Fires, Death, Renewal

A new year and per usual, I’m filled with the perpetual optimism of existential dread.

Will this be the year I die alone, unloved, unneeded, forgotten?

Will my best friend die and leave me alone? Her kidneys appear to be failing along with the sarcoidosis.

Will I become homeless from a fire or being thrown out?

They offered a renewal. This year they’re only going to raise my rent by 100.00. I know I’ve been extremely fortunate, always finding a soft place to land in the end after my mother’s death, but when will my number be up and I will truly suffer?

While I feel that I was cursed from the moment of conception, having a brain that is mostly useless and a body and voice that further underscore the uselessness of my brain, I have actually been blessed compared to so many others.

There was another fire, but this one was in a house in the next neighborhood. Cops everywhere. I walked to see. I never actually got close enough to see anything, but the smells morphed depending where you were. In one place, it was smoke. In another direction, a noxious smell, but nearest the fire the almost pleasant smell of pine.

I’m so scared of it happening to me. It seems I’ve seen so many fires in my life and yet it hasn’t been me yet. While I have insurance, I’m still scared of everything going up, of never being safe again. The rare times I’m not home, I want to leave a window open just in case for my cats to get out.

I’ve seen a couple of fires started by grills, including one here. My old apartment went up a couple years after I moved, talk about dodging a bullet. If we had still been living there what would’ve happened to us? I think that was old wiring, which I imagine is what will happen here if it ever happens. Then there was that homeless guy who blew himself up with his kerosene heater. Or the time I came back from the drugstore and the building across from me was going up and threatened to take my apartment. There but for the grace of God.

Anyway, here’s to 2024!

12 Years Later

There’s a message on my Facebook messenger from a woman named Allison. I open it expecting it to be someone wanting me to join an MLM or enter a sweepstakes. No. It’s my cousin, Allison. I haven’t seen her since she was 3 years-old and I was 14. The Allison I remembered was a little girl with dark hair that naturally curled at the ends like a living porcelain doll. This Allison was still pretty, but had a ring in her nose and tattoos. She must’ve had a wild streak at some point before settling down and having children.

Cousin Diane, her grandmother, must not have forgotten me after all, though why remember me now, 12 years after my mother’s death. Fear and foreboding filled me. The ever present fear of rejection, of being the other, coupled with the possibility that this is an omen portending my own death assailed me. Or the death of K.

If I were a more optimistic person, I would see this as an answer to a prayer I wasn’t quite aware I murmured, the one where I ask God who will care if I die tomorrow? Who will even notice let alone be sorry that I no longer breathe, particularly if K. precedes me, which her body seems to be trying to do?

But apparently I’m not as forgettable as I thought.

“Are you Patsy’s daughter? Was Zoulean and Dock your grandparents?”

I read the message bewildered. Not forgotten. Not completely and totally disowned. Sure, it took 12 years, but who’s counting.

But I can’t help remembering. Finding Charles’ number written in my deceased grandmother’s writing on the back of a phone book. Calling and him pretending my mother was no relative of his. “Oh that’s too bad,” says Charles, saccharine oozing from his pores.

I vacillate between blaming him and understanding. Who would want to own me, the mentally defective daughter of the woman who basically abandoned her extended family. He was probably afraid I’d beg for help as I could no longer afford our apartment and my mother lay dead in the hospital morgue.

Thinking back to that time always makes me have to re-orient myself, remind myself that I’m safe. It’s 12 years later. The guys I lived with are 2 states away, that rest home I lived in for 2 months is shuttered, and I’m here in my own apartment safe.

And now after 12 years I once again have a family, sort of. If only I wasn’t too scared to message them.

They’ll hate you. No one really wants you. Charles was right.

My internal narrator is always there.

This is an omen. You’re going to die.

K.’s going to die. You’re going to be all alone.

You’re going to be homeless. They’re going to put you away.

There’s a patch of black mold growing out in the public hallway. I only noticed it going up the stairs to respond to my neighbors’ note asking to use the Wi-Fi. Theirs’ got cut off. I told them to use it forever if they were so inclined ( I mean until whatever kills me happens. At least I won’t croak without having been of use to somebody).

