Creeptastic.

I’m feeling rather unnerved at the moment.

Tonight, I spent the evening with TH over at his mother’s house. His mother owns a second house at the Cape and every June/July, they block it off from renters so that the entire family can spend July 4th down there. TH and I have never gone, not really being beach people but we send TS down with the rest of the family. It gives us a much need rest and relax, as well as time enough to act like idiots for a bit. (It gets it out of our systems, I guess.) So, TH has been spending his time predominantly at his mother’s house and with TS gone, I was pretty excited at the prospect of the house to myself. I could walk around naked (not that I would) and I could dance (which I might) without worrying about being stared at. I can pray, too, without having to explain to either TH and TS about what the fuck I’m doing. So, there’s an awesomely awesome reason, too, but right now… Yeah.

Earlier, after doing a blog entry that took more out of me than I had thought, I went outside for a break. It was that quasi-moment between dusk and full-blown dark. I love TH’s mother’s property for the wildness and yet cultivated feel of it. It’s a whimsical both. I was standing out front when I felt like I was being watched from the “road” that lines the property. (The city was initially going to pave a road down to the lake that TH’s parents’ house is on but never did anything with it besides put a sewer entry down in the back.) I turned but didn’t see anything since the trees were blocking out whatever light may have gotten in there. I chalked it off to feeling overwrought from what the hell I had worked on and left it at that. When I went out later, I felt even weirder. At one point, I FELT like someone was running out of the woods that line the property towards me for nefarious purposes, but when I turned to look… there was no one there.

I shook my head and just decided to ignore it. Nothing’s going on, right?

So, I packed up my stuff and told TH I was heading back to the house. I knew the dogs were probably freaking out and barking at every little thing, that they needed to go out, and wanted to know somebody was home with them. I’ve been pretty much out the door since I got up this morning. I had to get TS ready for the trip to the Cape, meet up with family members to drive him down, and take BFMA out for errands. After all of that, I spent the rest of my time over with TH. So, I started home. The ride was quiet and quick. Honestly? I don’t remember much of it. I felt like I was there and doing the stuff that I should be doing, but I also felt like I wasn’t there either. I had to keep checking my speedometer to make sure I really was going the speed limit – I felt like I was going a lot faster than 40 down the road. When I got home, I was creeped out already, but you know, it was doubled when I didn’t hear the dogs barking when I pulled in.

My car is, uh, not in good shape right now. It makes all manner of noise and is very distinctive. The dogs have associated the sounds with the family coming home. And they bark because they’re excited. I always yell on my way inside, “Jasmine, Sweet Pea! Shut up! We’re home already!” But tonight, there was nothing. Of course, it was late. Maybe they were sleeping, but my dogs are clockwork beings. They do the same shit all the time usually in regards to the same actions. They bark every time we come home and I’m used to it. So, I rushed into the house. I had all manner of horrible thoughts in my head. Sweet Pea was dead because of Jasmine. Someone had broken in and killed my dogs. Sweet Pea somehow managed to get herself into the bathtub and hurt herself this time. (She’s a tiny dog with issues in her back legs because of arthritis but she can still hop into a bin of dog food or, oddly enough, the bath tub.) So, I rushed into the house…

…and both dogs were there to greet me.

I noticed the mess they left me on the floor. I was not smart, apparently, and had left the door open to the bathroom and they had gotten into the trash. I tried to remember if I had closed the bathroom door, but all I could remember was that I was in a rush to get over to TH so I could hop in the poolwe could spend quality time together. I went around the house and looked because it all just felt so weird, so wrong.

I didn’t see anything missing. The lock on the front door is still in place. Both of the bedroom doors were still closed, as I had left them from this mornings first adventures. But I found sand particles on the sink in the bathroom, a ring of water on the counter in the kitchen, some sand particles on the console table the TV is on, and a deck of my Oracle cards has been moved. I feel like someone was in my house, but the doors were locked. The only person who could get into my house is my landlord. The grass has been mowed, so maybe he came by to do that and stopped into my house? But wouldn’t he have to notify me? And I don’t know but it doesn’t feel… like someone I know was in my house. But it definitely feels like someone was here…

Now, I get to spend the rest of the night here, by myself. I hope I end up sleeping tonight.

Letting Go; Moving On.

One of the things I’ve been up to since I got fired is working on myself. This has been exceedingly difficult since it always feels like I have one [mundane] crisis after another to contend with. I had the months of having to fight for unemployment. The trying to sustain a life on said unemployment. I’ve been, kind of, waiting for an even keel to get into the work I need to do: forgiveness, letting go, working on my soul. But while I was so busy waiting for that even keel, I was getting hammered with more and more until it spewed out in blog-vomit. This was the turning point; the moment I got smacked upside the head and realized, the even keel is never coming.

So, I forged the path. I’ve been forging the work anyway. And one of these particular issues is, of course, what happened to me at the hands of Greed, Inc.

It’s been almost a year and I still don’t have any reasonable answers. One of the things I’ve wanted more than anything is to know why this happened to me. I’ve known the reasons the company has given me, which have been proven fallacies. (As evidenced by the fact that I received unemployment.) But the fallacies have all I ever received by way of an answer. With the working on myself, I realized that getting a legitimate answer from Greed, Inc will never happen. As much as I say that’s all I want to know, I would also like to know what the point in all of this was…

And after some card readings and working on myself, I know.

