November 20, 2014
blame, bullies, Cousin, death, god, mother, OCD
Perhaps “Filling the Hole” is not a wise choice of name preceding my last post, but what the hell.
I am fine physically, in spite of my lifelong belief otherwise. Now I need to know why I’m alive. After my mother’s death, my life’s purpose croaked too. My organs were supposed to shut down, one after the other, in solidarity with my mother. Until the age of 33, I had one identity: daughter. My identity died September 13, 2011. My family was dead except for a few distant relatives. I called my mother’s first cousin, Charles, but he was still angry at my mother for distancing herself from the family after my grandmother died. Cold in the morgue or not, them there mountain grudges die hard. He was nice in that he never said he was mad at my mom, but it was a “don’t call us, we’ll call you,” scenario. I wonder if sometimes he and his sister wonder whatever happened to me. Now I was no one’s daughter, no one’s family member. I didn’t belong anywhere. It made me even more certain that God overlooked me the day my mother died.
Now look at me. Almost 37, and once again reminded that for no particular reason, I’m still alive. I played the hand dealt, and I’m the only one holding my cards now. I did pretty well for myself considering all the blows that came that first year. My mother died and I gained the love of my life. Then the love of my life, gay man that he was, used my love for him against me. I’m still in love with the illusion he painted. The one person in the world who understood me, who saw me as brilliant, who shared the same interests as me, and the same ideals. He told me I got him on a level no one else did, that we would be friends forever. He’d hold me in bed at night, nothing overtly sexual, but he must have known the feelings he sparked within me. His abused past, how he got his disease, made him all the more mesmerizing to me. The one thing I’m certain we both shared, was low self-esteem. I only saw it once in a restaurant when he teared up because he thought the restaurant manager was staring him down. The rest of the puzzle came in the stories he told. Men who were also in love with him, friends he had that never materialized, stories I knew were lies.The stories may have been true in his past, but not now. One guy he spoke of was in a foreign country when he spoke of going to give him a hand job. Another guy was a cop. In fact he used the pretense of writing an email to Cop, but it went to me instead, and I think I was the target anyway. The email was titled, “Pig in a Blanket.” The email told his lover that I was the pig who never did anything and freeloaded on them. It’s true I wasn’t good at chores (or doing them at all) and I did eat them out of house and home for just 250.00 in rent/ later 475.00 their pain and suffering rate after my botched suicide attempt. My bad.
But the point is, I do what I got to do now. I live alone and it’s such a blessing to have no one to tell me what to do, to not be fearful of being thrown out by one wrong step, to just be. I tend to my cats, I help out a friend, and I have my hobbies. I have internet friends. I read, occasionally write, I’m a gamer, I swim in season, and I go places, and I eat a lot of burgers. La dolce vita. And I dumpster dive. But that deserves a post of its own.
September 2, 2014
OK, I’m going to do this post in charming vaginal pink to augment the atmosphere. In approximately 12 hours I’m going for my first gynocological exam in nine years and going to have a fasting blood letting too. Yay. Can’t wait. I wouldn’t do it, but I don’t want to make this good doctor’s office angry since they did sign my “don’t make me homeless, please” form. When they asked me when I’d like to schedule this, I replied “Preferably the 12th of never.”
Seriously though, I don’t want to do this. If I’m dying of cancer, AIDS, diabetes, the ice bucket disease, etc., I DON’T WANNA KNOW. If my cholesteral is 60k and I’m three heartbeats from knocking on heaven’s door, I wish to die in ignorant bliss, thank you.
My social worker offered to go with me, but I think she forgot, and every time I thought about calling and reminding her, I thought, “Do I really want my social worker staring me down with my birth canal in the air?” So I’m going solo I guess. If I can’t take it, I’m an adult. I can just break into tears and run away. Besides it’s September. Bad things happen in September, right Mom? Right, Ex-roomie? Ack, I’m gonna die!
August 5, 2014
Early tomorrow morning I have to go to the doctor. I’m not even afraid of what the doctor will find is wrong with me. I have to get a doctor to sign my FL2 form or I’m going to be homeless.
My shrink won’t sign it because of the wording. She signed it the first two times, but now she won’t. It says that I’m in danger of being put in an assisted living situation and my doctor doesnt feel that I’m in immediate danger. My social worker said “well if she doesn’t get this monetary assistance she will end up in a home.” And my shrink wouldn’t budge. Her office said “It should say that on the form.”
If the doctor doesn’t sign this form for me I’m as good as dead. If my cats are taken from me and I end up in some home I will no longer have a reason to keep on living. I’m really scared and I don’t want to die. I will only have 720.00 a month in SSI to live on if I lose my special assistance check of 527.00. How will I be able to stay alive? My rent is 585.00.
Those of you who pray, please pray for me. I am so scared.
June 3, 2014
Adventures, Beyond Weird
Cemeteries, Colonial, death, graves, Humor, mother, old graveyard, Regency
You’d think after approximately two years of riding mass transit, I’d remember that the bus stops running at 6pm on Sundays, not 6:30. Since the driver offered me a transfer, I thought maybe I still had the chance to get on another bus. Nah.
“Where you getting off at?” asked the driver as we neared the downtown transfer.
” Uh, I was hoping to get on the 202.”
“No, the bus stops at 6, so you going downtown?”