I survey the damage. All up a wall and wrapping over a neighbor’s door. It looks like either the roof or a pipe has sprung a hole in our ‘luxury’ apartment building built in 1970. Is this the end?

So far, they have someone looking at the mold. ‘Yup, it’s mold.’ It seems the complex is more concerned about renovating the recently vacated apartment. But how can they rent it out with a giant mold garden right above the door?

A Horror Story

How do you tell a story without telling a story? How do you tell of a horror brought forth from a part of the body you would rather people believe you did not possess, and that you take pains to prevent any acknowledgement of said part. It is the orifice likened to an opinion; as in we all have said orifices just as we all have opinions.

My OCD has a particular aversion for that part, but particularly anything that emits from that part.

I must tell you of my agony without telling you, and for that we will hope for a literary grace I can only hope I possess.

I took I’ll a few days ago, one of those transient stomach illnesses gone within 24 hrs that leave you wondering why. But, oh, when she besieged me this time, naught could prevent the fury or give me a sense of which part of my intestinal track would give me the most distress. Soon, I realized I would not be spared and hung my face reluctantly over the bathtub hoping sitting would prevent any other disaster from occuring. Alas, I misaimed, that is the necessary area did not aim correctly.

That’s about as graphic as I dare write. Imagine though, if you will, carnage of a similar scope to an explosion. The sort naught but Clorox and a prodigious amount of paper towels could abate. Nature’s exposure and response therapy for an aversion I was perfectly fine in keeping and will maintain, no doubt.

Valentine’s Day

For Valentine’s Day, my despair was kept at bay by pepper steak with onions, hot and sour soup, and wonton/ egg drop combo soup. K bought it for me through Uber Eats after my present for her came. I think she might have anyway, but either way, I was happy.

Later in the evening, I made a call to Mr. Semi-Attached, but we were having difficulties on Whatsapp. I told him to call on Discord if he wanted, but he was busy. He asked me what I wanted. “Just to say Happy Valentine’s,” I texted. No reply. OK. Let it be said, he’s got the social graces of Attila the Hun. If he ever does come down here, he’ll find someone to fuck if not me. The joys of polyamory, I guess. Me, I just want to see what I’ve been missing out on these 45 years. What I missed out on when I freaked out on my would be ‘fuck buddy’ when I was 33. Though the idea of being basically someone’s cumsock sent me into despair back then.

I can imagine how it would be. My old school chum/ fuck buddy would’ve got me undressed, I’d have been too ashamed of my bulbous body and shy to let myself feel much excitement, he’d bust his nut, and I’d avert my eyes until it was over. I remember feeling nothing but surprise when I suddenly found his tongue trying to get in my mouth and feeling distress when he said he’d like to add me to his fuck buddies, of which he had a few. But I knew then at 33 that it might be my only chance to cross The Thing off my bucket list. Maybe me freaking out was a divine intervention. My old school chum swooped down a couple months after my mom’s death, vulnerability being such a turn on I guess. I wonder had I had him in my bush, would he have looked out for me? Would I have felt such desperation 3 months later when I had enough, comically in February and made my half ass attempt? Considering he’s never so much as said hello in the last 11 years, I guess I got my answer.

My friend who might be coming in the summer is much nicer. I love him, but I don’t love him. This is the best way unless some magical meeting of the minds occurs and my extremely guarded, avoidant heart opens up. But I think he actually loves me a little.

I keep thinking what I’m missing out on, and it’s much more than my sex drive which I’ve felt more of late. Cock would be nice, but I yearn for so much more. I want someone who could see through my hideous exterior and love me for being me. I would love someone who got my shitty sense of humor, but also wanted to have lengthy serious discussions with me and who wouldn’t see me as an idiot. Someone well-read and patient and who’d see me as ‘special’ in the good way.

The older I get, the more convinced that I’m such an anomaly that there isn’t anyone, and if there was someone, I wouldn’t be able to walk up to him. One thing I often felt with my memer friend was what if we had a serious conversation once, a lengthy one, in which he didn’t lie? While it wouldn’t have changed our relationship as friends much and he’d certainly see me as intellectually deficient , seeing as he has at least 50 IQ points over me, it would’ve been interesting. I think one of the reasons I can talk to him somewhat less shyly than others, is that I already know exactly what he thinks about me. I know he thinks I’m an idiot, a welfare leech, and not worthy of life. Somehow, knowing this makes it easier to talk to him. I can’t fall much lower in his estimation and it’s somewhat freeing. As much as it pains me to hear about my faults and how that ‘everyone is laughing at you’ and about my lack of likeability, it is refreshing. I think everyone at least finds me annoying and dumb, but the uncertainty is the killer, isn’t it?

