Dear Hearts,
Straight outta Burning Bed…pardon the disjointedness…
Ya’ know what? October 10th was the last day I needed tampons. Irony.
It got all busy when the Colleen, the woman whom I mention in in 9/9 post came in. Like three people called at once. And, all I cared about was helping Colleen, but I couldn’t. I didn’t have the experience…the skill set yet…
When I say Kay take Colleen into one of the private counseling rooms—THAT IS WHAT I WANT TO DO. HELP PEOPLE LIKE COLLEEN. THAT’S WHAT I WANT TO DO.
Then I rushed to the eye doctor. I like him. I’ll keep him. He actually knew about the connection between ulcerative colitis and nicotine as a treatment. I was impressed.
He asked me if that’s why I smoked. I was on a roll from the tornado at work.
“Is that why you smoke? Some people justify smoking if they have ulcerative colitis.”
“No. I smoke because I love it. And, yeah, I know about the connection and that nicotine is a treatment for UC. I’m impressed you do. But, I just turned 40 and I’ve decided that I am not going to apologize for smoking, being a Republican, liking to sleep in late, and having tattoos.”
He just smiled this awkward, like "please don’t pull out a gun and start shooting" smile, and put his hands defensively.
“I didn’t ask,” he said with a fake laugh.
“I am from New Jersey.”
The guy musta thought I was totally nuts.
But, I hafta hand it to him—I was able to cross stitch that night.
After Tuesday is a blur of appointments and shopping and then getting ready for the big stupid BB Gala on Saturday.
I had the teaching thing down. I don’t have this whole BB thing down yet.
But I want to return to the previous post on 9/10.
I feel like an actor on a stage. I don’t have to memorize lines. Those come easily enough. And these lines sound sincere, even to me, when I am saying them, but it’s like I don’t feel them. Life doesn’t feel real. It feels like I am living someone else’s life and I am just a barnacle along for the ride. Or like those little birds that sit on hippos.
“…A poor player who frets and struts his hour on the stage and then is heard no more…’tis a tale told by an idiot…”
At the gala, I was all dressed to the nines. (What does that phrase even mean?) I wore my three-inch black heels (which really aren’t comfortable after standing them for five hours). I had my little black dress. Hair and makeup. Goddamn liquid eyeliner. It looks great, but it is a bitch to use. And I don’t have anyone to tell me how I look. Well, G-Pa is more than willing to comment on my appearance, but I think he thought I was showing too much skin even in my LBD. It is attractive, sexy even, but not like J-Lo Versace sexy. I fit in with everyone else. And, my milkshake was a lot better than some.
The Gala ending was a long night. I bid on a hand-made pen for $35 and a board member gave me a really cool table centerpiece as a thank you. I was really fucking touched by that.
I don’t belong. Standing next to the mediocre watercolor of the peacock (silent auction item) that is what I kept thinking. I don’t fucking belong.
I felt most comfortable when I was eating my banana, drinking my yogurt smoothie, and smoking a cigarette outside the kitchen like the help that I did in the auction and food room. I was not eating that shit. Sushi and some weird caviar-fruit looking then, some mystery meats, and pretzels. Which of these items don’t belong? Besides me.
That morning I went back to the eye doctor. The Eye Doctor Assistant and Glasses Fitting Specialist had told me to bring a friend to help pick out glasses. I don’t have friends. I just don’t. Not like girlfriends. I don’t have roots. So much of the time I feel like there are two of me and the really, quiet, pathetic one is the real one. The girl who would rather stay home and cross stitch than go to a Halloween party. The girl who would prefer to not ever go to a store again and just do all her shopping online. The girl who for some reason, and this is a new phenomenon, craves the sunshine, but can’t get enough of it is real.
Two staff members just went to lunch together. I barely take a lunch and if I do it’s to see G-Pa or Dr. Swede.
The girls so howls in the backyard and I mean HOWLS is real.
This, me, right here, right now, sitting at the front desk of a domestic abuse shelter—this isn’t the real me. I was just taking to Antonia, the only male staff member besides the director and fiscal guy—he was talking about a house he and his wife are buying. Their first. Arthur was having a psychotic break when we bought our house. I actually find myself flirting with him—like touching his shoulder when we’re talking in close proximity. What’s that about? It is totally harmless, subtle, harmless flirting. He is Mexican-American (no accent) and loves cowboy boots and hats. If he were 20 years older and divorced…he’s 23 and very happily married. I saw the way he looked at his wife at the gala. Kinda the way Johnny looks at Gaia. I want that.
But I can imagine that. It’s a paradox.
God’s plan is not for me to be “saved” by a man. I don’t know what His. plan for me is. I can’t get my head around ever being in a relationship again. Being a “we.” Although, I almost fucking slipped the computer tech guy my phone number and a suggestion for coffee until I found out he had a girlfriend. I actually wrote the fucking note!
Without melodrama or pity, maybe I just need to resign myself to being alone. I overslept this morning because Angel curled up next to me after the second alarm and put her little head on my hand.