“Yes, I guess I am going downtown,” I said with affected cheer. Now, I could have got off earlier and went to a different grocery store location with more of a walk, but the dread of extra walking made me take my chances with a transfer. Fail. Well, I’m here, I thought. Might as well enjoy myself a little while, then walk 10 blocks up to a Family Dollar and do my shopping there. All downtown were the signs of life being lived: people drinking, eating, and sightseeing. I drowned my sorrows in frozen yogurt, saving the colorful plastic spoon for my collection. Then I began my quest for the 10th Street Family Dollar. Passing by Ye Olde Church, a sight caught my eye. The gate to the oldest cemetery in town stood open. Before now, the gate was always locked. My mother and I always wanted to tour that cemetery, but Mom was a little ‘late’ to this Land of Dead Episcopalians. So it was just me and her ashes around my neck. And this is what I saw:
More dead people.
This guy. Can you see the eye?
Sacred to the Memory of Solomon Somebody
This fellow was a sea captain who gave up the ghost in 178?
I didn’t do it.
“27 Club” before it was cool.
All sides of this stone are graves, including this 10 year-old boy.
Whoops, nearly fell over someone.
Redefining “Rapture Ready”
Even if you were beloved in life, one day you’ll be forgotten and share your plot with an air conditioner. Lucky you.
Location! Location! Location! Molder in comfort with central heat and A/C. Solid brick home. Lots of shade trees and QUIET NEIGHBORS!
Oldest Grave in Cemetery -an 18 year-old
Lovely view on the way to the Family Dollar
May 1, 2014
Happy #mayday der kommisar Putin!
March 26, 2014
Ain't That Some Shit, Waxing Religious
anxiety, blogoversary, bullies, death, emergency, god, guilt, Humor, OCD
Strange fate. Why God, or the universe, or a great nothingness conspires or throws events at random to some and misses others. The Wheel of Fortune keeps spinning. Some folks buy a vowel while others go bankrupt.
There was a blurb on the news yesterday: A fire at my old apartment complex. Then it announced the address. My building. I asked my friend to drive me ‘round the hood. I wanted to see if it was their apartment since their apartment was in the same building as the apartment I shared with my mother. Ye Old Shitville Ghetto Apartment Complex looked the same as ever: dilapidated, half-assed put together, just all that charm of a coastal town sunk into hell. Home sweet home. Roachy, bedbuggy, home. Mom and I lived 9 relatively happy years here. Four Years ago yesterday, March 25, 2010 I started my blog there. In 2011 my mother was taken to the hospital from there never to return again.
It wasn’t their apartment that caught fire, that is, my ex-roommates. Not the man who I miss to this day. My mother’s cook book is still on their shelf, and whatever else I gave them or they kept as theirs did not catch alight in some Waiting to Exhale diva style fashion. I’m glad they’re safe, and I hear they’re moving far away in about a week.
No, there was the apartment my mother and I shared gutted by fire. So far they say “cause undetermined,” but I’d bet the house (pun intended) that it was shitty wiring. First that wiring was older than I am, I’m pretty certain, secondly if I remember correctly, sometimes it did act funky.
If it was a malfunction in the wiring or appliances, and had my mother lived, I’m certain we would still live there and it would be us left with nothing. Did God deliberately spare us that fate? Why?
In my more philosophical mode, I think, “Did my mother die at 68 to be spared going downhill physically, possibly ending up an oxygen-bound invalid like her mother or near blind from macular degeneration like her father? Did God cut my mother a break, or was he being cruel? My mother’s illness was two weeks total, only one day of which was in the hospital. Also God knew that as long as my mom lived, my OCD would’ve been at her side trying to keep her alive. I’d never have lived alone were she still alive. I’d be too afraid she’d die. And now our apartment is charred. My mother’s essence burned out of the walls it feels like to me. Would we have died in the fire? Did God kill my mother to protect us from a worse fate? Why didn’t He just stop the fire in the first place and spared whoever lived there.? Ugh, I just don’t get it. Maybe my not being there was just the luck of the draw, and numerous calamities are about to befall me. Stay tuned!
March 24, 2014
book review, Humor, OCD, Spain
Lost in Spain: A Collection of Humorous Essays by Scott Oglesby
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
When Scott Oglesby graced me with a review copy of his Lost in Spain: A Collection of Humorous Essays, I was honored and thrilled being a fan of his writing from back when he kept a hilarious blog.
This book of essays are the memoirs of a man able to observe the comedy in his life and surroundings no matter how high or low the situation. We see snapshots of a socially awkward, yet charming man making his way through through strange family members and even stranger strangers.
When we first meet Scott, we are in Ibiza, Spain with his wife and her wealthy, eccentric brother. One begins to feel as though Scott is the narrator of The Great Gatsby: Espana Ediccion. He is the outsider looking into an opulant world, the ultimate non-stop party…until we see the actual home he and his wife are to spend the next three years. The apartment the uncle has given them is in the rural village of Javaron, a place unlike Ibiza or anywhere else he could imagine.
While in Javaron, the Oglesbies live among a unique cast of villagers, Gypsies, and European ex-pats of varying moral fortitude. The fact that Scott has a severe case of OCD, struggles with alcohol and drug abuse, and doesn’t quite fit in anywhere is explored with great candor and humor.
If you have OCD, and I do, you may find yourself relating to the the book in that you will be saying to yourself, “There’s someone else that does that. Wow!” The fear of mimicking someone’s accent, to going to insane lengths not to offend someone, to being on the extreme side of socially awkward are all things I have dealt with too. Scott also has the abillity to not sweat the big stuff and fall apart at little things, something I find happens to me too.
In short, this is a rauciously funny book, a different travel memoir, and a portrait of someone struggling to survive mental illness and addiction. It has something that will resound with most readers.
View all my reviews