For months and months, I felt trapped and unable to move on. I was working a job that was slowly, but surely overtaking my life. It was difficult. While I consciously knew that finding a new job was in my best interest, I was too scared of uncertainty to do more than a few cursory looks in the newspaper. The money, I felt, outweighed the horror story that was the company that I worked for. I was so focused on the lifestyle I could pay for that the fear of job-hunting wasn’t worth it. What if no one called me back? What if I couldn’t find a job that paid as much? I was exceedingly materialistic.

And what was happening was that the company was destroying my soul, my spirituality. Me.

The other day, BFMA said that I was very rich in faith. I believe I laughed in her face when she said this. But it did sink in after a while. Spiritually speaking, I guess I am pretty rich. I never thought of myself this way, but as I got to thinking about it, I could see it. This… richness… is what I was trying to work towards before I lost my job. What I discovered was that my job was getting in the way of that wealth of faith. In fact, it was killing it a day, an hour, a second at a time. And I wasn’t seeing that, at the time. I was so busy seeing the things that I could give myself and my family that I didn’t care about what sort of side effects the job was doing to me. Greed, Inc is not an ethical company – as the circumstances behind my firing is evidence of – and that ethical ambiguity was destroying me.

But, I wouldn’t do anything about it.

Sometimes, if you are unable or unwilling to make the changes yourself, the universe steps in and fucks shit up. The thing is that, no matter what steps I had taken or could have taken, it wouldn’t have mattered. I would have lost that particular job anyway. It was fated. No matter what I wanted, could have tried, or magicked out of my butt, I would have lost the job. It was destroying me and either I would have broken or the job would have. In the end, the job broke first and I’m grateful. I don’t think I would have liked myself if I was a soulless automaton.

I’m Not Good at Decision-Making.

One of the things that I’m not overly good at is making big, huge, life-shattering decisions. I dither. I hem and haw. I’m not the kind of person who flies by the seat of her pants, which is funny. I used to be that kind of person, more than I can possibly say. If you ask my mom, that’s how I lived my life up until moving back up north with TH, TS, and starting “over.” However, I’ve learned the lesson often enough for it to actually stick: look to the facts. Unfortunately, my biggest issue with looking to the facts is the fact that I look at so many fucking possibilities that I lose my shit over all of the big, huge possibilities. I end up losing my shit so much that I end up in a crying jag, overly depressed, so depressed that getting up from the couch is a major process, and nothing ends up getting done. Unfortunately, I’m at the point where I have to make a decision and nothing is easy. And honestly, all choices are pretty much shit on top of shit.

One of the things that worried me the most about my ex-landlady selling the property was the possibility of a rent increase. In our area, all of the tenants are paying shit in comparison. I’m not sure about my upstairs neighbors (since I don’t know them, don’t want to know them, and am in the middle of a parking space war presently) but my immediate neighbor next door pays $450/month for her one bedroom… that she’s rarely in. She claims she can’t afford a rent increase and I know that I can’t either. I’m paying $600/month for a “two bedroom.” Note the quotations here. As the [new] landlord commented when he brought me notice that he was going to do a rent increase, we’re really living in a 1.5 bedroom. By legal standards, my son’s room isn’t even a room because there is no closet in that room. So, paying $700 for this place is a huge, hard, big pill to swallow.

It’s not worth that much.

The other issue that comes up and that I’ve refrained from blogging about due to shame is that we suffer from a severe bed bug issue. When I first discovered the black markings on my box spring, I had a hissy fit because I thought mold was growing in my bedroom. When we were living in TH’s parents’ basement, the bedroom we were using was incredibly moist. Mold grew all over everything in that room. I had to throw away pictures that I cherished because of the mold problem. I had to toss out the black leather jacket my mom got me when I was 17/18 because of the mold problem. (Also, it didn’t fit but I was keeping it for “the day I got skinny.” Funny, right?) I started spritzing the bed with one of my organic lemon cleaners because that cleared up the mold issue in the first place. About two months later, I realized that it was worse… and flipped to TH about it. “Honey! The mold is back!” He went into our room and looked things over and said, “That’s not mold.”

We did a lot of research and it was pretty clear, from the get-go, what the problem was. I ignored it. I didn’t think about it. I had about eight crying jags the first month we realized we had bed bugs. I felt guilty. I felt dirty. I felt disgusting. I lurked on a bunch of bed bug related forums, trying to come to terms with what was going on and figuring a way to fix it. I called Terminix, myself, even though I should have called the landlady instead. The reason I didn’t call her is because I honestly felt that she would have evicted us for “bring the infestation.” The thing is that TH and I are pretty sure that one of the upstairs neighbors was responsible for the infestation and after they moved out, the bugs that were still alive slowly but surely came downstairs to where we were. There was a good six month time span where our family was the only family living in the complex. My next door neighbor was pretty much stopping in to get away from helping out her ailing mother about once a week, so we were the only food source for the bugs.

So, we never told the landlady. I have no doubt in my head that the woman would have evicted us, blamed us. And I’m almost positive she wouldn’t have done anything about it, either. And I also can’t help but notice that when the pest control officer who had to do the inspection prior to the selling of the house… He only checked out the basement. When they said that a pest control officer was coming in to look, I was overjoyed. I didn’t have to open my mouth about the problem. But, he only checked the basement, even though the bed bug infestation along the eastern seaboard is along pandemic proportions. (I’m not fucking joking. I’ve been watching the news. There are libraries that are having the issue.) There was a mattress downstairs for months upon months after everyone moved out, leaving my family the only ones in this house. It was still down there up until a few days before the inspection process began. I can’t help but notice that the guy only went in the basement… and the mattress was gone before that.

