Scared of Phone, Mail, and Knocks on the Door

I’m scared of checking my voicemail, my email, and my mailbox. I only feel active at night. I feel like bad news will be there. Today I checked my voicemail and there was a message from my social worker to call her back today. I imagine all sorts of scenarios she could harass me for. My apartment was a mess a couple weeks ago when my aid took me to the store. I was hoping since it was just once after weeks of no service that she’d let it slide. I’ve been trying to get everything in tip top shape by next time the aid comes. What if the aid saw a full bottle of liquor ( which still is not open,and I’ve had it since my birthday). Are they that paternalistic? What about anything and everything that I haven’t said to her?Maybe she found out I’m delinquent on one of my bills.

Today, I helped a guy bring his 3 boxes of Coke to his apartment and up his stairway. He had dropped one box and shouted angrily at it, ” YOU FUCKING FAGGOT! REALLY YOU ARE.”

Great, another psyche case, I thought to myself. And while I’m throwing shade in my head, I’m debating in my head if I should help him.

But I’ll have to talk to him, my mind cautioned.

But he’ll think you’re an asshole if you don’t help him, I remonstrated . Fear of being an asshole won, and plenty of people have helped me in the past in similar situations. It’s not that I didn’t want to help him, but the fear of talking to someone is ingrained in me.

He asked me my name and whether I worked at the nearby hospital. I gave him my name, answered no without elaboration ( which might be rude. I didn’t ask him his job just in case he was on disability too. He certainly looked the part, she of the many holes shirt, thought. I just really like my Cat in the Hat shirt, it’s comfy around the house, etc. I wasn’t aware I was about to fraternize with my neighbors.


While he didn’t really like me, clearly,

I’ll still miss him dearly.

He whom I loved in spite of everything.

I never could discern truth from a lie.

A forked tongue and a wicked sense of humor –

too wicked, sometimes; it matasticized like a

tumor and ate me alive.


Suddenly, the myopia of my soul cleared,

and I saw:

The ugly little girl become a wretched, bitter hag.

Ancient ridicule replicated ad infinitum,

translated into a modern curse.

It never ends, but it could be worse.

New Years Resolutions

To be altruistic and giving to everyone I meet.

Agreeing with everyone to a degree to keep the peace.

write a series of potential fuck up before an interaction can occur so I can try to do better and not make everyone angry.

better hygiene. Look respectable at all times.

always retain civility.

Try to befriend people. It won’t kill you maybe.

Eat and drink better.

intermittent fasting

be more spiritual.

exercise as much as possible

walk places when I can.

volunteer somewhere

keep my home clean.

get rid of mites by any means necessary

save more money, pay on time

She accused me of not caring about her cat and never being there for her, never taking responsibility for anything. I asked if she remembered everything she did to me over Christmas, but she said I should look at it from her point of view.

I snapped and basically told her I blame her for Oscar. Now she says he was just like me: selfish, etc.

I walked it back. She’s already said next time my cats get sick don’t come to her for help ( I doubt she means that). I doubt she’ll get me the new pair of glasses now. One of my lenses is missing.

I really am a cunt. If I lose her, there’s no one else.

One Hell of a Christmas

A memory of Christmas Eve 2019: She had raged at both of us, but I think more at Oscar, especially when he defended me. Now Oscar and I are watching her tenderly feeding a stray cat while we stay in the car. We can’t believe the difference between that person and the miserable monster yelling at us at her house. Oscar tells me that I’m a nice person and that I don’t deserve this. He tells me he’s been through awful things, even killed people in the Mexican army, and he’d never treat people the way she does.

Christmas Eve 2020: Oscar’s been dead several months, and even though he told her to be nice to me as the stretcher took him away to the ambulance, she has decided I’m too much trouble to spend Christmas with.

Christmas Eve 2021: She doesn’t remember, but I made dinner and she came over. Nothing bad happened.

Christmas Eve 2022 wasn’t the worst Christmas I ever had. That honor goes to the one where she threatened to leave me in the middle of nowhere at night. But this one is a very close second. It was a massive failure in every way possible.

I missed the bus in 27 degree weather. This started it. She was enraged, so I was able to get an Uber. I didn’t see the driver in the car, the windows were tinted and he was very dark complected, so I approached a different Black guy. Very embarrassing.

When we got to her house, the driver said, “Oh, she’s got cats.”

“Yeah, she’s a cat lady,” I said, knowing I was in for it when I got in.

