May

May is black.

Motherless daughters in the back.

Light of hope flickers down the hall;

it’s dim like it isn’t there at all.

It’s spring, but May feels like fall.

“Be good to Lisa,” you said in your death pall.

Like I was a person, a human being emerged from the black.

But then I went back.

Maybe I’m dying?

I think I overdid it last Sunday with my little blue friend. Addy urged me on to get the things  done that needed done. Despite her urging, I kept feeling ready to sleep.

“Just a little more,” she kept saying, and I obliged. And obliged. And obliged. I have no idea how much I actually took, but my guess is 100 mg altogether. And once Addy took her leave of me, I began to feel weak and the feeling hasn’t left me since. Surely my dopamine  will return  to normal soon if that’s what it is.

But I’ve been dodging medical appointments. I can’t have something wrong with me  while my only friend is trying to die on me, more or less. My nurse practitioner was monitoring my creatine levels, but that might just be because I’m often mildly dehydrated. Then the new eye doctor was like ‘that red in your eyes could be a sign of Lupus or sarcoidosis. Come back in two weeks.’  Fat chance. Sarcoid is what my friend has. If by chance I actually have sarcoid I’ll find out soon enough if it follows a similar trajectory as my friend’s.

Covid?

I’m starting to wonder if the bites, rash, whatever is covid, kidney failure, fungal infection, cancer, MRSA, or staph. I doubt it’s cancer, MRSA or staph, but who knows. Isn’t MRSA more of a hospital disease? I think it might be fungal or an allergic reaction. Benadryl helps, but so does lotramin.

Everything is going straight to hell anyway. I feel like I’m about to be taken in front of a firing squad, shot, and no one will bury my carrion eaten body. I can’t stop the feeling of impending doom and being completely abandoned. Everything and everyone will die or go away. It’s inevitable. One moment everything is OK and then some Saudis knock your tower down, or a disease creeps up on you, or you say or do something unforgivable. But that’s just me. How are you?

In the Evenings, I Really Start to Despair

I’ve noticed the last few nights, my anxiety and depression worsen at night…and don’t forget the paranoia. I think every overheard conversation is about me, that everyone around me dislikes me and are out to get me some way. I haven’t quite hit the delusional train yet, because I’m aware it’s at least partially untrue. All my fears are exacerbated by the knowledge I have no one to turn to now.

I’m afraid every phone call is going to be the death knell, that someone is going to tell me something awful that I won’t be able to bounce back from.

And I desperately want someone to love me, but it’s never going to happen.

Tilt-a-Hurl

This ride, man. She basically told me the other day she didn’t want anything to do with me and was only going to have people around who do something for her. Now she’s back, but I almost lost her again when we thought her car was being towed. She told me if her car ever gets towed from my apartment, that’s it.

And I think the fellow who was smitten with me no longer is. Before he ever actually met me in person. I’m trying to not get too upset. I would often wonder what it would be like to hang out at the beach , go to the movies with him, talk at length, and no longer be a virgin. Alas, it was not meant to be. He was likely my last chance too, but he rode off into the sunset while I’m consigned to the glue factory. Thank God it happened before I had a chance to truly fall for him. I can imagine what kind of basket case I’d be had I actually been in love. Considering what I go through every time I think my only friend has cut me off.

I sometimes think her dead boyfriend intercedes for me. I pray to him, or talk to him, and then she shows up. In life, he had tried to protect me. I am truly grateful that he was that fond of me. I think if I got felled by covid or ran over, he’d actually miss me if he wasn’t already dead.

No Use Crying Over Spilt…

I think on holidays I’d rather get obliviously drunk alone than be reminded that I’m a useless burden.

You’d think she’d realize after Oscar, that one holiday someone can be there and dead by the same time the next year. Especially these days.

I’m trying to not fall into a deep depression. I slept most of the last 24 hours trying to forget.

I knew I was fucked well before I ever got into her car.  “So help me, if you make me wait” was one of her Messenger missives (she had left her turkey in the oven, though).  And “you need to find a way to my house next holiday. It’s unfair to me.”

I got into the car feeling like a sack of shit, wishing I could run back into my home. She bitched about work, trying to poke little jabs at my dead mother in between, or at least that’s how it felt. She talked about how the psychiatric nurses around her weren’t real nurses. “Not talking about your mother, of course.”

“My mother only did psychiatric nursing some. Most of her nursing career was hospital and home health, ” I said flatly.

She also put down her co-workers who took frequent smoking breaks. “Smoking is just another addiction.  Wear a fucking patch.” I didn’t even try to go there on that  subject. Pick my battles, lads.

When we got to her house, she wanted me to do the stuffing from her father’s recipe. My anxiety swelled as I tried to decipher what parts she had already done. “Can you do it or not?” she asked in that  you retard sort of voice.

I somehow did it without fucking up too much, even though I was momentarily stumped at how to measure out a lb. and 3/4 of a lb. of  butter. For some reason, the cylinders in my brain didn’t register that measuring lbs. could be done  with a measuring cup too.

Dinner was uneventful, even pleasant as we talked about the song choices on the 90s Sirius radio station. I began to believe things might go OK.

Later, we started working on the kitchen, she putting food away and I rinsing and washing dishes. Some I loaded in the dishwasher, others I scrubbed by hand. When I had done, I began to walk away. That’s when I  heard her cry, “What is this?!”

There was water on the floor. “I must’ve splashed water out while washing,” I said.

