My right arm just below my shoulder is pulsating off and on as though it is a separate being. For some reason, the occasional twitches and pulsations of my body are fascinating to me. I think it’s my nerves. Every few seconds comes the twitch, which lasts for a few more seconds. The pulsing is so fast, I can’t count how many times it pulsates. What a thrill.
Sometimes it’s my right eye, rapid like a bird beating her wings. Then I must capture it in the mirror or with my camera, my own private freak show. Fortunately, this twitching happens infrequent enough to be amusing to me and even calming. Look I’m still alive! There’s my brain misfiring again.
Starting in high school, I noticed in my left palm a vein that I could watch pulsate if I rested my hand just so on my desk. This must’ve seemed like a swell parlor trick to me because covertly watching my vein pulse also calmed me.
I twitch my nose also, but this is voluntary. But I’m so used to doing it that it’s more I have to consciously stop myself from doing it. It’s like twiddling your thumbs, except it’s my freaking nose. I also move my mouth too. Match.com here I come!
Looking back upon the 41 years I’ve been on this planet, I generally see it as devoid of much useful to humanity. I imagine Clarence from It’s a Wonderful Life searching hard to find something redemptive about my life and sighing in the end, “Dammit, Georgina, go ahead and jump. I got nothing.”
But not as of last Friday. Last Friday, maybe, I could say I actually did something for someone that really helped her.
I was at my therapist’s office in the waiting room. There was a woman with a child and I get the feeling she isn’t the little girl’s mother. Two women come out into the waiting area and tells the child’s guardian that they want to interview them separately.
“Oh, yes, that’s definitely a good idea,” says the guardian, leaving the little girl without a look back. Flashback: Me. Seven years-old. Knowing when adults are talking negatively about me. I know this little girl knee that she is talked about. It must feel terrible.
The little girl sat on the floor playing with Legos as the other woman of the two who came out, sat down. She didn’t introduce herself, I noticed. Do children not need common courtesy?
“I’m going to ask you some questions, the 50ish woman said.
“OK,” replied the little girl.
I began to feel a certain sense of watching this unfold on a different plain from reality. This can’t really be happening in front of me.
“Does anyone yell or call people names in your household?”
“Yes,” said the little girl.
“Does anyone hit or beat you in your house?”
“Has anyone ever touched you inappropriately, like your private parts?”
“Has either of your parents gone to jail or been in prison?”
“Not that I know of. ”
Then my therapist came out to get me and the spell, my stupor of pure disbelief, was broken. As I walked back to my therapist’s office, the weight of what I heard hit me. I told my therapist everything I witnessed angrily. My therapist jumped up, and asked if I’d be OK if she went and put a stop to it right now.
“Yes, please do!”
There was a bit of apprehension within me knowing that the woman doing that child’s intake would know it was me totally narcing her out. But what could I do? No child would answer those questions with an audience there. What if she was being abused in some way? What if I had been someone with PTSD listening? ‘Triggered’ has become something laughable in our society, but there are people who truly would fall apart if they were unfortunate enough to hear what I did. I had to do something. There’s been times I should have said something to someone and I have to live with that. Luckily, I trusted my therapist, and could tell her what I witnessed.
It turns out that the woman didn’t work for the therapist’s office, but my therapist is going to follow up on her. Someone above that woman is going to hear how she violated that child’s rights. I hope she doesn’t lose her job, though she deserves to.
So, yeah. Maybe I made a difference to a vulnerable child. Maybe I of all people, actually helped someone.
In other news, March 24th was my ninth blogoversary. I’m a different human being than that person who started this blog. Anyway, thanks anyone reading this.
My neighbors are arguing again. I long for the days of Danny, boring 50-something year-old Danny. Huge, with no love interest to get into a fight with. These folks are young and loud. From their voices, I believe there’s 3 of them sharing a one bedroom, or at least, someone’s staying with them. The women have got into drag outs before and the one attached to the man, explodes at him. On New Year’s Day, there was an argument between two guys up there, and it sounded as though they would come through my ceiling.
I honestly wouldn’t care as long as they don’t kill each other, but for the miserable fact that I’m paranoid they will say something bad about me and I’ll overhear it. Yes, my head is indeed that much up my own ass. I’m sure being a stereotypical Caucasian cat lady gives them a few guffaws, but I live in perpetual fear that someone’s going to cause me trouble for feeding the stray cats. I’m so scared of losing agency over myself.
The horrible experience of living in that nursing home two months is something I haven’t gotten over. Some things are harder to build bridges over. My family and friends abandoning me, having to beg and throw money at my roommates to make them want to take me back, it just doesn’t go away. I need to transcribe in full my diary I kept when I was in the home. It might be amusing. I started to, and then stopped as my roommate situation grew more volatile -I got over that kind of, though it took me about 4 years to remove the one I cared deeply for off my Facebook friend list. Even though I knew he was evil, there was still a part of me that yearned for the good times. I missed him for so long. I was in love with him even though he was mega gay and had something. The period between February 10th through Easter reminds me of what happened during that time in 2012. I wish I didn’t spend my life obsessing that it will happen again.
I almost went to an OCD support group today, but I got on the wrong bus. I was almost relieved. You can’t be disliked if no one knows you’re alive. There’s a voice in my head, not an actual hallucination as it comes from me, that tells me “Everyone hates you. You won’t make any friends ever. You’re fat and ugly, and you have a shitty personality.” You know me, always big with the Daily Affirmations.
