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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.