K’s equation.

Jaimie and Amber didn’t have anybody. Amber’s father was just nasty to her and proved his dick size by hitting his over-weight daughter. Jaimie’s ex-boyfriend was not afraid enough of her father, that he would actually hit Jaimie.

There is something irreparably damaged in these women. I don’t think it will ever be fixed.

There is something permanently damaged in me too. But, not in the same way. I had family, support, education, love, all of my Bloom’s Taxonomy needs met. Yes, there was abuse and pain. So much pain. But, I was never alone. I always had a safety net. Jaimie is quitting smoking because she can’t afford it—I will never have that problem. (Listen, I smoke four cigarettes a day—DEAL! “Nigga’, nah, I ain’t sorry.”)

Anybody who has tried and failed at suicide—there is something in me that will never be fixed…but

I was running yesterday after working three long days. I was running in 92 fucking degree weather. Because I needed to move. Yeah, the cigarette and coffee came later. I talk to God when I run. I picked a few fluffy dandelions and wished on them. I am getting stronger.

I heard a whisper…”This is a new start. A new beginning. It’s good to be alive.” Just a whisper. But I heard it.

Aunt Faerie said something about re-entry shock this morning. Exactly. When astronauts re-enter the atmosphere of Earth they are on one ball-sucking-nanny-goat-of-a-sweet-mother-of-fuck ride. That’s where I’m at.

I don’t think I miss the house as much as I thought I would.

Or I just haven’t fully realized it yet.

I still have episodes and depression and anxiety, but if weren’t for all the God Blessed extra help I’ve gotten—I wouldn’t be here at all, much less feeling stronger.

There will always be an exit plan. But, I don’t want it the way I used to.

I ran a very short distance yesterday. It was like not-healthy-hot to be running. I stopped at one point in front of this yard. Two men were in the yard. One is maybe his…50s.

Kate looked caught movement to her left and looked up from trying to pull extra oxygen in from the humid 90-degree weather.

He made a spinning motion with his finger—as though to say, “keep going.”

Kate’s first reaction was to flip him off. But, small town, not that far from home, pretty distinguishable in her sports bra, little spandex running short, and pink sneakers. She thought better of flipping the guy off.

“It’s 92 degrees!” she called to him across the lawn.

“No pain, no gain! Push through the pain!” This guy was smug. Let’s see him run.

“I think I look pretty damn good,” said Kate.”

“Oh, you do. You got it all going on! Those six pack abs—and you even have the walk!”

Uh, eww. Okay, So Kate was more than somewhat flattered. But there was a no six pack on her and she was walking in sneakers. She always feels a little off balance walking in sneakers. Cowboy boots. But Cowboy boots made for running don’t exist, so sneakers it is. There was no walk.

Still, she smiled to herself. This guy had no idea that she was 40, which made him even grosser, but still…

“What can I say?! I am a New Jersey native,” called Kate as she began again to run up the sidewalk.

The calorically illegal piece of German Chocolate cake was good last night.

“My milkshake is better than yours.”

And, I have the heart of a Wolf.

Hooooowwwwwlllll!

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 Ailbhe; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

Grateful For:

Cold Brew

Time on Aunt Faerie’s deck

Not working full-time

Sleep

Health

Family

Holy City treats

PS: I don’t like a stray in my darker moments…but a failure. I still believe I’m expendable.

PPS: Amber, there is no way I am going to work with the genius-smart wheel chair-bound, non-communicative, except grunts that his mother knows, boy to help him fulfill his dual dream of being a pro-football player and pastor. Those just aren’t my people. The teenage girl or boy who underestimates herself and never feels good enough—those are my people.

PPS: I still reserve the right to have a proper breakdown or setback at any given moment. Wellness don't just happen overnight and a few months I wanted to kill myself. Just sayin'. Don't go setting the bar too high.

A Sign Post...September 22

Dear Hearts,

I am at Burning Bed and…and…and

This doesn’t feel real. It’s like when Dad and I go there…I am on Planet X.

