Club R

What fool said that the unexamined life isn’t worth living? I think I prefer not thinking about some things. I spoke to my  beloved first grade teacher today on the phone today and she basically affirmed what I already knew: Everyone thought I was the ‘R’ word, and I don’t mean republican. My teacher didn’t believe I was retarded. I think she might think I have autism, though. I’d rather be in Club Autism than Club’ R.’

What she said was that they doubted I could learn to read at that school.  It wasn’t  true. I began to learn under the tutelage of Ms. S, who hated me, but perfected phonics under Ms. H, who loved me. First off, Ms. S used to verbally abuse me, lie, threaten, and one time paddled me. Second,  the principal really, really, really  shouldn’t be talking about ‘slow. ‘ Her own son seemed dumb as a brick to me and still pissed himself at age 7. I looked him up and he still looks like trailer trash.What is worse is the principal there also beat me with a paddle a few times for not getting math in 3rd grade before before my mother took me out of that godforsaken Christian school. Thirty years ago and I’m still angry. 

Ms. H. wanted to know if I was OK and if I wanted to come live with her. I was extremely touched that even after 30 years she still loves me that much. I let her know that I was fine and that I was content in my life as a cat lady. I also  let her know that while I have psych issues, I’m not intellectually disabled.

A neurologist my mom took me to when I was 11 believed I suffered from  mild cerebral palsy, which explains my unusual gait. I may broach this subject with a doctor sometime because my back, legs and ankles are sore when I begin to walk these days. Ms. H commented that I would come into class walking like an octopus, my hair and backpack in disarray.  I later in life forced myself to stop walking tiptoe, but my person will always be disordered.

If I do have autism, I’m either at the very edge of the spectrum or I’ve learned to adapt. My emotions are normal…I think. I get jokes. I get social cues. I have empathy. But I’m missing something, or people wouldn’t  all the  time be thinking I’m “special.”

Maybe if my mom hadn’t gone fishing for a husband in the drunk tank and I was sired by someone else, or she had not waited until she was 35, maybe me genes would fit me better. There were enough undiagnosed anxiety disorders running amuck in my mom’s genes as well as hoarding cousins on Grandpa’s side that I really could’ve done just as well with another pop.  If I do have autism I wish it was confirmed, so I could get a reduced price bus pass.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Originally Put This on Facebook

​I went to a Tim Kaine rally the day before the election. This is just a guess, but I think maybe 100 to 200 people showed tops. I’m almost certain they were  in a much better financial class than me (not difficult to  be since I’m on disability, but I surmised most were well off) and I saw maybe 4 minorities in all in a predominately black neighborhood.

 I knew we were going to  lose. 
There were certain variables, however, which made me hope I was wrong:

It was 3 pm on a Monday, when most people are at work or waiting for their kids after school.

Tim Kaine is a very nice person, but about as interesting as paint drying.

Other variables to consider, which made me  believe I was right that we would lose:
Donald Trump came to my town twice campaigning. Twice.  While we aren’t exactly a small town, we aren’t a big metropolis either. He made a lot of people believe he gave a damn about  them, which is laughable but true.

Hillary didn’t come here once this time. Where else didn’t she show up?
Trump rallies are circuses. People like a show and a place where their resentments can be openly displayed.
Hillary had baggage, big baggage. The emails. A huge segment who took their ball and went home when Bernie lost.
Hillary is no Obama. Few people possess the charisma, eloquence, and grace under pressure that Obama has. Likely, there may never be another person quite like him in politics while we are still living.
People underestimated  the hatred a huge population of Americans have for Obama. I didn’t, but a whole lot of people did.  The racism might be hidden under the surface, but  many  people think why am I working, while the ‘other’ gets all these benefits. If you don’t believe me, read any forum where someone mentions a question about her  government phone, food stamps, anything that might keep a poverty-stricken person from  falling through the net. Is it any wonder that Trump can mock a disabled person in front of his masses of supporters.

OK, I’m done. If you actually read this, wow thanks! (Don’t unfriend me)

2016: Blood, Sweat, More Blood

Is it just me, or has 2016 gone down as one of the most awesomely horrendous years in history?  Well, post-plague, post-Hitler, post-mom croaking anyway. It was bad. Can it get any worse? Probably.

I’ve been treated for bed bugs three times, the last time was today. They aren’t all dead. I fully expect a bed bug or two to  outlive me, enjoying the last flowing drops of my lifeblood on my death-bed. #Optimism.

Philippe, my cat of 15 years, died in the early morning hours after Mother’s Day.  A friend kindly offered to allow me to bury him in her yard among her feline deceased. I wrapped Phil’s mortal remains in a sheet, taped him up in a box, placed the box in a vinyl laundry bag, and boarded the bus for her house. No one knew on he bus, but someone was singing  Amazing Grace, a funeral favorite in my family. #Icantmakethiscreepynessup.

And well, Donald Trump  got elected. I just knew he would. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe it will just all be a real hoot. Maybe under the narcissistic, sociopathic facade lies a heart of gold. #Seigheil.

My Mom and I Waited for Calamity

Mother’s dead five years today. The ache is dulled, but there. I feel it should be an eternal darkness over my soul as a justice to her and to atone for my flaws. Why did it end this way?
We worried about each other always. My mom fretted if I stayed at the pool after dark lest someone come molest me. The gazebo they built out at the back of our complex, she begged me not to go lest someone molest me. When I’d talk about how I’d like to have a driver’s license  to go to things at night, like fireworks at the beach…You shouldn’t go alone.
Don’t go too far from the shore. Don’t even taste alcohol. It’s in your genes!

And the big joke was that I was worse than her. If I couldn’t find her in a store, I panicked. If she went out alone, which was rare, I’d warn her to lock her doors and be careful. I was sure she’d die in a car accident. On the rare occasions I went over to a friend’s house overnight, I’d call twice . If she dropped me off for a day somewhere, I’d call to make sure she got home. My greatest obsession was my mom.
I miss her advice. I miss her always on my side. But I’m also glad to be free. Free from her worries, free from mine over her.
I’d give back my liberty though to be with her again , but it’d be nice if we could’ve been less dependent on each other the next time around.

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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