Dead in the Park

stock-photo-tombstone-and-graves-in-an-ancient-church-graveyard-159270173I just finished checking on my friend’s cats while she was away, and as the bus drove over the expansive bridge, the driver and a passenger began remarking on what was going on below.

“Someone must’ve died. The police have been there so long now, ” said the driver. I seen them there three hours ago.” The driver and passenger speculated on the nature of the wreck that I couldn’t see from my vantage point. Alcohol. Drugs.

“I can’t say nothing,”replied the passenger. “I lost my  license going  180 in a 70 mile per hour zone. Just the other day , the cops got a woman going down wrong side of this road.”

The truth of the matter is once you leave the mainland and are on the island, alcoholics are as plentiful as the ocean surrounding the island, or at least it feels like it.

I’m going to see what there is to see, I think. I am obsessed with the morbid in case you might have missed that about me. For the first time in my life, I walked over the bridge instead of riding over it, and it’s scary. It’s about 100 feet to the unfriendly water below, the area where the river meets the sea, swirling and dark. I clung to the railing, afraid I’d be seized by vertigo and fall back into the traffic whizzing by. What a vulture will do to spot death. There it was in the park by the river. An SUV hit a tree by a sharp curve in the road.  The SUV’s  whole front end up to the cab was crushed in by the tree, and the remains of the vehicle were charred from having been on fire. Police were milling around the taped off area,  cop cars and fire trucks blocked the road nearby.

Wow.

Later, I found out it was a mother and her young children. Miraculously, the mother and one child were saved from the fire by a good Samaritan, who ended up being burned badly himself. The youngest child, a 1 year-old, was killed. The district attorney is treating it as a criminal matter.  What a terrible  world where such bad things happen. I hope the baby didn’t suffer, and that the district attorney is merciful.

Six Years Here

My blog turned six last month, and now that I’ve missed a bus that only  comes around every three hours, I reckon it’s time for an update.

I’ve found no signs of bed bugs and I never dive residential dumpsters, no matter how many things I see that my neighbors throw away that I’d like to have.

My cat is dying.  He has oral squamous cell carcinoma. His tongue was amputated and he’s remaining alive by tube feeding him in the neck. The bitch of it is, other than the rapidly growing tumor in his mouth, his body would be in exceptionally good health. One theory postulated is Phillippe’s  prolonged exposure to second-hand smoke. My mother, God rest her soul, smoked like a Chinese factory, the walls of our old apartment stained black from her habit. Oh well, he is fifteen, and you have to die of something, right? I’m just not ready to euthanize him yet, but soon I’ll have to before the disease progresses to its ultimate painful conclusion. I’m riding this out as long as can since he still has a tiny bit of quality of life.  

I’m following the time-honored tradition of my Appalachian relatives in having a second tooth yanked from my mouth (not counting my wisdom teeth, of course). When finished, I exclaimed to the surgeon,  “That was miraculous!” He took this as a great compliment to his alacrity and painlessness, while complimenting me on being a good patient.

Lastly, here is an updated list of my diagnoses for those of you keeping track:  OCD, major depression, dependent personality disorder, panic attacks, social anxiety disorder, and hoarding disorder. I should put that on a match.com profile, or plentyoffish, with the header “Swim away!”

 

Bed, Bug, and Beyond

Hauling cast-offs from your neighbors’ trash is kind of like autoerotic asphyxiation:  It’s all fun and games until you’re well hung.

Oh yes, I’ve hung myself  well. Cimex lectularius, aka the bed bug, has taken hold of my home and lecturously clung to me, tying my noose in a rust colored bow. A creature smaller than a pencil top has wrecked my life emotionally, socially, and reduced me to semi -penury.

800px-Bed_bug,_Cimex_lectularius

S’up?

 

There are two things to do when you find you have a bedbug problem. First, tell everybody! Brag to your 1.5 friends that your previous state of having no blood relatives has been remedied by playing host to a growing family of consanguinious creatures. Your 1.5 friends may become .05 friends that are willing to touch you with a 10 ft. pole, but now you will have many bedfellows who find your society delicious.

The second thing is watch how you become as popular as a prostitute with mouth herpes on a Tuesday night. Watch as your friends inspect their domiciles as you wait with bated breath for the horror that your new family might have jumped  ship for tastier fare. You will begin to see your bug relatives in every speck of dust, feel them, and itch from them when they aren’t there. You begin to wish for a bolt of lightening to strike your apartment and incenerate your tiny family. Your new relations are about as well esteemed to you as  your Appalachian cousins, but unlike your cousins, your bed bug family won’t abandon you. Lucky you.