With the rent increase hanging over our heads, TH is at his breaking point with this. He’s been having severe issues in regards to the bed bug problem anyway. He hardly sleeps. I understand this. I go through phases like this myself until exhaustion overtakes me. I lay awake at night, crying and worried that I’m a horrible, dirty person. I also felt that by opening my mouth to my ex-landlady, I was asking for whatever happened to us. One of the things that I’ve been debating with the new landlord is telling him about the bed bug infestation. He doesn’t seem like an asshole (rent increase or otherwise). And I think he’d do something about it. He wouldn’t be happy, but I think he’d fix the problem instead of blaming us and evicting us. (Illegal though that is, I’ve been reading a lot of horror stories of tenants who are blamed for the infestation and the courts uphold the eviction process. It’s fucked. It’s all fucked.) But with the rent increase, TH is blowing his stack.

When I called him to tell him about it, he instantly shut down. He went into “angry” mode. That was it. I told him that the landlord was offering us a deal. He’d knock between $50 – $75 a month if we mowed the lawn for him and shoveled the walks in the winter time. I think the deal is a good one. Since he’s bought the place, I’ve been on the lookout for a new place, but there aren’t any. In our price range, there is nothing and there is nothing. I used to get huge lists all the time whenever I would look on Craigslist when I was still working last summer. Now? I’m lucky if I get 10 hits in the last month in our price range. So, when I told TH about the deal, he said, “Well, I’m going to have to say ‘no’ to that. He can fix the place up before I start doing shit.” And he just completely shut down. He was intolerant to anything I had to say on the matter. I was getting frustrated so I hung up on him after telling him that when he wanted to discuss it, he could call me.

He ended up coming over and we “talked.” Yes, that’s a euphemism for yelled.

He said that he wasn’t going to pay a red cent extra to this landlord until the bed bug problem was fixed. He also made me feel guilty for never having said anything. I think he forgets that he was the person who cautioned me when I wanted to tell the landlady in the first place! The entire time people were looking at the place, he could have said something. He didn’t. It’s like I’m the adult here so I have to make the decision. But when I did go to make that decision, he told me to be cautious with this because we were liable to be kicked out for no reason whatsoever. And while that’s not a good reason to have to put up with this bullshit for pretty fucking close to a year now (we figured out our issue some time last summer, I believe), it’s something that has stuck with me. So have all of those awful stories from tenants who were treated like they had the plague because they told the landlord what was going on, as they should have. I’m haunted by all the people who have said, “They only came to spray at my place, but there’s an entire complex; couldn’t they come back in?” Or the people who said, “And now I’m looking for a place because I’ve been evicted for something that isn’t my fault.” Haunted. Haunted.

This whole situation sucks.

This whole apartment sucks.

I’m living in a tiny ass apartment, trying to raise my family on an income that doesn’t work. I know what to do – go back to work – but I have to wait until BFMA is back to normal. I keep knowing what my goals are and then watching them get pushed further and further back. I want to rage. I want to cry. I want to make a decision, but I don’t know what is in our best interest.

At this point, I see things as having various possibilities, which I’ll list.

1. We can take the deal and have a roof over our heads, with only about a $25 – $50 increase.
2. We can try to find a new place, though prospects are few and far between.
3. We can stop paying rent and get evicted.
4. We can take the deal, have a roof over our heads, tell him about the bug problem, and see what happens.

TH pointed out to me when we were “talking” about things that there was no way we would be out on the streets if we got kicked out of here. I just kind of looked at him and every moment of living in his parents’ basement rushed over me. I told him that as selfish as it sounded, I couldn’t go back to living there again. I just… no. I was so miserable and angry there. I’m still pretty miserable and angry but I’m more able to handle both of those emotions in a positive and constructive manner than I was when I was living there. I told him that I just couldn’t do that and he just stared at me like I was crazy. It was at that point that he demanded our landlord’s phone number. “I’ll call him and tell him about the fucking bed bugs! He won’t get a damn thing from us extra until it’s taken care of!” I refused this request, which is when he left. I told him that he’s so busy feeling and reacting to the news that he would be a complete asshole to our landlord. I told him that he had to stop and he had to think and he had to act with purpose.

He sat staring off into space for about 10 minutes before he left after I said that.

So, this whole situation sucks such monkey balls. The sweatiest. All I want to do is cry.

Soul Mates Aren’t What You Think.

Now and then I think of when we were together
Like when you said you felt so happy you could die
Told myself that you were right for me

One of the shittiest things about my life is that the person who shares my soul lives over two thousand miles away. I know most people, when you think about soul mates, you start thinking about significant others. If that’s the case, then BFTX and I are meant to be together when our significant others kick it because we’re soul mates. We shared lots of things as teenagers. We were there for some of the most horrific experiences of our lives. There were laughter, tears, hugs, and chocolate. There was so much that we couldn’t have said – even now, to this day – about one another to each other. And it’s not like either one of us really has to say those things, either. We both know that we’re soul mates. That we share bits of ourselves together that we never asked for back because, hey. Why bother? It’s the best way to be as close to your soul mate as you can without living nearby.

You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness
Like resignation to the end, always the end

I’m so used to being without her near me that it feels like things are almost normal. That’s not really true, but some days, I don’t even realize that she’s not walking beside me anymore and hasn’t for many years. I can sense her sometimes when things are really shitty. When I’m feeling so horrifically depressed and I can’t quite figure out why, I tend to realize that this is BFTX’s soul talking to my soul. They’re sharing things that neither of us can say out loud or in Emails or in text messages or in private messages or whatever. For whatever reason, we’re so used to walking solo, with the other so far away, that our first inclination isn’t to run to each other anymore. Sometimes, that really hurts. And sometimes, I just figure it is what it is. I’ll turn to her if and when I need her. She’ll turn to me if and when she needs me. But the thing is… our souls talk. They know even if we don’t. We’re so used to the status quo, as soul mates, that neither one of us realizes that we’re downright addicted to the way things are. Hell, honestly? If things were to go back to the way they were before high school ended, I don’t know if we could handle it. I don’t know if we’d be able to change our ways.

