Laying Bare My Sorrows

I’m back home, but along with the clothes I quickly grabbed, I brought back more baggage than an airport in December.  It’s getting better than it was when I got here, and I’m starting to feel happy more and uneasy less. But the uneasiness isn’t gone, the feeling that I’m merely a transient or at least a guest doesn’t go away. The day my mother died was the day I became displaced in a world where I belong nowhere. Before my mother left, I knew my place. She needed me from the day she realized she was pregnant as I told you long ago. My mother’s great love broke up with her, her two best friends died, and when her 6 month married life ended there I was. Even a therapist I once had told my mom that he didn’t know what would have happened to her if she hadn’t  had me.

So where does that leave me today? Every person has a reason for being alive, but some of us find it harder than others to discover that reason. I suppose there’s a reason for me being here too. I’m not certain of much anymore. I don’t know who loves me or if I’m just one misstep away from finding myself alone in the world again. Yesterday, I went back to my therapist for the first time since I tried to play my swan song, and she was less than happy to see me. 

“If they threw you out, what are you doing back there?”

“Soul Bro was able to convince The Partner to let me back,” I replied. She listened to my fears, to everything I could cram into 50 minutes. There’s a lot I just can’t say for fear of losing my Soul Bro, and looking back at my reasoning for trying to kill myself, I don’t ever want to risk losing him. I love him that much and am that terrified of being alone (this blog has gotten 10 shades more creeeeepy with this last paragraph. My bad). I am  an orphan, a mental midgety one at that, and I don’t have relatives at all. Well, none that care whether I live or die, they made that more or less clear when I told them my mother was dead. Oh well, they were just cousins. Second cousins. I’ll get into that some other time.

I  shouldn’t be admitting this junk, but I told my therapist stuff I’d never venture to say aloud (please don’t hate me, Bro, should you read this).  I’m not saying he lies a bit, but he stretches the truth until that bitch screams, to make himself look better occasionally. I think. Maybe it’s me being paranoid. 

I think he got mad at me for begging to come home and not being “proactive” enough in trying to be independent, so he did the worst thing anyone could do to me. I think he decided he was done with me until I was back on my feet, so he put most of my stuff in my storage unit (including my mother’s ashes), and took two of my three cats to the pound. I was able to get them out because my home health nurse saved them and they’re living with her for now…Soul Bro says I can ask to bring them home in June if The Partner agrees. My nurse told me the story they told the pound that their owner died in September and they had lived in a barn in a rural county.

Soul Bro told me on the phone that my three cats had been picked up by the pound with some strays and that he had mistaken the feelings he had for my mom with the feelings he had for me.  Of course several days later he repented, because he is a good person. Perhaps it was a bipolar thing, but  it was obvious whoever that other guy had been was gone.

I never told this to anyone, but if I had the opportunity to do it, I’d have tried to kill myself again. When I first came to Window Licker Hall, Millie, a middle aged perpetual cutter/suicidal woman told me if I really wanted to leave the rest  home she had half a bottle of pain pills. I told her then, no thanks. Around the time my Soul Bro said he had cared for my mom, but me not so much, Millie came back from a few weeks vacation at a mental intstitution. I was frantic and asked her if she still had the pills. No, she didn’t. And so I was saved again. Now I know regardless what happens, no matter how low I get, I can’t kill myself. I promised my Soul Brother I wouldn’t ever again and I was never so serious in my life. He’s had enough shit to last ten lifetimes (and at least one day of Lifetime Television programming).

Yes, my therapist ain’t happy, but I am. My Soul Bro is the joy and light of my life. To me he is a gay god, almost perfect. He keeps me laughing, except when I worry I’ll mess up. I imagine him thinking awful things about me.  If anything goes missing I imagine him thinking I stole whatever it is. I fear he’ll think I’m on drugs, and I worry that I will never be what everyone expects of me.  If I mess up in the slightess way the lack of perfection drives me crazy. One day I messed up and used the bathroom and bathed with his cell phone there. He accused me of taking it and even said that a lot of stuff went missing while I lived there before. I had to swear on my mom’s ashes that I hadn’t touched it. I forgive, but I don’t forget. I could say my theory on who stole stuff, but I will refrain from naming anyone. Soul Bro realized he was wrong and wrote out a note saying I couldn’t  be thrown out for any reason, but I think some of the power belongs with The Partner, so who knows? All i can say is I ain’t a thief.