The big door was open and just the glass screen door was closed. There was a time years ago I got fussed at for ringing the bell while a cat was sick, so I knocked lightly and opened the screen door.

“YOU SCARED THE FUCK OUT OF ME!” she screamed brandishing a box cutter. “How’d you like it if I had cut you with this? What if I did that to you?” (She has – just knocked and came in, not cut me, heh).

Maybe it would’ve been for the best had she slit my throat and my festive red blood splattered everywhere. No more lonely. No more fucking up everything I touch. No more being a leech and a burden. But no, my suffering had only just begun.

She made me change my clothes in the garage in the 20s because…

“If I had to do it after getting bit, you have to .”

“Everything just has to be your way, ” she said repeatedly.

And then she found out I hadn’t defrosted the prime rib. That really was the end of things.

“The prime rib you bragged about getting all month on EBT? There’s something wrong with you,” she spat. A little monologue began with herself regarding my mental competence. ” I know you aren’t that debilitated. Well, maybe you are. Maybe your therapist can help you. There’s definitely something wrong with you. You act like you’re fucking Einstein, but.”

Please kill me, I kept thinking. Better to be dead. There’s nothing. Nothing here for me. Nothing. Over and over in my my mind. I kept wondering if Oscar was watching. A part of me thinks he knows she didn’t stop.

She got me a lot of nice gifts, but I’d have rather her just not be a cunt for one holiday. It was so much worse than I ever imagined.

I hoped my expensive gift ( bought on payments) would keep her from giving me any more hell. Who doesn’t want a waterproof Kindle Paperwhite right?

Her apparently, but I’ll get into that later.

We had Eggplant Parmesan she got with a couple other dishes from an Italian eatery.

“This should be enough for us,” I said hopefully.

“Yes, but I was HOPING for a feast with the prime rib.”

Somehow, the prime rib defrosted except for the very middle and we put it in the oven.

I didn’t volunteer to wash the dishes fast enough and she said the thing that almost made me walk out. I asked if she wanted to save the ziti on her plate. She accused me of wanting to eat her leftovers and I put the stopper on the counter without washing it after soaking the prime rib and I almost put the dish in her dishwasher without fully rinsing off the sauce.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You can’t do anything for yourself. Your poor mother…”

I couldn’t see straight, my anger was so intense.

“Don’t talk about my mother!” And less loud, “You fucking bitch.”

“I wasn’t talking about your mother,” she claimed. I think it speaks volumes about her parents at what a bitter old cunt she’s become.

We began to get drunk. Miraculously, vodka and schnapps shots loosened her up. I’ve been present before when she was a mean drunk. This time she altered between happy and sad for Oscar. I’ll maintain to my dying day she was partially at fault for the suicidal binge of drugs and alcohol he went on that killed his liver, but it’s probably a little unfair of me. His liver was on the precipice of failure for years from crack, alcohol, and God only knows what else for years and he knew it. When he lost his job when the COVID mandates closed the restaurant’s indoor dining that was the last straw, but I think he was terrified of losing her to this guy from her past that was messaging her on Facebook. With no job, a secret drug habit, and an intense fear of being dumped,plus their constant arguing sometimes started by his antics, he no doubt felt like he had nothing to lose anymore.

When the prime rib was done, we had some and it was actually very delicious. I gave a tiny piece to one of the cats (who on the 26th had to go to the vet for an intestinal issue, though the piece was tiny and I licked off the spices) . I guess it is possible.

The Kindle, though the latest and brand new, lagged and had scrambled words. I got them to send her a new one, but she’s certain she’ll be charged for it and is mad she’ll have to take the other one to a UPS store.

So there you have it. If I have to lie and say I’m dying on New Years Eve I’m going to. I need time to recover.

I tried to be a human today. I went to a new dentist, let a homeless guy use my phone when others wouldn’t so he could fuss his girlfriend out , and went to Dollar Tree. But the feeling of being totally alone wouldn’t go away. Why even have Dollar Tree hauls if I can’t show him what I got.

i went to a gift wrapping ‘party’. Someone remarked about Sassy, “Oh she looks like an indoor cat.

“Well she sometimes…” I began.

But someone’s voice rose over mine, drowning me out . ” It’s an outdoor cat . She’s always out when I walk my dogs and she tries to jump them.”

Instant hatred.

I wrapped my present and got out of there. I don’t belong there either. The only free pizza giveaways it is. They just like everyone else sees me as subhuman.

What is the point of anything?

I’m really, really scared. This is the worst thing I’ve ever had to deal with in my entire life. My best friend believes me because it’s affected her too. My therapist believes me, or at least pretends to. I’ve never broached the subject with a doctor .