Now you’re just somebody that I used to know

I have people I can talk to whenever I feel low. I don’t think it’s the same for BFTX. It’s hard to connect with people for both of us, to let in a level of trust that we just don’t have. But I’m the lucky one because I can turn to people who are not my lifemate. I can tell them, “I feel this way and here’s why.” It can be about BFTX or it can be about whatever is going on in my life. My soul still connects with hers. My soul still feels whatever hers does. The connection is still there and it probably still will. That doesn’t mean that sometimes, some days, whenever I think about her, it’s like I lost the love of my life. Or like I lost the child I was destined to have. I can’t even explain it because all of these instances are poor planning when I think about the ache BFTX can raise in me. Whenever I say “I miss you” to her, I’m really saying so many hundreds of thousands of little things and I hope her soul responds in kind.

Father’s Day.

That’s my dad. He was a Vietnam vet, working on an aircraft carrier. He fixed helicopters.

Today is that day where you honor and respect your father with a daffy card, a family get-together and/or barbecue, and poke fun at him with a shit-eating grin on your face. Unfortunately, I don’t get that particular aspect to the whole holiday. I join other families’ celebrations and laugh along with them, but I don’t have a dad that I can give a card to or say something amusing to. I don’t share a beer with him (not that I would ever since, you know, I don’t drink beer). I don’t eat a hamburger across the table from him, making funny faces at him in between bites. I get the above picture. A stone rectangle with his name, a small epithet, and the dates of birth and death. It seems kind of lackluster. In fact, I can assure you that it pretty much is.

So, the next time you sit down and you’re angry with your father or you don’t call him because you don’t know what to say or you don’t feel like saying “I love you.” Well, I recommend you come back to this post and stare at the stone I have pictured above. I would stare at it long and hard. And if you can’t imagine what it must be like to try and get a loving embrace from a stone… well, we can switch places for a week or two. And then you can tell me just what’s so much more important than giving a flying fuck about the man who helped mold you into the person you are today.

In the mean time. I’ve got a stone to hug and whisper “I love you” to.

My Bitter, Bitter Stew.

I don’t always know when I’m depressed because I’m not as smart as I think I am. OR. I am really good at hiding my mental state from myself, which could be chalked up as much the same thing as being not intelligent enough to follow the cues. I do have clues that indicate I’m feeling down or depressed but unless I’m actually paying attention, I don’t always notice when they start happening. I realized today after someone mentioned I sounded bitter that I realized I had been sleeping more, getting more headaches, and craving munchies more than usual. Whoop. What is…? OH! Heeeeeey there, depression! It’s been so long! Come in and try not to make yourself comfortable; I’m hoping you won’t be around long.

So, after reading the comment in question and perusing the entry it was left on, I put my phone down and stared at the TV for a while. I was doing a partial mull on what was said. On the one hand, I was paying utmost attention to the pathways in my head to try to figure out what started all of this (although I kind of knew the answer to this already) while simultaneously trying to watch the last few episodes of Psych on streaming. It was at that moment that a certain BFMA called to demand to know what the fuck was going on. “I feel like something is really wrong. What’s wrong?” I laughed at her and deflected, but she’s kind of used to my deflections so she tried to work around it. However, when I have a wall up, there’s no going around or over or underneath because I have defenses in spades. Not to mention, there was absolutely no way I was going to tell her what the hell was going on in my head. I didn’t want to discuss it yet and I wasn’t going to unleash my issues on her. She has enough problems. That’s when I realized why all of this was affecting me particularly hard.

Last week, BFMA had a bunch of seizures. After the post I just linked to, she actually had about two more. She had one while in the ER at the local, larger hospital, waiting for someone to see her about the pain in her neck after her last seizure. They admitted her to the neurology unit. After that seizure in the middle of the ER, she told me she couldn’t feel or move her legs. As time went by, she could feel some things in her legs, but they still weren’t working right. After about three or four days in the unit (and another seizure at some point during that stay), she was released. She was told that it was “all in” her “head.” I likened it to all the fun times we’ve had where doctors don’t listen to her about how her body handles medication or anything because she’s listed as bi-polar on her charts, so, you know. There’s some serious distrust and dislike going on by doctors who “know everything.” But, she was given medical orders for physical therapy to try to get the use of her legs back and the PT guy told her that it technically was in her head: it’s a syndrome where the brain shuts down pathways to certain body parts while it tries to fix itself, or what have you, after a seizure. And that’s the case here, I guess. So, she’s got a lot of stuff going on…

…is it any wonder I wasn’t going to tell her what the hell was going on? Why am I going to unload all of that on her shoulders? She has all of the emotional bullshit to contend with that happened prior to Seizure Week. She can’t walk and there’s no timing for when her legs will come back. Her thirtieth birthday is on Monday and that’s the first day of her physical therapy sessions. She has to start talking to her mother who is likely to blame all of this on her and how crazy she is. (Her mom’s a gem!) She has the squatters in the living room still and has to be embarrassed and mortified daily by asking them for help to the bathroom, down the stairs, into the kitchen, onto her bed, etc. So, no. I wasn’t going to unload on her shoulders – there is enough there already.

