The Mean Reds

Dear Hearts,

“The Mean-Reds.” That’s what Audrey Hepburn called it in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. When you are anxious or bothered by something, but just don’t know what.

I am so blessed, I know that.

I feel like I just go through the motions of life.

Maybe when I OD’ed I did die and now I’m a ghost. Ghosts don’t have dreams. They just want to connect with the Living somehow. That’s what I want. I want to connect with the Living.

I fought for X. I kept X as I needed to live there for two more years. I made my stand against Asshole. Is it time to let X go now? Was the fight the victory?

I laugh and smile, but underneath I feel agitated and anxious. Everything in the World brings me fear. Burning Bed. Walmart. Cigarette stores. Those Goddamn door-knobs. Germs. I need you to truly understand what I mean—whatever fears you have—I live mine like for me the better part of my day.

Wary. Weary. Guilt-ridden.

I feel safe at G-Pa’s and Aunt Faerie’s homes. That’s something else I want –to feel safe and not afraid.

I feel gypped by the GOP. I wanted to be inspired. W. inspired me. I got behind McCain and Romney because I was supposed to. Ryan, Rubio, Cotton—they inspire me. Both Hillary and Trump are unfit for the Highest Office In The Land. Disgusting. At least Al Capone, Meyer Lansky, Arnold Rothstein, Lucky Luciano—they admitted they were corrupt. Hillary and Trump just lie.

Fuck politics. I just wanted to be inspired. A reason to live. A reason to go forward every day. I am doing it, but I’m not sure whether the charade will turn into reality or just wear me out.

I CANNOT SEE A FUTURE. Yet, I got through the motions of living.

Why?

“Shadows are falling and I been here all day
It's too hot to sleep and time is running away
Feel like my soul has turned into steel
I've still got the scars that the sun didn't let me heal” Bob Dylan

I color and draw. Watch my shows. Smoke. Read. I DO these things because I want to—I think, I hope they will bring me joy...

But why can’t I feel Joy?

Only 438 words. Failure.

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: My voice doesn't even echo down here in the well.

PPS: I oughtta go to Mass

Which Way Should I Go?

Dear Hearts,

One Daylight Savings’ Day, I remember sitting in my chair in the Barbie Fun room thinking that I had a whole extra hour to do with which to do whatever I wanted. I can’t remember if I slept or watched a show. I must have been in the throes of divorce or getting there, because that’s when I started taking sanctuary in the Barbie Fun room. Then it was the Hide-Barricade-Sob room

I used the extra hour last night to stay up and watch The Black List and Boardwalk Empire.

I still can’t shake the feeling that I am supposed to be living some other life. A life with a teaching job, husband, house, kids, and not disability. I just don’t feel at ease in my skin, body, mind…

I have taken to drawing. Drawing. Me. I enjoy it even if I am at not very good at it. But, I feel guilty about that too—a waste of time. I finished and started coloring my first coloring page: I’ve started my second coloring page.

Sometimes I feel like I am having this Out-Of-Body Experience. Like I can see something who looks like me living this life. A stranger’s life.

The Burning Bed doesn’t know I am a liability on disability. The Star doesn’t know that either—although I would be open with them. The Star would not judge.

Last night, at one of my first official Star events, I dressed all in white. I loved dressing up in white as a Rainbow Girl and I think it’s sad that The Star doesn’t wear white regularly. I am not The Worshipful Master’s daughter and I’m not T.’s girlfriend—I’m just me. I wonder if that’s enough.

I sat next to a very anxious woman who was also debilitated by anxiety and depression. I told her that The Star is a welcoming place. How it feels like Home. But, not real Home—like I’m Playing House. They don’t know the Jersey Grand Rainbow lodge threw me out because I didn’t do The Charity Report or go to Cypress Hill—three hours from my house.

I was too busy with drama over my first boyfriend who was away at college and having a drug-induced break down and getting involved with the Sociopath. I probably only got Grand Charity because of my last name. (Dad was a very influential and important Mason then.) I never asked for Grand Charity.

I remember around the time I was “fired” from Charity, being on the phone with Red (my first beau) late at night and saying I was just trying to make everyone happy. I broke the sugar bowl on the table, because I picked it up and slammed it down.

Boys. Guys. Men. I have lived my life by them. And I lost.

I never believed that I by myself was good enough. I didn’t believe it when I was 12, 18, 25, 32, or apparently 39. So I have lived other’s lives. I have lived my life trying to please. It’s tiring.

I didn’t mean to be this depressing. I had a good day—it’s just that veil that hangs between me and the rest of the world. I can rip through it.

God, Christ, Mother Mary, St. Jude—please tell me which way to go.

“Would you tell me please, which way to go?”

“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.” Cheshire Cat.

I don’t know. Sorry.

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: "With this broken wing..." 

Evolution

Dear Hearts,

T. haunts me still. And I see the evolution of how I got here—wherever that is.

I will be doing something simple like playing with my phone and I’ll remember how angry that made T. sometimes. How at the end I was asking permission to use my phone. At the end I also had it password protected for the first time ever.

“I’m gonna throw that fucking Kindle out the window.”

He didn’t like me playing a dragon game on my Kindle. Or when we were talking about something and I pulled out my phone to look something up, I’d get in trouble. Asshole did the same thing. How the fuck did I not see those flags with T.?

I did. I just denied them.

Yes, my marriage was abusive. And, I just had a break down after all was said and done in 2014. Then I went into the nuthouse. The beginning of the end was 2012 when I was hospitalized for UC. But, when I checked into the nuthouse—that was the tipping point.

I couldn’t kick the depression or the desire to die. I had several plus episodes a day I am told between going into the nuthouse and getting ECT. I don’t really remember. ECT took about over a year and a half of my memory when I started getting it in 2014.