Shit, my ear is ringing louder than usual. Maybe it’s how I’m angled. I always worry one day my tinnitus will get worse.

That’s it, that’s all I wanted to say as I feel my mood plummeting and damp in my eyes.

Scared of Phone, Mail, and Knocks on the Door

I’m scared of checking my voicemail, my email, and my mailbox. I only feel active at night. I feel like bad news will be there. Today I checked my voicemail and there was a message from my social worker to call her back today. I imagine all sorts of scenarios she could harass me for. My apartment was a mess a couple weeks ago when my aid took me to the store. I was hoping since it was just once after weeks of no service that she’d let it slide. I’ve been trying to get everything in tip top shape by next time the aid comes. What if the aid saw a full bottle of liquor ( which still is not open,and I’ve had it since my birthday). Are they that paternalistic? What about anything and everything that I haven’t said to her?Maybe she found out I’m delinquent on one of my bills.

Today, I helped a guy bring his 3 boxes of Coke to his apartment and up his stairway. He had dropped one box and shouted angrily at it, ” YOU FUCKING FAGGOT! REALLY YOU ARE.”

Great, another psyche case, I thought to myself. And while I’m throwing shade in my head, I’m debating in my head if I should help him.

But I’ll have to talk to him, my mind cautioned.

But he’ll think you’re an asshole if you don’t help him, I remonstrated . Fear of being an asshole won, and plenty of people have helped me in the past in similar situations. It’s not that I didn’t want to help him, but the fear of talking to someone is ingrained in me.

He asked me my name and whether I worked at the nearby hospital. I gave him my name, answered no without elaboration ( which might be rude. I didn’t ask him his job just in case he was on disability too. He certainly looked the part, she of the many holes shirt, thought. I just really like my Cat in the Hat shirt, it’s comfy around the house, etc. I wasn’t aware I was about to fraternize with my neighbors.

Well, shit…

I privated a bunch of posts, but found this in my comments waiting for approval. I googled her name, and if she really is a therapist, she might not wish to come on as strongly as this. I’ve only had 3 critical comments in 12 years, no doubt because my blog is not widely read, but when they come, they hit. This isn’t the worst one. The worst was when someone said “I pity the people around you.” But this one, oh my… Maybe I am selfish and so off I don’t realize what a bitch I actually am. I really need to double down on trying to be selfless and try not to let my emotions get the better. If it is any consolation to anyone, I do dwell on my mistakes, and they repeat multiple times in my head. My mind could be far from my foibles, and suddenly, bam. I think this person was trying to be helpful, and yes, the person who said I might be a covert narcissist, is also herself mentally unstable, but… She’s not a narcissist, though, so she has that going for her!

Mail Call

I wanted to get my mail today. I only check every week or two, because no news is good news, right?

It isn’t just the mail. I feel a certain existential dread when checking my voicemail. I think of all the bad  scenarios that someone could leave on voicemail. Something  with my apartment complex or my social worker.

I’ve taken to  checking my front door twice a day for something from the apartment complex. I know my neighbors must hear me open the door and quickly shut it again. They must either think I’m the nosiest bitch in the world or that I’m totally nuts. Knowing that one of the maintenance guys now lives across the hall exacerbates everything. He tries to be nice when we see each other, and I try to reciprocate to the best of my ability, which ain’t so great. Looking in someone’s eyes is like looking directly at the sun. Smiling makes me self-conscious because I feel like my lips clamp together paralyzed, and knowing my teeth are ground down from years of bruxism, I just can’t. I imagine my neighbors think I’m autistic, slow, and may know I’m a cat lady.