“This is why people get mad,”  she said. “I  worked hard at this meal, trying to make the holidays special, and the least you could do is help clean up. I don’t know what’s wrong with you. I’m never doing this again if you can’t at least help clean up. Now I have  to drive you home too. “

I wiped the spilt water up and cried in the bathroom as I had done virtually every holiday there.

Splashing water on linoleum had never seemed like a big deal to me at my apartment. Invariably, I would splash water out and let it dry on its own. The pitfalls of lacking common sense, I guess.

By the time we got back to my home, she had calmed considerably and we were back on goodish terms. She stayed a couple hours and even helpede throw away my neighbors’ broke furniture. “Are you sure they won’t get mad?” I asked. An old computer chair that could barely stand at all and a chair made from an old recliner that the tarp padding blew away and could no longer be sat on.

This but the tarp blew away.

Card Carrying Cat Lady

I saw my friend today in person. It’s been a few weeks. I was so happy.

In the back of my mind, though, the thought keeps going through my head: It’s because of the cats. She wouldn’t touch you with a 10 ft pole otherwise. And she came here today for a reason too.

She’s ordered us cards in case the worst happens. They say we’re each other’s emergency contact and that we have cats home alone. It will be a comfort to have, even though it’s macabre, and forever eulogizes my contribution to this world if I get mowed down by a bus. Cat lady.

She bought the cards when she thought covid was in one of the facilities she works at. It turns out it was just skin strep. When she thought it was Wuhan Scourge, she didn’t want to see me in person. I told her I didn’t care ( I figured I could wear a mask and hope for the best).

She told me, SHE CARED. Who would take care of the cats if both of us got sick?

I almost think Bat Flu is inevitable now. It’ll probably kill my fat, middle aged ass too. If I think too hard on it, that it may be here for the long run, I feel a bit overwhelmed. I can’t stop going out, though. When I’m out in the world, even though I don’t really interact with people much, I feel human. I even feel more comfortable with my mask on indoors. Smiling makes me self-conscious. Social distancing is my preferred mode. I like people, but I’m almost certain they don’t like me.

She once told me the reason her now dead boyfriend would call me for comfort was solely to manipulate her. I’d like to think he genuinely needed me, he was crying and sounded desperate. Everyone seemingly has an angle.

Ruth Bader Ginsberg died. It feels like we’ve been foresaken.

Merry…Why Bother?

It wasn’t as bad as last year when she threatened to leave me alone in the dark in the middle of nowhere. Or the year before as she berated me for buying her something difficult to assemble to the point I was in tears.

It only recently came to me that she is a mean drunk, an epiphany. Alcohol was involved in bad Christmases.

This year, I was so grateful to be home.  An immediate depressive pall settled over me. Another year,  another failure.  If you can’t say anything right, don’t say much at all. Virtually anything set her off. She threatened to send me home in a cab one time for saying something about her being an ‘abrupt drinker.’ I couldn’t get a buzz because she kept bringing up times I vomited. One instance, the other must have been when I had food poisoning, but she remembers it as me drunk. It’s best not to argue. And still, I think I was somewhat spared because her boyfriend was there. No name calling happened and he wasn’t immune to her being a bitch either. She got mad at him for being loud in the kitchen as he strained plastic from a blended drink. Somehow a fake ice cube had got put in with real ice in the blender. Maybe next year will be better, but not likely.

I’m Really Scared

I don’t know why they haven’t sent out a message to renew my lease. My lease expired October 4th, and I’ve read state law prevents landlords from not renewing leases without 30 days notice BEFORE the lease expires. I’m still scared though, and what if they hike it up since last year’s hurricane destroyed cheaper apartments in the region.

They’re rolling out a new form of Medicaid, and one wrong choice could ruin my special assistance I get from Medicaid. I’d call my social worker, but I can’t stand that woman. I called Medicaid and they’re going to send me a form to stay on “direct Medicaid,” because I have “behavioral health issues.” ‘Behavioral Health’ sounds twice as bad to me as ‘mental health, but what do I know?

Then what really upsets me is I get roped in to watching my ‘friend’s’ 4 dogs for 2 weeks while she goes to Nova Scotia.She never bothered to tell me it would be 2 weeks instead of one, how much bus money she’s leaving me, who do I contact in emergency. I doubt unless she gets an international plan, I could contact her, and she doesn’t want me to sully her Facebook with my presence. So yeah, I get 2 weeks of Diverticulitis Poppy shitting up my friend’s house with her loose excrement everywhere and Dudley the smelly shitzu who won’t stop licking my face no matter how many times I push him away. The two other dogs are fine, as is her cat.

OK kids, here’s a helpful hint: If someone used to be your mental health nurse wants to be your friend later, she may be planning on using you. I should have known years ago when this first happened that it’s never my charming personality.

I can’t handle all of this at once. The uncertainty of everything.

Isolation

For all intents and purposes, I’m becoming a hermit cat lady. I’m trying to get out every day or so, go to the Y or a store. It keeps me from depression. I look for validation now online or from the people paid to endure me. My friend is tired of me, and in some ways, it’s a relief. I don’t have to hear about being brain damaged, or ‘retarded,’ or whatever else she comes up with. I don’t have to be derided for my actions. Besides, there’s still everyday people who will let me know they think I’m slow.

I was at Dollar General the other day. No one was at the counter, so I flipped open a National Enquirer and waited for someone to notice me. A guy came up behind me and he got the person to ring us up. I said something like “OK” to answer the cashier about something, and I hear him echo/mock me. As I’m leaving, I hear him still amused by me, saying, “You’ll never find a more patient customer.” Hardee har. Drop dead.