No, not Planet X. Because the world here is really familiar. There are the same stars and the same sun and same moon. It’s fucking 92 degrees at the end of September! I am not necessarily complaining because I can still smoke outside without getting cold. And, I really do prefer to smoke outside. The basement is a BLESSING compared to the garage—but this fall/winter we are going to have to do something about G-Pa coming down to use the bathroom whilst I am smoking. There is going to have to be a sign or something. I don’t think he really realizes I smoke down there—but whatever he thinks I do down there—he needs to not come down and use the bathroom.

The trees are dropping their leaves like on the EC. I am watching the same shows on Hulu and Netflix. Angle cuddles with me, bites me, demands food…

It is an alternate reality. Yeah, that’s it. The Twilight Zone. Rod fucking Sterling Zone. Or even Tales From The Darkside.

“You’re traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind; a journey into a wonderous land whose boundaries are that of the imagination. That’s the signpost up ahead-your next stop, The Twilight Zone”

“Man lives in the sunlit world of what he believes to be reality. But…there is unseen by most, an underworld, a place that is just as real, but not as brightly lit…a dark side.”

Definitely The Twilight Zone. The place that is dark and unlit is the NY House. My whole motherfucking life for the last five years.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I just want you to be happy. That’s all I want….your happiness.”

Tears moisten my supposedly waterproof eyeliner

It’s like the Twilight Zone episode where everything appears real and normal—but it’s not.

I will never step foot in the NY House again. I have left that whole life, including its dreams, tragedies, and successes behind. The next time I go to the EC the NY House will be empty, the shed will be full, and my parents’ house will sport a lot more things.

The NY House…new name: Albatross. The Albatross will be empty.

That sweet mother of fucking house has been the focal point of my life since Arthur and I starting sleeping apart. How to afford it. Loans. Upkeep. Trying in vain to make it my own. Then trying to extricate myself from it.

Yes, Mom, I realize the Albatross is so not over for you, but it is for me in a way.

The “What to do about the house?” qQuestion that has plagued us since my first nut house stay has been answered.

I am not paying the fucking mortgage. Just not gonna do it. Didn’t do it.

I don’t feel homeless necessarily. Mom and Dad’s house is always my home and I do feel at home in The Holy City. Everything—Barbies, Pocket Dragons, Faerie’s, crystals, pens, special mugs---all the accouterments that I brought out here are in a jumble in my room. I have hung my posters and pictures.

I don’t want to set up my desk the same way it was in NY. I have things around me that I haven’t had around me for almost three years. I just need to see how the room wants to be set up.

This is a new life for me. I am not getting back to normal. I am creating a totally New Normal.

A year ago, I wanted to die. A few months ago, I wanted to die. Now, I sit, as a PAID staff member at Burning Bed’s front desk fielding calls. The last two days have been very slow and that’s okay.

I don’t wanna hafts figure out the right thing to say to the drunken father who says his son was raped. I don’t want to write a Legal Advocacy Referral and then be told that it’s a custody situation and we don’t deal with that. Just let me smile, make small talk with the clients and visitors, and transfer calls. Don’t NEED anything from me—‘cuz I ain’t got nothing to give.

And, um, Trina—YOUR DAUGHTER WANTS TO BE A TRANSGENDER GIRL BECAUSE SHE NEEDS ATTENTION, IS TIRED OF BEING, THE SECOND ADULT IN THE HOUSE, AND HAS BEEN ABUSED AND THROWN AROUND LIKE A HACKIE SACK. MEN HAVE THE POWER IN HER LIFE—THEY ARE THE ONES THAT CAUSE THE PAIN—SO IF SHE BECOMES A GUY, SHE CAN TAKE THE CONTROL BACK! DUH!

Back to The Twilight Zone…

I’ve been away mentally, physically, spiritually and now I am back—the sunlight is blinding.

OVERWHELMED.

I told God last night—I was praying as I was showering—is that wrong?—that I am afraid.

I afraid of re-entering the land of the living. I am not the Walking Dead.

I am afraid of germs and failure and losing disability and disappointing people and letting people down and of incompetence and not being good enough and saying the wrong thing and doing the wrong thing and the monster in the closet.