ECT also took me. Yeah, I wasn’t shaking. No, I didn’t want to kill myself. But, I was acting cognitively impaired in a different way. I’ll never know what really occurred early in T. and my relationship—if the things he told me were true, because I don’t remember and he lied every single fucking day.

So, I met him and “fell in love.” Then I OD’ed. I could not get my legs under me after that. So I grabbed the nearest piece of floating wood in the ocean, T.

I see it now. These episodes. The anxiety. The inability to feel comfortable in my own skin. The panic attacks. The guilt. The constant mind spinning. It’s all a result of my breakdown. And break down I did.

Only now am do I have any chance of getting better. Only now do I see with some clarity the devastation of the last four years.

But, I don’t feel hopeful about it. I can’t even see a future.

I drew today. I finished my first coloring page. It’s stupid and bad. But, I did it.

I visited Gram at the graveyard and then had a two-hour low-level, functional episode.

I worry about everything. I fear everything. I feel guilty for so much.

I just want to go away. Be somebody else. But, I don’t know whom.

Will I ever really live? Have I ever really lived?

**********

G-Pa and I were talking about Dr. Swede.

“He’s so brave the way he gets around.”

“Yeah, he is, but so are you.”

“No.”

“Yes. You lost your wife four years ago. You lost Gram. I miss her every day.”

Pause.

“After Gram we weren’t sure how long we’d have you. But we are glad we do every single day. Everyone who knows you say you are an amazing man.”

I wish I had a bit of that courage.

**********

I privileged enough to live a piece of history with G-Pa Wednesday night.

He has been a Cubs’ fan since he was a kid. He used to pick up Al Capone whiskey bottles under the stands after the game in the 1920s. He lived three blocks from Wrigley’s field and would sneak in the side entrance.

I don’t give a shit about baseball and I now know I don’t know shit about even the basic rules of the game.

But, at the bottom of the ninth inning, I joined G-Pa to watch the Cubs go into a 10^th inning and win The 2016 World Series with one great catch.

That was a real gift.

Thank you, God.

**********

I know I am so Blessed. I just wish I could feel something other than sorrow, fear terror, ambivalence, or indifference.

And I feel so fucking guilty for not enjoying the incredibly miraculous Blessings and Grace God gives me.

Like, I know that I have experiences that I should enjoy, but there is a veil—a scrim between me and the great experience.

I want a lot of nicotine tonight. And pie.

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: To the two ladies walking for exercise around the graveyard today—yeah, I was sitting in my car smoking. You wanna make somethin’ of it? You wanna go? ‘Cuz we can. Jersey style.

PS: Are forgiveness and wanting to aerate T. with an ice-pick mutually exclusive?

PPS: Mr. Tambourine Man? This is not what I meant at all.

She Needs A Break

I need a break.

"She needs a break!" Name the movie.

Oooooh! I volunteered almost 10 hours this week. But, I also shopped, cleaned, laundered, solved little crisis—you know, life.

I was supposed to meet with Dr. Swede and Ingrid tomorrow. But, I can’t. I just need a day to myself. They both understood totally. I’m glad I have people in my life that I don’t have to lie to.

So I may going to keep tonight short and write a post tomorrow.

I just wanna watch my shows and color. And eat pie! Today was pie day.

Do I feel guilty for not doing a proper post? Yes.

I feel guilty about a lot of things.

Maybe I really do have PTSD. Every panic attack takes me back to an ugly, ugly event. If I my—God forbid—UC were flaring I would not be hesitant to say thus and take care of myself. So, maybe just living for me now is triumph enough.

I am not on disability because I am lazy. I got knocked-out hard in the last round. 

I need to believe that.

I need a break.

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: THANK YOU GOD, SAINTS, MOTHER MARY, JED, AND ALL SAINTS FOR THE CUBS WIN.  For G-Pa.

Happiness Is Overrated. Go Cubs.

Dear Hearts,

This is gonna be short because I don’t want to eat at 9 p.m.

In my last post, I talked about figuring out what I want to do.

Well, tonight I want to eat, watch The Black List and color. Then maybe some Boardwalk Empire.

First, please God and all the Saints and Guardian Angels—help the Cubs win tonight. Not for me. I could give a shit. But, I love G-Pa and he deserves to see the Cubs win before he dies.

For God sake, he used to pick up, during prohibition, the empty whiskey bottles at the bottom of the stands for a free ticket. He deserves to see the Cubs win!

One The Catholic Channel XM today, I heard someone talking about how people don’t necessarily know when they are suffering because they block it out with screens, and activities, drugs, alcohol, and a million other things. Literally.

I am not gonna go Super-Catholic on you. But, without suffering, we would not appreciate the good times. Even a cigarette and coffee can be a joy in my day. (Yes, three is a lot of suffering that we need to end—but that’s another post.)

Our society obsesses with “Are You Happy?” “Be Happy!”

That’s a lot of pressure. Sometimes it’s okay to acknowledge your suffering. Yes, a lot of people have it worse, but a lot of people have it better too.

If God is calling us all to be saints by attaining Heaven, then suffering is part of the deal. Not as a punishment—but as a course of life. We learn from the fucked up times, don’t we?

What if the question wasn’t “Are You Happy?” but “Are You Living A Compassionate Life?”

That would change the whole deal.

Isn't that what Christ asks us to do?

I don’t like feeling the way I do. Clinical depression, anxiety, and PTSD. It will never leave. But, I know a lot more about what I am capable of than four years ago. Saint Jude promises there's light...

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: Jed—I love the new look: black suit, cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat. Very Doc Holliday. You’re my Huckleberry.

PPS: Not even 500 words. Who the fuck said I had to write 500 words a night? That is just more rules I impose on myself, causing suffering, that does not need to be. 438.  That’s what you get.