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 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?
Every time someone treats me as though I am less of a human than she or he is, I feel rage. Look right through me, assholes. Ask in hushed whispers if I’m slow. Fuck you. How fucking dare anyone look down on me. Even if I were slow as you think, does that mean you can’t act as though I exist? Maybe it’s the American way. Fat white trash slobs with childish voices and the inability to look people in the eye should be kept away from decent folks. They should die so us rich people no longer have the burden of their existence.
I really shouldn’t have been born.
The day was agonizingly beautiful. The sky was an endless robin’s egg and the bright sun bade me release t
he bonds of my apartment walls for the worthier pastures of mass transit and dumpster treasure. What is 87 F (31 C) for those of us seeking adventure, the Holy Grail, and something besides potato chips in our cupboards? Apparently, 87 F is a lot, as I felt all 220 pounds of my glorious body begin to broil medium well in the afternoon sun. Three huge bottles of dish washing liquid, Lisa Frank magnets, and a squished bottle of generic fruit punch and I began to feel the ill effects of heat exhaustion setting in . Outrageous fortune beset me yet again when I realized the bus I boarded was air conditioning free. Once I got home, the effects of my romp, plus the thoughts in my head erupted. And I vomited. In the trash can by my bed. In the commode. In a bucket of Pinesol by my commode. In the bathtub trying to calm down.
“Either I got heat exhaustion or that tooth that had that mild abcess is going septic,” I told my friend.
But back to vomiting. In the yard waiting for my friend to come get me. Desecrating a Walmat plastic bag in the car on the way to the hospital. And once in a nifty vomit bag as the wheel chair I was in made too many jerking movements -but I apologized to the waiting room as any genteel southerner would. I vocalized that I wanted my mom, never mind that this section of the waiting room was where I finally was away enough from my mom to shed a tear at her impending demise back in 2011. Now, four years later, Lisa the Stoic, is replaced by OCD Lisa chanting a mantra of “I’m so scared.”
Then the nurse, while taking my medical specifics gave me a pill, Zofran. Zofran, named for the ancient Greek god of Emesis and Refusing to Suffer in Silence. I was fine in 15 minutes. Not sepsis. Not this time, Mom. I felt like an idiot as my panic subsided. I’ve vomited many times alone without alerting the media, but the heat exhaustion, sepsis in the tooth scenario weighed deeply in my mind along with other anxieties. I asked the triage nurse if it would be OK for me to go since I felt so much better. “Absolutely!” She said with a trifle more enthusiasm than necessary. But here I am a month later alive and well, and I see they’ve moved the entrance to the emergency department, probably they’re hiding from me.
Yes. Get a grip. Must rally. I spoke to my nurse. She was pretty oh boy ad nauseam but she did get me to calm down. I got to get back into a routine. Of course I’ll check on Giselle later. She’s going through some shit. I will try to be everything to everybody. I will try to be more like my mom. I will try to tell my depression that I will stay up awake so Giselle won’t be able to sling that at me. I will be so likeable and so sans reproach that no one will ever dislike me or look down on me again. I will force myself to be worthy of everyone or die trying.
As you may have noticed of late my brain is really glitching up, like I’m trying to connect broadband internet when my brain runs on Windows 95. Every time I feel happy, i’m readying myself for the inevitable downward turn. Every time I think someone could truly like me for me, my brain says it won’t last. The last time I saw my therapist, she even told me I try to appear normal and hide just how bad my issues are. Can you imagine how much fun that would be to tell anyone I’m with, just what my brain is telling me:
I hear my neighbors talking, so they may be talking about narcing me out to my landlady, who, by the way, thinks i’m M.R.
I’m going to the mailbox. Hope there’s nothing in there that spells out I’m about to be homeless and penniless.
I think the clerk in the store is watching me so I don’t steal something.
If you lose something I’m afraid you’l think I stole it.
If I’m imperfect I think you won’t like me.
If you’re mad at me i shut down completely and think that you’ll never forgive me and I will be alone forever or should just drop dead.
I know my blog has been about as fun to read as being stabbed with a rusty needle, being devoured by characters from Twilight, and drowning in a bucket of stale urine. Today is no exception. I feel like giving up. Everything is going to hell. Jesus might have flown out of this earth, but I’m going to be stuck here or wind up in a home somewhere. I always fail. Always.
Persevere bitches! !!! I almost forgot today was my fifth blogoversary. Time flies when you mull over how life blows for five. fucking. years. But seriously I love you all, and hopefully one day I’ll stop having a pity party with dumpster dive cake. Thanks!
No offense, but,
I’m about to tell you
how you are nothing,
Worthless and dim,
How I must enunciate syllables,
Your Neanderthal brain is too slim.
No Offense, but, I told you not to take offense!
Its not my problem you shed a tear, when I said I can’t talk to you as an equal, your mind is just too dense!
Just remember, though,no offense! No Offense!