 

I began suspecting when I killed a tiny blood red critter  walking its merry way across my pillow. It’s a baby bed bug, I inwardly squealed. No, came my angry reply to the voice within, it’s a spider mite tracked in by one of my cats. I told my psych nurse about the sighting and she agreed with my surmise.

A few nights later, I saw another insect, chubby and waddling. That’s an odd looking cucarocha.

And then December 26. D Day. I saw a bug close enough for me to grab  and I captured it alive in a pill bottle.  Oh dear God, that sure looks like an unfed bed bug. The poor little thing couldn’t keep itself right side up and flailed about so pitifully I had to stop looking at it.

I drew a bath and stripped off, afterward using jackets to keep me warm  on the couch and benzos to lull me to sleep. It’s going to be a great new year.

Much of the next day I stayed on the couch, deep in the depression only suspecting bed bugs can do to you. You know no one will want to be around you anymore, that your life is over until your home is napalmed. I looked online for stories of losing friends due to bed bugs. Of course there’s stories of lost friends and one Yahoo Answers contributor answered to the fearful friend of a bed bug sufferer, “just get new friends, eww.”

I took my prisoner, who had croaked on its own accord to a nearby exterminator. I caught one of the guys towards quitting time, and he turned up the bottle, made a face, and replied, “yeah” when I asked if it was a bed bug. I promptly went to McDonald’s and ate two Big Macs.

What is worse than a bed bug problem, you might ask. OCD, bed bugs, and mingling your worst fears into that mix. I feared telling my landlady for fear of being evicted, because around this  time last year I was threatened with eviction. I feared telling my social worker for fear of losing the assistance  I get on my rent.

Both scenarios led to the same conclusion in my mind,the trifecta of  my worst fears, a game show called Rest Home, Homeless, or Dead. Continue reading

Not Going to Bash Myself

But everyone around me seems to think I suck big ape dong. I have a hard time not absorbing everything people say. I feel very alone, very overwhelmed, very heartbroken. I want so badly to be needed and loved., but my flaws seem much larger than other people’s. I wish I were someone else.  I wake up every morning promising myself not to make anyone upset today. I pray. I begin my rituals of the day. Then something bad happens  and I give up. Why do I even try to interact with others when I fail so badly? It’s so much worse  when it’s someone I love. I don’t want to be alone. I’m afraid of dying alone.

I’m Supposed To Be Here

Guess I’m supposed to be here.
Impulsive death wish then want to live  longer.
May I live to be older, much older than Mother.
Some of us are Einstein and Madonna.
Some are just smart enough to not be stupid.

Guess I’m supposed to here.
Compulsive mindset, never want to be who I am.
May I live to be normal, nominally normal like Mother.
Some  of us are Cousin Charles  and Dead Dad.
Some  are just born to be forgot.

This poem is written on the third anniversary of my living alone for the first time (September 24th). I feel alive. I’ve survived. Tried to take less meds, got a little suicidal recently. Took my meds again and now I want to live again. Fuck. I feel fine now.  And September is almost over, thank God.

September Wretched

September 13th will mark the fourth anniversary of my mother’s death. The other day I was at one of the hallowed shrines to my mother and a mecca to my obesity: Wendy’s. We  used to go there at least once a week with an elderly couple I’ve since lost touch with. It’s strange  to go somewhere that hasn’t changed any since 2011 (except for the price ).  Were today September 9th, 2011, my mother would be at home barely able to walk, slowly painfully succumbing to her fate. Had she gone to the hospital the 9th instead of the 12th would she be alive today?

Death and misfortune are everywhere. Saturday I was returning from the beach and happened to look out the window of the bus and a man was having chest compressions started by first responders.  He must have had a heart attack on the way to the beach on Labor Day weekend. How cruel. It’s strange to see someone dying when you already experience foreboding in September. September: the death of summer, the death of unconditional love when my mother died,  September 11th anniversary, my estrangement from the rest of my family, and the end of my friendship with my gay lying friend.

Even when the sun is shining, the world seems dark. I may have gained my independence September 24, 2015 when I moved into my own apartment for the first time, but I am still bound to what the world outside thinks of me. There are very few people you can truly trust when the world thinks you’re dense. I’m tired of my many failures. My mind is drowning in my inability to be what everyone wants me to be, even with what I want me to be. 

I wonder when it will be my turn with the CPR. Hamburgers and red meat are my drug of choice. I don’t want to die, but 2 for $5.00 Big Macs at McDonald’s are crack to me, and you got to take whatever small pleasures you can in this life. God, what do they put in that special sauce?