My friend is saying when she inherits her money, she’ll get me help. I feel like I’m going to die or drown. I want my mom, but I’m glad she isn’t suffering this.


It’s election day, my air conditioner isn’t working, and they’re having some sort of breakfast social at my complex. Free Chick Fil-A. Should be a gay old time. The only problem is, chicken does not belong on a sandwich and I’m asocial. I like people, don’t get me wrong, but like any good mental defective, I distrust my neighbors. And the apartment staff. And my inability to look and act like a normal human being. Plus, what if I made friends here, and I once again get dragged through the rumor mill? What if my old friend, she who wants me around only if she wants something, is there and starts talking about me?

When the woman across the street from me passed who had a penchant for getting in my business, I was a little relieved. I think she was a ‘little off’ herself and she talked about everyone and told me what rumors were going around about me. I remember that summer of getting called a ‘cat lady’ by all the little bastard kids who shouldn’t have been at the pool alone anyway. No fucking thanks.

I may go when they’re giving free pizzas out though, every addict has their drug of choice that’s hard to resist. Considering the new management fucked me in the ass when they raised the rent by about $225, I feel the least they can do for us is give us a ‘free’ pizza.

The maintenance guy came. The miracle of the 225.00 up fee is the maintenance people seem educated. Not 10 the grade dropouts and/ or slow people. I’ve known at least two maintenance guys and a suspected third who were slow, one who couldn’t read at all back at the old complex. He had to go to social services once and my Mom went with him. He had told her he didn’t know how to read. I bet if someone had really tried to teach him, he’d have learned. Considering how quick people are to assume I’m slow, I notice which people seem to not have touched a book in their entire lives. I’m such a miserable hypocrite sitting in judgement of people when my IQ is 96.

Anyway, my unused uterus and I are going to go vote. Planned Parenthood is less than a mile away from me, and we gotta support local businesses, right?

The Storm

I don my pastel sweater in case the whipping tropical storm wind is too cool for my sleeveless dress. The sweater is one of the things I inherited from my mother, dead 11 years now, but the sweater is still in good condition. J.C. Penney’s I think, a birthday gift from me one year.

Outside, I scan the area of my apartment complex. The storm seems to have only knocked a few branches out of the loblolly pines. It’s before dark. I feel it’s safer than going after dark in the storm. After dark, one might not see obstacles from the storm: downed power lines, displaced snakes, branches dangling, etc. Or the guys sitting at the picnic table near where I feed Tabitha. I can’t figure whether they’re homeless, waiting for a drug deal, or just chilling in the 35 mph wind. I go about my business away from theirs. I wonder if it was their blunt I smelled the night before very close by. I’m glad I went before dark, though the likelihood of those guys wanting to bother me is low.

I think K. is sore at me for going early because she went silent, but the cat was fed right?

I’m afraid K. is going to die on me. You’d think I’d be used to people croaking on me or disappearing, but… I had started to become confident that most likely I would be first. I’m fat, sedentary, eat processed foods, and anxious. K. always took care of herself and looks much younger than me, but her latest blood work seems indicative of congestive heart failure. We’re hoping it’s a fluke, some autoimmune disease from her father’s side of the family. Most people with critical levels as high as her’s are in the ICU.

I will be stoic as I was around my mother. My mind is morphing them together now when I wake up disoriented. First I think where’s Mom. Oh, that’s right, dead 11 years. Where’s K?

I’m terrified of being completely alone…but then Facebook messenger rings. It’s Other Friend. Memories of betrayal fill my mind, but more than that, knowing she’s only calling me because she’s afraid of the impending storm. I don’t answer. She literally has a whole church full of support.

The last time she came into my life, it was because her roommate had moved out, and honestly, she needed a spare friend to fill the need of someone to tell all her problems to and run errands with because she’s somewhat agoraphobic. Away from her, I can see clearly the affronts she’s given me over the years. Chiefly, accusing me of something I wouldn’t do after 25 years of friendship and then pretending she didn’t accuse me. The roommate she had was from a trashy family and my friend had pissed off said trashy family. I’d bet it was somehow related to that, but go ahead and blame me over a minor disagreement on hemophilia that I admitted I was wrong about.

She’s big on one ended conversations, usually about herself and calling repeatedly when you don’t want to sit for hours at a time listening to her problems. I really have my own problems right now, and don’t need hers as well.

So, no. I’m not that desperate to crawl back…yet.