One of thecounselorss here does this “Monster Box” with the kid. They take a box and decorate it like a monster. Then, they write down and put all their worries in the box. The monster worries about them for the child or gets rid of them.

DEE—TELLING THE KIDS THAT THE MONSTER IS “KILLING” THEIR WORRIES IS NOT TOO VIOLENT.

I try to give my worries to Christ, Mother Mary, my Saints. Saint Brigid, Saint Therese, Mother Mary, and Saint Ailbhe are not big killers. But, Christ, Saint Peter, Archangel Michael, and Jed—they would kill my worries.

If I fucking let them.

I am tutoring a resident of Burning Bed tonight. When I volunteered to do Friday’s four to six, I forgot that tomorrow I work here during the day. Oh, what a sacrifice. No, I won’t jinx it. But usually the weekends are quiet. So if I am gonna get paid to write, read, play games, draw, or cross stitch—I’m okay with that.

Maybe I will shorten the tutoring tonight. She is ED, ADHD and has a host of other LD’s. It’s cyclical. She grew up in an abusive household. Berating your own daughter is not abuse—it’s what you do.

BUT, I digress. I am kinda excited to tutor because I like teaching. But I am so tired. And I not sure how remedial this girl is. And, she can be sassy and go 100 mph. And, I am helping her with dental hygienist stuff. Shit. I brush my teeth and gargle with Listerine. That’s all I know.

AND T—YOU NOTICE THAT I MADE THE DISTINCTION BETWEEN GARGLING AND DRINKING.WITH LISTERINE, I DON’T SWALLOW.

I did my time sheet, because I am actually getting paid to do a real job…I worked 21 hours last week, plus that dreadful drug test and then annoying fingerprinting.

That is a big leap from volunteering eight hours to working 20.

It just feel so ambivalent.

I feel like I am just on high alert. This living thing ain’t for the feint of heart.

The Depression, OCD, PTSD, Episodes, etc. it’s all still there—and I am just learning to adapt to living with it. Kind of like a learning to live with a prosthetic limb?

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 Ailbhe; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

Grateful For:

Café iced coffee

Sleep

Family

Health

BB Job

ACT II

Dear Hearts,

I woke up this morning shaking. I called Mom on her cell and asked to come upstairs. She just held me as I shook.

Gary and/or—but mostly Gary was involved and I was in the nut house. I was sitting in this chair and I just wanted to be left alone…to die? All these people—some of whom I know through past therapy—were there expressing what a loser I was. The room was surrounded by nurses, therapists, and doctors—and they were gonna make take treatments I didn’t want. I just sat half falling out of the chair wanting to close my eyes. I did threaten to go “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolfe?” on their asses if they touched me.

“Mom, what if I can’t make it in Illinois as an adult?”

Being here on the EC Mom and Dad haven’t “taken care” of me—but it’s a lot shorter fall.

Tomorrow at 5 a.m.—ass crack of dawn Dad and I leave for Illinois. For real for good. Dad’s big ass Dodge Ram is packed to the hilt.

Yes, G-Pa, it will all fit in my room.

In half an hour I am gonna take a run and then have my coffee and first cigarette of the day. Life worth living.

I should be waxing profound.

I did not get my Wolf Tattoo. Dave is a lying, irresponsible jag-off. I have an appointment in Chile (a town an hour from the Holy City) with a FEMALE tattoo artist. She does the art while I am there and I should bring lots of reference pictures. I have a good feeling about her—as soon as I went on the website, I knew they were the ones to give me the tattoo.

After calling Dave AGAIN and his getting passive-aggressively snippy, I wrote him this pathetic apology message about being sorry to be a pain and to please forgive me.

That last line—the “please forgive me”—as soon as I wrote and sent it, I knew I was done with that jag off. I am done asking men—or anyone for forgiveness when they don’t do what they are supposed to do. Well, I’d like to think I’m done.

After Mom gets my reference pictures back from Dave, I will let his boss (he did two of my tats) and him what a jag-off he really is. I will be professional. But, he fucking jerked me around and lied to me. Don’t fucking lie to me.

