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!”
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.
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 →
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.
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.
I am going to make my way in this blog on a metaphorical bridge of thoughts and perceptions from day to day to try to connect the known with the yet unknown. My bridge is like a single plank which will require the supplement of others.