So, with all of this background, everything started on Tuesday (the day before they let BFMA out of the hospital).

I started having a panic attack that would have made BFMA proud. It was because there wasn’t enough time to finish it all! I don’t know what “it all” was but I was panicking about it. This was stupid. I don’t have panic attacks. After talking with someone about it for a few minutes, I realized that I was channeling someone or something. And I managed to control whatever was going on. This left me in a fairly morose state: I didn’t understand what was going on or why I was so upset. So, I decided to unleash this sudden welling of emotion in the form of a blog post about my dad that I’ve been trying to write since, uh, February or so. I finally managed to get it all out and by the end of it, I was crying my fool head off. I signed offline and stared blankly at the TV while TS and I cuddled. (He’s good at trying to make me feel better.) After that, I went to visit BFMA in the hospital and was horrified to learn that they were releasing her and not figuring anything out or trying to fix her, really. So, I was pretty pissed off when I went over to a family dinner over at the MIL’s house.

Family dinner really solidified to me some emotions I had been having in regards to HLB and HLB’s GF, which is utter resentment. I texted BFMA with the words, “I really hate them.” And at that moment, it was so true. The two of them seem to have some sort of magical wards in place that gives them so much. Recently, they were kicked out of MIL’s house after 18 months of sucking down resources. I was thrilled that they were getting kicked out – now they’d learn about the real world! Wrong. The two of them got a house. Albeit, the house isn’t theirs and they have to pay rent to HLB’s GF’s mother and the house was a pretty big shit hole before they worked for a month on it, they still managed to be given a fucking house. And that’s when I realized that apparently working really hard for your goals at any given moment is bullshit because if you sit around and do nothing long enough, someone is going to make your life easier for you. Obviously, I don’t really believe this because otherwise, I wouldn’t feel such gross animosity towards the two of them, but it sure feels that way. I know that TH is, also, under this impression as well. It’s like, why are they lucky enough to be handed everything in life? I know their lives together aren’t easy. They practically hate one another about 85% of the time and they have a child with special needs, but it still comes down to the fact that when shit was getting ready to hit the fan, luck found them a home.

And it’s not fair.

What’s so fair about life, though?

It hearkens back to a conversation I had with my mother about MEH on Sunday. I told her about how I hated him so much and how things worked out so easily for him all the time. It wasn’t fair. (There’s that word again…) She said that she did, indeed, agree that he seemed to have a silver spoon in his mouth. While monetarily, he was always struggling but his charisma knows no bounds. Without actually finishing his paramedic courses and clinicals, he’s able to get a NR-Paramedic in the state of MA. Without actually saving the money, he gets a house. Without actually paying off his last car, which had negative equity in it, he manages to get a spanking new truck. It’s like Lady Luck follows him around and turns everything he desires into reality – like HLB and HLB’s GF. The two of them suck together, have a child with special needs, have fucked up this child hardcore, can’t stand each other more than half the time, fight like nobody’s business and yet… They get a house. WHAT THE FLYING FUCKETY FUCK FUCK IS GOING ON HERE? WHY?!?!?

Do you have to be a registered asshole or something to get what you want? I can do that, but you know, it’s not me. An it’s not TH. So, we work hard and we save money. We look into getting a new apartment, only to find that there aren’t any in our price range or area to rent. We look into getting a new car, but realize that the money we’re saving could go to putting down on a house at some point, so we think of fixing the car instead. (Don’t get me started on my fucking car, either.) We work hard for the money that we make, or have at least, but we don’t get any further in our life plans or our goals. It’s like we’re constantly running in place and it’s not fucking fair. (Again, that word…)

All of these emotions have solidified into something angry and bitter and snarky. I’m pretty good about ignoring it, but I still have those depression cues that I can look to. And there they are. I want to sleep. I want to read. I want to eat munchies. I want to wallow. I want to just hate on everything and everyone. And everything all came out with yesterday’s post as a bitter stew. And that’s where I am now. I’m dealing with my bitter stew and I’m trying to work through it, but it’s like… why bother? What will change?

I know that you’re supposed to work towards a goal, but my goal was pretty easy. I was going to have BFMA quit her job and go back to work. That was my first goal… except that now, we can’t really do that can we? How is she supposed to watch TS if she can’t even walk? I feel like I try to take baby steps and get shit on. So, I try to take huge leaps and I get shit on. And I go back to baby steps, just in case, and I get shit on.

WHY.

WHAT IS THE POINT.

Ranting: Hippy-Dippy Beliefs.

So, over on my spiritual blog, I posted a little side rant that is better off over here, actually. The specifics of it are as follows:

…anyone can make a fucking website nowadays and too often, we see all of these people going on about how “happy” they all are. (I have a point, I swear.) All the time on my Facebook page, I see people posting things about how we just have to strive for happiness and that we have to love ourselves completely and then everything else will fall into place. Excuse me while I throw up a little in my mouth. That’s not what life is about, as far as I’m concerned. And no amount of meditating or learning to “love” myself is going to make my life ten times better. Even if I do suddenly realize that I am an awesome person and that I do love myself, that’s not going to make the fact that I live in a shit-box apartment, have to fix my car, am still job-less, the hubby is still job-less, and that I don’t receive handouts at all (except in the form of clothes or toys for my kid) any fucking easier to handle. I might smile a little more, though.

Now, I’ve had these discussions with BFMA on a nearly regular basis, especially in recent days. And I don’t think I ever really realized how very strongly I feel about all of this happiness tripe and love yourself tripe that everyone keeps going on about.

Seriously.

