Fear and Loathing

Dear Hearts,

All right, you dumb bitch. Get the fuck up out of bed and stop having a fucking pity party for your fucking self.

People in Texas have lost everything. Yeah, yeah, my pain is real too. But, I have not lost everything.

I have been fucking over obsessed about my tattoo. Like way over-transference-anxiety-obsessed. I had written off my Tatt Guy as of yesterday because he got passive aggressively snippy with me on the phone. I ask about this fucking tattoo six weeks ago! Then I sent him an apology message and he replied back that he was working on my drawing. In the meantime, I visited a Tatt Place in Illinois online and decided that was where I was really meant to get my Tatt—from these two women who could intuit what I wanted.

Fuck. If he finishes the drawing, I will look at and if I like it I will have it done.

I feel so overwhelmed. So empty. Wednesday I labeled and tied up every box and carried 15 of them down the house stairs. Thursday we moved shit in This House, so I would have a place to more of my shit. Dad and I went up to the house yesterday and brought stuffed his truck with every boxed Barbie and anything else that we don’t want moved in the U-Haul.

After four messages to my fucking “Loss and Mitigation Case Manager,” I fucking left a message that I wasn’t paying the mortgage this month. Maybe that would get their fucking attention. That I would rather do a Deed in Lieu, but if I had to I would go into Foreclosure. Never in my life have I just not paid a bill. A few times, I have been late on bills just because—oh, shit! I forgot! OR oh, shit! I thought the online payment went through. But I have never just not paid a bill and certainly not a rent or mortgage bill.

Although when I was having acupuncture done (it helped a lot, but at $75 a pop…) Arthur would get mad at me when I couldn’t pay him the full $800 odd dollars every other week and had to pay a hundred less and then a hundred more. HE WASN’T EVEN FUCKING WORKING!

Mom said that I need external validation for changes in my life—like a tattoo.

I do. I need to mark myself to always remind myself that I have the Spirit of a Wolf and a Dragonfly. That I am a living witness to Saint Jude for all he’s done to me. That I am a daughter of The Goddess, Mother Mary.

Tuesday was the last night I will sleep in the NY House. I woke up screaming several times. I was in a nut house for people with Ulcerative Colitis and they were making me eat shit food. I mean like nothing natural, processed, sugary, worse than McDonald’s stuff. T was there. I called the nurses “fucking cunts” and told them to leave me the fuck alone. Why are the flamboyantly gay guys getting to leave but I have to stay if I am not a danger to myself or others? Who gave you cunts the power to monitor and rule my colon?

That house needs more than an exorcism.

I just want to scream but I don’t have the energy to go it. Inside I am wailing.

I haven’t been drawing. I have been cross stitching. The weather is like 60 degrees, which for some really fucking strange reason feels great in the Spring but fucking witch-teet freezing in the beginning of September.

What the fuck happened to the Summer? How the sweet mother of fuck is it Labor Day already?

I am terrified. Terri-fucking-fied. I and really leaving home. I am moving. I won’t be back here for an extended period of time if I keep the job at Burning Bed.

But what if I lose my disability? What if I chose the wrong Tatt Artist? What if  I never have more money than I do know and I am the family burden/charity case? What if no one ever loves me? What if I can’t take the SCHEDULE of living in Illinois. What if I make G-Pa or Aunt Faerie mad. I don’t want to leave for dinner at 5.11 p.m. every single night.

I am not going to Mass again tonight. Fucking loser.

When I want to find clothes I just pull everything out of my suitcases. Yes, Mom gave me drawers—but with all the moving back and forth I have just lived out of suitcases.

What if this is as good as it gets?

No, I am not a worrier at all.

Will I ever have a house and a “regular” life again? Could I even handle that?

I just want to curl into the fetal position and sleep. But Angel won’t sleep with me. It’s like even she senses the desperation and doesn’t want anything to do with it.

I do…I really do…I give control of my life to Christ…

BUT I DON’T KNOW HOW. I DON’T FUCKING KNOW HOW.

The highlight of my day is my coffee, cigarette, and reading time.

Now I am turning my attention to packing up all that I can to move out to Illinois.

No, things won’t fill the Void in my Life—the Hole in My Heart.

Lord, I am weary.

Isaiah 40:31

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.

Three years ago and for many years before I went into the nut house for the first time, I wanted to die over Labor Day because it meant going back to school. I would be filled with dread. Absolute, unadulterated fear and dread.

I don’t feel like that…shit, I’ve already failed. The bar has been lowered so much. But I don’t hate my job (such as two days a week is a job) or my husband.

I want to be Free of my Chains…my Self-Imposed Chains.

“The light only shines through those people who have cracked.” Mickey. Ray Donovan.

I love that show. I love Ray Donovan because he doesn’t take shit from anybody. Problems are solved with strategy and if that fails a gun or baseball bat. Abby is the “meanest cunt in the family.” Ray takes care of people and their problems. Just what I always wanted.

All I ever wanted…to be taken care of. But God will not let that happen (if ever) until I feel confident about caring for myself.

I’ll be honest. I don’t think too much about Texas, because it’s so horrifying.

My carefully controlled life is shattered in a way that doesn’t even begin to compare with those people.

Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.

But, I am pretty fucking sure that God is making it way more complicated than that. I have to decide for myself and risk making a wrong decision…

I think I am—but I don’t know for sure that I am on the right path.

Uncertainty.

Mother-fucking cunt.

“…Leadeth me down the path of Righteousness for His Namesake…” Psalm 23

I can’t see a future. I don’t think about suicide—not seriously. I mean sure, I think about it—would it be like if a gun just blew my brains out and I didn’t have to deal. I don’t really wanna be here. But, I feel like I am committed to Life, for better or for worse, in a way that I haven’t been in a long time.

I am afraid, Lord. Show me the way. Please.

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:

Dad looking for my Rosary bracelet via foot for a mile and a half

Finding my Rosary Bracelet minus the Pope Francis’s medal

Health

Family

Knowing I will never have nothing—that is pretty fucking huge.
Buffalo meat balls
Coffee

Oh, Mom and I met this artist guy in Town near the NY House. He was drawing in this overpriced café. And, I asked him some questions. He asked what I wrote about. I had no answer. Mom said Life.

I will only write about Life if I decide to actually live Life.

Angel and Mom...thanks for not just letting me sleep.

I am gonna run now and then smoke 'em and drink that dark roast, baby!