But yes, I went to get my mail…and my mail key wasn’t on my fob. Panic set in. I will have to go to the office on Monday. First, I’ll ask if anyone turned in a key, and then, heaven forbid, ask for another. Logically, I know I shouldn’t feel like the world is about to end when I have to venture there for something, but I see those times as dangerous. Potential questions asked, complaints foisted on me, as though reminding them of my presence is enough to make me homeless. I got a note from my shrink with some shit about my friend needing to park by my building in order to help me about a month ago. I have yet to turn in said note, the wages of playing the tard card so my friend wouldn’t have to walk a long distance from the dark visitors’ parking lot and potentially get her car broke into at night. Maybe I’ll have the courage to give it to the assistant manager to keep that vulture towing guy off her car. Wish me luck!

Paranoid much?

Well, I think I’ve finally done it. Scaled the heights of neurosis and about to go to full blown psychotic. Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration…;But only just slightly. My mind keeps flipping channels to see where my anxiety will land. It’s about time to sign a new lease, and per usual, I’m imagining them saying, “we’ve had complaints…we don’t want you.” Then my social worker tried to do some sort of unannounced visit, and I keep wondering why. Instead of asking her, I imagine she’s trying to take me off the program that allows me to be able to live here. But now my mind is convinced I still have bed bugs (it could be fleas, or hives, or disease…and I’d take all of the above before bed bugs). Every year, I think I see a nymph. Last year, I thought I saw a nymph in some apple cider vinegar I sat out to catch gnats. This year I thought I saw one in some dirty laundry as I was about to load the washing machine, but convinced myself it was a a spider, Something is going on with my skin. My back especially, but everywhere is itchy, and delusional parasitosis has come back. Sometimes it feels so real and nothing there (Bed bugs are so light, you probably wouldn’t feel one crawling on you, but my mind is fucking with me). I saw bubbles in my urine today. Take heart, Lisa, I said to myself. Maybe it’s just your kidneys are failing. Or maybe it’s covid, or maybe it’s both.

Part of me can logically trace back every fear to past trauma. Fear of homelessness, fear of being put in a home, fear of losing everyone and everything. I don’t think it will ever end, If I live to grow old, which I kinda doubt since I’m 235 lbs and covid is popping off fatties left and right, I’ll still be paranoid.

Afraid

I had to call maintenance to come fix my air conditioner. Per usual, I’m terrified. What if my apartment isn’t up to par or it smells bad? What if my bedroom door opens?

My worst fear is losing my home, but summer can be extremely brutal without air conditioning. They just put new HVACs in a couple years ago. What if they blame me for it going bad?

Everyday, sometimes twice a day, I look on my door for a note from management or worse. It’s an obsession of mine. I forgot to check the hallway for the odor of marijuana, so what if my tolerant neighbors get evicted and someone who will tell on me for every little thing replaces them?

The Narc

My upstairs neighbors have lived up in their apartment a few years. Aside from the occasional fuckfest, where it sounds like they’re coming through the ceiling, and the scent of shitty skunk weed permeating through the entire building everyday, they’ve been model tenants.

Well, someone snitched. I expect it was the new white couple across the hall. There’s something about them. They look snotty, snobby, maybe northern (sorry). I can’t quite describe it. While they look far from cultured, they look like the creme de la creme of white trash Brahmins. I could be wrong. I look, act, and sound intellectually disabled, so people judge accordingly. I should be the first to know there are hidden unseen layers to people.

We all got a letter on our doors. ” If the smoking continues, we will do unannounced inspections and will terminate the lease and file eviction papers.” Paraphrasing.

I’m immensely paranoid that I still smell pot, that management will come and throw me out too for other reasons. If they try to come in on me, I will cite the lease that says reasonable time must be given, that I’m not the one, and that I want my worker to be here if they come in. Lord, give me strength.

I will be afraid every time I go out now that they’re coming in. My worker took me to the store today, and when I came home, my cats were hiding. This made me suspicious that they’d been there. I checked my door at 5pm as I do everyday, paranoid I’ll find something saying they’re getting rid of me. It’s a constant obsession with me. Occasionally, I check more than once. Now that there’s a snitch, how long will it be before they start complaining about me too? I’d never find another apartment. My friend might take me in, but I’d be at her mercy. Considering she called me a lazy retard the other day for mopping my kitchen with pure bleach and then feeling respiratory issues, it would be best not to be with her all the time.