How can you ever, possibly, fully love yourself without ending up like Narcissus? Truly, you have to stop and think about this. Caring about your body, who you are as a person, and your idtentity as a whole is entirely different, in my eyes, from “loving yourself.” If I’m talking about how much I love who I am and what I do, then that’s one thing. Supposedly, in the grand scheme of things I’m really going on about how fucking cool I am and how everyone should be like me. But, whenever I see someone posting on FB about how the road to loving yourself is blah, blah, blah… I get to the point where I want to punch someone in the face. If my life was all about loving myself, then I’d be spending hours upon hours admiring my facce in the mirror and possibly never coming out of my bedroom because I’m too busy loving myself.

And those people who think that life’s big goal is to love yourself? HA!

That’s what I have to say to that.

And what about this happiness bullshit I’m always reading about? Life is all about happiness. Right. If that’s the case then why is there divorce, disease, death? If life is really all about being happy and the constant journey to get there, then why is there a journey to get there in the first place? I’m going to do something shocking here for a minute and point my finger at the Christian model. WE WERE CAST OUT OF EDEN, FUCKTARDS. Cast. Out. Of. Eden. That means that the happiness and joy that we would have always had when we were in the Perfect Spot is no longer an option. You might be able to achieve some perfect peace with some really awesome drug or some fasting or some meditation maneuver that I can’t possibly emulate, but you don’t stay happy. There’s nothing in life that let’s you stay happy unless you’re in a ward where they pump you full of drugs that keep you trapped in the happiest place on earth in your head.

But, you know. Sure, it’s nice sometimes to see all those people going on about how great things are. But invariably, there is something that pops up to make how great things are seem not so great. You just got a new car! But, now you have to fix it for thousands of dollars in damage that you didn’t know about. You just entered into a relationship! With a guy who has cheated on every significant other before you, but that’s okay. Keep on trucking! You just got a new job! Only to realize that you’re stuck doing the shit end of the stick because you’re the lowest man on the totem pole. Every possible thing that is happy, will invariably bring some form of non-happiness with it. And hell, sometimes that non-happiness has nothing to do with the happy situation, but it just correlates in the timeline.

I’m going to do some quoting right now and end this with…

“Life is pain, highness.” – Dread Pirate Wesley, The Princess Bride.

My Father Was a Dreamer.

My dad was the kind of guy who would do anything for me. My memories of him are very twisted and difficult to discern. Part of this is because I don’t have very many of them. He was my dad for all of four or five years before he died, when I was seven. Another part is because the whole experience of him dying was beyond traumatic. I did my utmost best to hide the bits and pieces of my father in the dark recesses of my mind. It was my childhood mind trying to protect me from something so tragic and heart-breaking that there wasn’t any telling if I’d be able to bounce back. Obviously, I’m alive and well, so I’ve done some bouncing from the trauma. But it still lives in my heart and in my mind. He’s everywhere and nowhere for me. He’s in my dreams and in my fantasies and he’s right down the road, being all dead and whatnot. He lives in the blood of the veins of the people in his family and the memories they hold to share with me. He lives in the beating heart of my two step brothers and my half-brother. He lives in the mind of my mother. In me? Well. I know he lives on in me. But sometimes, I find it hard to figure out where exactly he is at the moment.

When I was two or three, my mother was a single parent. She was set up on a date with someone she worked with. He was in the printing department of where she worked. Printing was the family’s life blood for my father’s family. They were all printers and to this day, some of them still are. My uncle, the youngest brother of my father, still runs what’s left of the family business. Anyway. He showed up at the door while I was being my young self and doing whatever it is that I did at that time. When I looked up at this man who walked through the door for the first time, I said, “Daddy.” There was nothing more to it than that. As far as my little head was concerned, the man entering our house was my father. And while I don’t doubt he was in love with my mother and all her charms, I only just added to the package. A daughter. A daughter. He had two sons and chances are that was all he was going to have was boys. And here he had a woman he cared for with a daughter. He could be the man on the porch with the shotgun, scaring away the boys. He would be the guy who taught me how to dance. He would take me to a father-daughter dance and he would swing me around in his arms while I was laughing at whatever we were talking about.

Dreams. Dreams. We all have dreams and my father’s biggest, baddest, and boldest was being my father.

I remember that, as a child, the relationship between my mother and father was rocky. He wanted to be a parent and he wanted to be a husband, but he didn’t know how to fix the demons that were eating him alive. And really, there is no other explanation for his behavior. From the little bits that I’ve gleaned from conversations as a child and from the pieces my mother has told me, my father lived with some very big demons. He had a box of things that he carried around with him, wherever he went, and when he was dying, he asked my mother to throw it away. He said not to go into that box, ever, and just to throw it away. Curiosity is a dangerous beast, but he trusted my mother enough to know that she would do with it as he had asked of her. And she did. We don’t know what lived in that box or what sort of monsters were hiding there. All we know is that the box was a kind of cross to bear, his to be exact, and when he died, it went with him.

I remember that, one night, they were fighting and my mom took us over to my grandparents’ house for the night. I don’t know what transpired, but I ended up going with him instead of staying the night with my mom and little brother. We watched Rainbow Brite and My Little Pony on the TV in his room. We were up until late. Another time, he was taking me home from the baby sitter’s house when I started freaking out because there was a bee in the backseat with me. He pulled over, got out, opened the door, and ushered the bee out of the car so that I would calm down. He always made me feel like I was super-duper special and that he would move Heaven and Earth to make sure everything was okay for me. I know that my daddy wasn’t perfect and that he screwed up with a lot of things – one of those harsh lessons all children must learn: their parents are human. But, he did his very, very best to always make it seem like he could fix anything. And as far as I could see, as a young child, that was the case.