I am glad I am getting my tattoo later than I wanted—it’s given me time to really think—yes, this is what I want and society, work opinions, G-Pa’s feelings be damned. I have the heart of a wolf.

But, then why am I so fucking scared?

Even though I am scared—terrified—I am moving forward by God’s Grace. That has to count for something, right?

Dad and I saw the It movie based on a novel by Stephen King. We held hands.

Last night, after removing the very fat cat, I lay on the couch next to mother put my head on her stomach. I felt so safe.

I will miss them so fucking much.

This is the real deal—Nan’s desk (it was her mother’s and for years she and I fought over it, but that’s another story) and a dresser is going with me. Some of my most precious possessions are in that truck.

When I run, God talks to me.

I don’t know if I’ll be in The Holy City for the rest of my life…but this is Act II. Three years ago I was in a job I hated and I wanted to kill myself.

Now, I have a sorta-job I like and I’ve committed my Wolf Heart to Life.

CD, PTSD, OCD—it’s all still there…and I know it will hit me when I am in the MW –I may take five steps back…but I ain’t giving in. I will fight.

God, here I am. I trust you to lead me down the road of Righteousness for your Namesake.

Take the wheel.

Gotta run. Gotta try to live.

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 Ailbhe; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

Grateful For:

Movies with Dad

Strawberry frozen yogurt treat

Being ALMOST all packed

Health

Family

Faith

Buffalo Meatballs

Red, from school, who still cares

Sun

I am fucking freaking out. I had My Last Supper of spaghetti and buffalo meatballs with Mom and Dad.

This is like for real. All the other times—since T---it was like I was going to Illinois, but I HAD to come back and take care of the house. I have. I just stopped paying the mortgage. They WILL NOT talk to me while I am paying the mortgage. Go figure.

This is the real deal.

What if I am just defective at life. That would be easier.

I will never sleep tonight...

Saving Jane “From the Sky

They kicked me out of the parade
I guess I had too much to say
Couldn't bend to fit myself inside the lines
And I have wasted all this time just trying
Those pretty boys and pretty girls
Live in their pretty plastic world
They're so convinced that everything is black and white
That we are wrong and they are right
They always told us not to fight
Kept us grounded when we should be flying

Don't be afraid to fall
You know the ground is never too far from the sky
And they can have their walls
The universe has bigger plans for you and I
So baby hold up your head, now
Don't ever let 'em see you cry

I know you're caught up in the show
And it's so hard to let it go
To lose the mask you always hid yourself behind
To live a life of your design
To say…

The Crucible

ME: [I] cannot!

GOD: And there’s your first marvel, that [you] can

I need a fucking cigarette.

Lot's Wife

Dear Hearts,

I don’t want to write this post, but feel as though I must.

To mark the occasion.

It won’t be good enough.

I haven’t posted because I don’t want to allow all those messy feelings to the surface. I don’t want to examine them. I have certainly done that in the past.

I just am afraid that if I turn on the spigot—I won’t be able to turn it off.

I WALKED AWAY FROM THE NEW YORK HOUSE TODAY.

I will never go back. Unlike, Lot’s wife I did not look back.

I can’t go back there.

Yes, it’s good. But there are also regrets.

I don’t wanna talk about it. I just need a break from myself. All this emotional intelligence, soul-searching fuckery.

Vulnerable.

Mom asked me if I were okay. I’m quiet.

I don’t know what I am.

Scared. I just want to be alone.

I am moving for real for a real 850 miles away.

I just want to be alone and immersed in drawing, cross stitch, dumb TV.

I can’t look myself in the mirror.

Disconnected.

What do I need or want?

IDK.

I want to hide.

Sad.

I'm so weary...

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:

Strawberry frozen treats

Health

Family

Angel

Warm Coffee

Cigarettes

Faith

Today was also the first the kids I would have taught are back at school.

"Okay, so who would rather be sleeping?" I'd ask,

Several moans and a few hand raises.

"Me, too. But this is where we are and we are in it together. The good news is only 179 days to go!"

"My rules common sense: you respect me and I respect you..."

Then I would read through six pages of rules that I had to lay out to cover my ass.