One last confession paragraph before I stop, I now pay about twice what I paid in rent the last time, but I’d pay more to be with my Soul Bro. My therapist thinks I’m being hosed and I don’t care! I think it was The Partner who came up with the sum. The only thing really marring my happiness is not having my cats, which makes me not want  to face the plastic box holding my mother. I don’t think I can remove her from the storage unit until I get them back. 

If my nurse hadn’t rescued Dondee, the pound would have killed my Mom’s

                                         best little buddy.

Not Dead…

Space Cadet

I shoo the vultures and flies away, clear away the cobwebs of my head and blog, and here I am. I have an announcement:

I’m not dead.

 It wasn’t that I didn’t try, however, to die. My suicide attempt was an epic fail.  Oh well, you haven’t really lived until you try to kill yourself. I don’t recommend trying to end it all, especially near one’s blogoversary, as you might miss the occasion, not being near a computer and all. 

Been an interesting 2 years on this blog, lots of changes. I hope everyone is still around and much love to everyone. I still haven’t finished the story about my mom’s death and here I am  trying to write about my attempt to follow suite. There’s always something to write about.

I’ll tell you the short version and then start transcribing from my journal I kept in the hopes I would one day ride the blogging train again.

Short version: I tried to overdose on ativan, spent 10 days in a mental hospital because no one wanted to take me in, spent over a month in a rest home, and finally returned to the safety of my Soul Brother.

Here are the beginning entries of the journal I kept at the rest home. Somewhere in there I tell about my suicide attempt in detail, but that’s later on in the journal..



To say I’ve been through some things these past 5 months is an understatement. I’ve been through and am still going through so much. On September 13, 2011 my mother died and on February 10, 2012 I tried to die. As of March 9th, I still can’t say whether I’m glad I didn’t succeed.

The rest home I live in now that no one wants me, is never quiet. The majority of the people who live here have schizophrenia, exhibited in its many forms, or have varying levels of mental retardation. A few of us have a grip on reality, or at least have enough medication in them to simulate normalcy, and those left over have physical issues or dementia. People scream, fight, and sing at all hours. The bathrooms have no locks, so expect getting caught relieving yourself at least once a day. I can’t bear to think that I belong here, that no one wants me now that I tried to kill myself. I’m stuck here in the middle of Nowheresville, USA, long distance from everything and worse, from everyone I know.




The mentally challenged lesbian that lives in the room two doors down, has a crush on me. I am repulsed by her ugliness and annoying ways, but I empathize with her at loving someone who will never love you the same way. My Lesbian isn’t as “special” as some of the folks around, but she repeats everything she says and is always hunting me down. She tells me she loves me and I say “Thank you.” If she persists, I say, I like you, but I’m not into girls!”

It’s a fact that at a place like this I’m considered flirtation-worthy, my competition being mentally challenged or in the 50s through 80s age range. Herb the Perv, a man in his 40s or 50s who must be a stroke victim, flirts with anyone female from his wheelchair. Another old man asked me to be his girlfriend, then one old man wanted to kiss me (on the cheek of course). I can surmise from this that if you don’t drool or piss yourself, you’re a hit here, and that there’s an epidemic of dirty old men in this joint.

And now my roomie’s semi-boyfriend ia back from what residents here cryptically call “The Third Floor,” i.e., the mental unit at Nowheresville’s local hospital. Love is in the air, but I think she favors another dude who is  much less of a space cadet. I think the semi-boyfriend is starting to like me. The Space Cadet is about as annoying as My Lesbian, perhaps more. He comes into our room to talk incessantly and proclaim his sanity, explaining his talent for discerning things from everyone. He isn’t a Christian. He is THE Christian. Prostelatizing with the zeal of an old-time Southern Baptist preacher. He wants to become a boxer and write his story for an inspirational channel like TBN or ABC Family. Space Cadet wants to become a professional singer and is singing all the time. Too bad he can’t sing worth a shit. Between his delusions of grandeur and my roomie’s delusions of persecution, it’s a recipe for their future connubial bliss.