But, like I said. Every child has a harsh lesson to learn about their parents and that lesson is that they are human. They are not Superman or Superwoman. They are the sum total of their experiences and they put those into practice as best they can. My father succeeded in some areas and failed in others. We all fail sometimes, but my father’s failure was the biggest. He got sick. He lingered. He grew tiny. He died.

When I was very young, he got sick. I don’t remember when he got sick, but I think it was around the time that I started hiding in the pantry on Fort Pleasant. I remember I would hide in there, trying to fit underneath the cabinets because it was a hiding place. I was a princess in need of rescuing, or something. I remember watching him get smaller and smaller. He was never a big guy to begin with, so watching him lose weight was hard. He started sleeping with his eyes open and that was a weird sight. He had to go to the hospital a lot, but I don’t remember visiting him more than a handful of times. The one clear memory of seeing him in the hospital was, I’m pretty sure, at the Veteran’s Hospital in Holyoke. There were green floors and a big, huge doorway and in that doorway was my dad. He was lying all hooked up and I was playing in the hallway.

My dad contracted AIDS before there were new and innovative drugs to keep it at bay. When he got sick, it was the late 80s. It was still the “gay disease.” It was still unknown and misunderstood. All we knew was that he was going to die. I remember not telling anyone in school that my dad was sick. I don’t know what it was that kept my tongue in check. I wasn’t the most friendly of children and a bit of a loner, anyway, but I had some friends. I could have said something, but I didn’t. I ended up lying later – I told everyone he died of cancer. That was back in the days when most people thought that catching AIDS was as easy as catching a cold. They didn’t realize that kisses and hugs were okay. It wasn’t contagious like a head cold. It just was. And I got to watch bit by bit as my dad slowly went from the Superman that he was in my head to a skeletal figure.

There is something completely heart-rending about watching your parents die. There is something so painful and heart-breaking about watching someone you love and care about so much slowly but surely make the long journey toward death. As a child, you always think that they’ll bounce back. And I know for a while that I thought he would be okay after the right medicine. Isn’t that what doctors do? They give you the right medicine? But, this is around the time that I became disenchanted with doctors and strangely enough, wanted to start thinking about a career in the health field to help other people. You see, the doctors couldn’t fix him. His demons were eating him alive in the form of AIDS.

The night he died, I was awake. I heard my mom crying. I heard my dad yelling. I heard the two of them saying their final goodbyes and then I fell asleep. I dreamed about him. He was talking to me but I don’t remember what he said. And the next morning, I got up and my mom’s best friend was lying in the living room on the pull-out couch. And my entire world changed. The Superman who had loved and cherished me was gone. The father I had was gone. The man who was supposed to love me, hold me, dance with me, scare away prospective suitors, and make me feel beautiful all the time was gone forever.

I was angry. I was hurt. I knew it was coming, but that doesn’t stop the feelings that eat you up. I’m still angry. Why did you do this? I want to ask him. Why were you so stupid? On the other hand, I just want him to hug me again and make me feel safe. I need my Daddy. My mom needs my Daddy. My little brother needs my Daddy. Instead of being a cohesive family unit, or even a close approximation of one, we’re scattered to the winds. Instead of turning to one another with our pain and our hurts, we’ve pushed one another away and looked for a new start. Instead of bonding over the loss, we hurt each other more. And I blame him for that, too.

But I also love him.

And I miss him.

And I know that he’s watching over me. And I know that he hears me when I talk to him at his grave. And I know that he has a thousand words to give me, but I can’t hear them.

There’s a hole in my heart the shape of my father. And nothing will ever fill it.

What’s in a Dream Anyway?

This morning, I had a very odd dream that I can’t shake. There’s a lot of things about it that bother me, but the major portion of the dream that is sticking with me is the fact that it had to do with my bio-father. The reason this is bothering me is because I don’t dream about him. I don’t think about him. He’s had about as much impact on my life as a fruit fly in the grand scheme of things. When I do think about him, it’s usually to do with the familial diseases that may have been passed down to me and through me, down to my son. But in effect, that is the sum total of my thought processes on him. For a while, I wanted to look into his family tree for a sense of searching for who I am, who my self happened to be, but I’ve realized that I was looking for my genetic self in that regard and not who I truly am. So, he’s been relegated to a no-man’s plain in the back of my mind.

Except now, apparently.

So the dream starts with my mother and I going on a trip to visit someone. She wouldn’t tell me who it was. We were going, however, to visit my bio-father’s family. He has a wife and a daughter, so I guess they’re my step-mother and half-sister. (I actually have spoken with my half-sister a half dozen times. She looks very much like me and it’s kind of creepy.) My mother didn’t tell me why we were visiting them and really, her presence was a background one throughout the entire dream. So, we get to the house where the family was living and something in my head strikes me: This is the house my mother and I live in! The thing is that instead of it being picture perfect, well cared for, clean and orderly (HA!!!!!) it was the exactly opposite. The house was the exact same but it was dark and dingy, uncared for, and filled with dark emotions whereas the house my mother and I lived in, in the dream, was happy and cheerful. The part about the house that really sticks with me is a particular door.

The whole house was like this except that the door in question was to the left of the room.