What if I just ran away from this life? When I was living in PA and had to take 84 to work I used to think about just driving past the school exit and going to Massachutes—Salem, Hawthorne’s haunt, and at the time a pagan Mecca for me. I think about that sometimes…like what if I just kept driving. What would I take? Angel, Maurice, my laptop, Kindle, iPad, phone, and Mother Mary statue—oh, and my Masonic Bible.
Where would I like to end up? The Ranch in Nebraska where Dad and I went Buffalo hunting. Or the Black Hills of South Dakota.
Fucking Nosy Nancy just called and told me to page Tonya—one the two of my supervisors and the Tampon Nazi the other day—I said okay. Then I was like no, bitch, jus’ ‘cuz you say jump don’t mean I jump. That is twice I defied Nosy Nancy. Bitch. I ain’t sorry. You ain’t the boss of me.
Anyway. I’ll never go home for like a month again. This is where I live and work now.
You know what has made a huge difference in my stress level this week.
I’m sorry Aunt Faerie. So sorry.
Not taking Papa to Aunt Faerie’s for dinner. My off days do not revolve around that leaving at 5.08 p.m. And eating at 6 p.m. Schedule. I so appreciate that Aunt Faerie cooks. But that time of the day is my wind-down time. I also tend to get episodes then. But, it is also a break from G-Pa. I can shower without a robe—just be alone.
1. Is it mean and disrespectful to not go to Aunt Faerie’s for dinner?
2. Can G-Pa safely drive alone when it gets darker and colder?
And, Aunt Faerie I can totally take care of G-Pa for dinner some nights. I don’t mind! Chicken, beans, potatoes; eggs, beans, potatoes, soup and crackers; leftovers...I can feed him and then feed myself whenever I want.
Yesterday, G-Pa went to the Church Friends’ Dinner. Every month these old people pick a place to eat and then leave on a short bus at like 4.30 p.m. Aunt Faerie dutifully goes. She picks up an old man who lives alone and who has dementia. She drives him home, talks to him, and spends time listening to him tell stories about the pictures on his wall.
I was mother fucking thrilled that G-Pa was gonna be gone for what ended up being three hours. Totally off duty. From the upstairs bathroom to the basement shower with no robe. No clock watching.
Before G-Pa left at 4 p.m. For the church that is literally 5 minutes away (4.15 was bus loading time and I reserved him a front seat) I decided to go running.
I run in an Under Armour sports bra—made for comfort and hold and a little pair of black and pink Victoria’s Secret Pink yoga/running/sexy college girl shorts. I wear them because they are comfortable. I prefer to run in those than in anything else.
I sit down to put on my pink sneakers.
“Do people wonder who you are when you’re running?” He asked.
“Um, no people have seen me run before. I’ve been doing it for a while now.”
“They don’t ask who is that woman?”
I am getting the real question here.
“Nope.”
“They don’t stare and ask where you’re from?”
“Papa, my outfit is just fine,” I said. Then, I lied “I just a woman the other day dressed almost in exactly the same outfit only it was blue.”
“Really? Just as long as the police don’t pick you up for being half-naked.”
I just laughed.
There is my big New Life Style again rearing it crass manners.
No. I don’t see other people running in outfits similar to what I wear. I didn’t see them when I lived in NY either. But that’s how I did it. That’s how I am comfortable. There is way more coverage than a bathing suit. But my tatts are all on display. Other people don’t wear cowboy boots every day, either. Few women wear hats every day.
Mom even asked me if other people dress like I do when they run. No. She doesn’t seem them running that kind of outfit.
What if I just stopped—and honestly I don’t know if I can--trying to please people.
What if I just didn’t give a shit.
“Bitch Principal, I am keeping my desks in rows. Period.”
“G-Pa, I am sorry that I don’t cover up as much as you’d like. I try to bed modest. But you are going to have to compromise too.”
“Aunt Faerie, I can’t take Fred on as my problem. I can’t adopt him. And, I am only calling the people about the fruit sale who bought fruit last year.”
Just because I am not having an episode or overtly depressed—doesn’t mean that inside my head it’s the 9th Circle of Hell. I feel depressed more than not. I just don’t talk about it anymore. Same with my episodes. What is the point?
I can’t be perfect or good enough no matter how hard I try.
But by whose standards or whose definition.
Fuck all.
The Depression, Anxiety, PTSD, the Episodes that I have—I wanted to kill myself in June—do not just go away.
Sucking it up is what got me here. Pretending it was all okay and doing what I was told and I thought the “right thing” to do was.
Now, I HOOOOOWWWWWLLLLL!
I put my life in God’s Hands.
God, Mother Mary, St. Jude, Christ, St Ailbhe, St. Michael will help me fight.
But I have to allow myself –no I need to give myself permission to recognize the fact that I am still in Post-War Recovery. I need to rebuild.
“Upon this rock…”
Be Brave, True, and Unselfish…and let conscience be your guide. Maybe I need to be a little more selfish. True to myself for sure. And, Brave…I’m here ain’t I?
Someday, I will be…the world will be…real. I hope.
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:
Faith
Family
Pumpkin Amish rolls
Angel
Health