This door was about five foot high. It led to the front entrance of the house(s). In our version of the house, it no longer existed. We had, apparently, taken it out because it was useless. It closed off the front entryway to a small space and that was retarded. However, in the other house, the house of my sibling and her mother, it was still extant. The top of the door was at a slight slant along the top. The wood was warped and peeking through faded white paint, as was the wall surrounding it. The door was closed and that relieved me greatly, in dream world, because I knew there was more darkness than could ever be contained in a single house beyond that door. The thing is that I wanted to open the door because of curiosity, but I knew bad things would happen.

And while my sibling and I went off to some boardwalk or something, my mother stayed behind with the girl’s mother. It was like I was peering at us via mirror images: we were doing well without having had my biological father in my life and they were doing poorly because they had him in their lives. Now, easily, I can see what the meaning behind the dream is. I’m so rocking awesome and so is my mother because we didn’t need that asshat around. And while as a teenager, I was curious and curious and beyond fucking curious, I’m glad I’ve never met him because there’s no telling what sort of psychological trauma I may have gone through in the meeting of him and his whole damn family. So, on the face of the dream, I can pretty much attest to the meaning…

…and yet, I can’t help but think back to the door.

There was just something about this door.

You see, I just kept wanting to go over to the door. I remember there were conversations flying all around me, but I wasn’t paying any attention. I would give ho-hum responses or I would be monosyllabic in response. I was too busy staring at this door. And I know that it was all of the staring of this door in my dream that made it so that it’s stuck with me as much as it has now. I remember having a sort of daydream in the dream where I opened the door to see what was on the other side. And besides a very darkened hallway, there were three or four doors, as well as the front door that led to the outside of the house. I wanted to explore. I wanted to see, but I knew that I didn’t dare actually open the door in my dream. What is is about this door? Why is it sticking with me? What the fuck does this shit mean?

And really, does it mean anything?

It’s Stressful Up in Here.

“Do you know BFMA?”

Talk about a wake up call.

TH, TS, and I were all laying in various poses on the two couches in the living room. TS has a head cold that came, literally, out of nowhere. He napped yesterday afternoon and by six o’clock that night, he was taking another nap. TH was exhausted from a long day of work and a long night of drinking the night before, so he just wanted to close his eyes and ignore reality for a while. I ended up doing likewise since I didn’t even have the energy to get up, turn on Netflix, and start watching episode of Psych. That’s when I saw BFMA was calling me. I figured she was having another break down moment. I figured she just needed to do the loud sobs at me until she was able to take a long enough and deep enough breath for me to understand what she was trying to tell me. Instead, I was asked if I knew her. I thought the person had found her cell phone on the side of the road and I could barely understand them – they had a thick accent. “What’s going on?” I asked after a few seconds.

“She was found passed out on the side of the road.”

I had forgotten that I had replaced her parents as her personal, emergency contact. BFMA told me that she had placed me in that designated zone on her phone a while ago, but just because she tells me this doesn’t mean I’ll remember later. I was worried and irritated. I forgot BFMA’s hospital preferences, which I kicked my ass about later. I wasn’t sure what her issue was. Was it the drinking? She had been drinking a lot the last few days. Was it dehydration because of her medication and her drinking and not enough water on top of all of that? What was going on? So, I sent the ambulance to the ER that BFMA isn’t a fan of and went to her house to pick up her medications. I wasn’t told if she was awake or speaking or anything, so I had to assume that the idiots wouldn’t know where to find her list of medications that she’s on or anything like that. (Note to self: Keep your own list in your wallet.)

I picked up her meds and went to the ER I thought she was at…

…only to learn that she had the ambulance diverted to the ER she prefers.

I smacked myself upside the head. I knew why she didn’t like the big ER. I knew what all of her reasons are and I agree with them most of the time. But, when you’re running around with cotton in between your ears instead of a brain, you forget these things. I ended up raising back down the road to the ER she was actually at and was forced to wait nearly an hour before they’d let me back there. I was getting irritated and pissed off. The last time she was there – and for the same reasons – I had been allowed back there even before the tests were being done. But, rules is rules and I had to sit around and wait for an hour before they’d let me back to see her. I got to watch an entire episode of Jeopardy and I even managed to get a lot of the answers on the first try.

When I was finally let back there, she was just lying on a gurney. She looked all small and bruised and unhappy. I told her we had to stop meeting this way and she laughed at me. I demanded to know what happened. She sighed and said, “I had a seizure.” And that’s when I really got pissed off. I was already angry on behalf of her because of what her boyfriend decided and how he went about shit. I was already pissed off because no one listens to her and allows her to form an opinion that’s considered valid. I was already pissed off that she had two selfish ingrate squatters living in her living room with their baby. I was already pissed off that all of this was happening and that ex-boyfriend was to fucking blame, but now I was really pissed. I was ten times more pissed off than I was waiting in the waiting room before I was allowed in the ER. I was ten times more pissed off than I was when I saw them load her into the ambulance. I was twenty times more pissed off than I was when I stopped to pick her pill bottles at her house and was met with the “whatever” attitude of one of those squatters.

BFMA has seizures, but it’s not really a huge problem. (Seriously.) She used to have them because of a medication side effect and one of the other times she had one was due to medication interaction. However, the rest of the time, since she’s gone off of the Zoloft, she has them when she’s under a large amount of stress… and her life is fairly stressful right now. I blame the squatters. I blame the ex-boyfriend. I blame her mother. I blame her sisters. I blame everyone. I blame myself because I knew this could happen but because it had been so long, I ignored it all. I forgot about it.

I’m back to being the emergency contact. I’m back to being the one who helps her pick up the pieces. I can do this because I know how. I know what works, I know what doesn’t. I just hope that she let’s me help her. And let’s me smack a bitch… maybe. 🙂