Even on social media: “People think you’re shit. You’re boring as fuck. Stop pretending you’ll ever amount to anything.” My mind,just gallons of charm. Even when I see neighbors: “They all hope you get evicted. They think you’re ‘special.’ Please step on a land mine.” Fun.
Anyway, in case you weren’t here in 2011, this is me reading posts about the death of my mother.
She’s my only friend who exists on this side of the screen and I don’t want to lose her. But about 3 days ago, she began ripping me to shreds again just as bad as she’s ever done. She stopped awhile when I was in a deep depression, but now it’s back in full swing just as I was crawling out of my hole. Everything that could possibly get to me:
My videos are moronic
I’m a ‘train wreck’
I’m neglectful of the strays
I’m just laying here miserable and worthless. I threw things, screamed, and just had a total meltdown alone. Then my fucking sorry POS self crawled into bed.
She can be so nice, but I know the slightest thing will set her off. For instance, New Year’s Eve. I forgot to tell her which Dollar General I was at because there are two near me. She made me wait two hours to pick me up in a sketchy area and berated the shit out of me while waiting. And when I’m that upset, I meltdown. The cashier at DG knew. She could see that I was bawling outside, loud anguishing sobs I could barely control. My friend came and had us eat at a restaurant there that she knows I don’t like to go to because the manager thinks I’m trash. I really wonder if I have autism because I totally lose my shit sometimes loudly. My therapist doesn’t think so because I crave relationships with other people.
It’s the Dependent Personality Disorder part of me that will take her shit and not lash out back for fear of being completely alone. I don’t want anyone living with me or making my decisions for me unless I ask, but I don’t want to be alone either. I’d have no one. Honestly, if she lost me, she’d be pretty much alone, too.
She says I have no ambition, but in my heart of hearts, I want to write a blog and articles that people read. I want to become known on YouTube and actually be liked for being a “train wreck,” i.e being myself. I want to feel loved. I want to matter just enough to be worth my skin. I want to help someone.
Oh, and if that wasn’t enough, I got a short form disability review. I’m always afraid of losing my benefits, becoming homeless, and dying in an alley. So, I need to call my therapist first thing Monday. I think I need a squeeze in.
Back in 2012, I was in a mental hospital. I guess things could be worse.
Thestrangest thing happened to me on the way to the shrink. I think my Lyft driver is related to me through marriage.
I was running late, like super late. It was 12:30, and I was supposed to be at the shrink’s at 12:30. I took too long in the bath. I called the shrink’s office, the anxiety in my voice making my already child-like voice pitch up three times higher. I told the receptionist I was running late, was on my way, and I’d be there in 10 minutes. Please don’t hate me. Please don’t hate me, kept going through my head.
I usually take Uber when in need of a cab, because it’s cheaper. This day, however, Lyft ran a special, so I ordered a Lyft.
My Lyft driver was really nice. I could tell straight off he was gay, as there was a slight lilt in his southern accent (don’t be mad I said that, OK?). He knew exactly where we were going, too, Shrinks ‘R Us. He’s been here before, that voice in my head said.
“Which way do you want to go to get there, because that road goes straight there,” he asked.
“Whichever way you think is best, sir.”
He was an affable guy, and we did the usual cab conversation in our short drive. I asked him how long had he been driving for Lyft.
“Two years. I got laid off from my job, but I just finished my degree, so hopefully that will be able to get a job in that.”
I asked him how long he lived here and he told me he was originally from Boone, but had lived here for 11 years.
“Boone?” I said, excited. “I was born in Boone!” That started the conversation. I told him how my family hailed from a little area on the state line, an area only people from that area in the NC mountains know. He knew exactly where I was talking about. Exactly.
So, I told him every family name I knew about. It turns out his family may be related to mine by marriage. My second cousin Diane married someone with his surname. It may have been one of his father’s 15 siblings. I’m not joking.
I told him I only lived there for the first two and a half years of my life. Mom wanted out. “Everyone talked about everyone there and were very judgmental,” I said.
“That’s the truth,” he said.
I was sad when the ride ended. Here I am, Lisa, who sometimes almost forgets she’s a member of the human race, sitting in a car with someone linked to my family. It was positively surreal. I took a good look at him before I left, which is different for me, as I rarely look at people.
I haven’t seen a relative since my mother died in 2011. I didn’t tell him that my family disowned me. Maybe it was my mom, and then by default, me, they tossed in the garbage. They knew I was different, and didn’t want to be saddled with me, too.
When I got home from Shrinks ‘R Us, I looked up my kinsman on Facebook. Fortunately for me, his Facebook is open. My assumptions were right and then some. Yes, he is gay. Yes, he no doubt has been to Shrinks ‘R Us, because he’s severely depressed. I wish I could friend him, but I won’t because that would be super creepy of me.
I wonder if his family disowned him too. It is highly likely, if they’re like the remaining members of my side of the family. ‘Gay’ would be up there in unpardonables. Next to being a democrat and interracial marriage. I wish there was something I could do for him.
Recently, I got a new nurse practitioner for my psych meds. She seems nice enough: mid-fifties, doesn’t seem burned out, doesn’t feel it necessary to speak to me as though I were a dim-witted 10 year-old, so I like her just fine. Julie has some experience with OCD sufferers according to her blurb on Google, and she seized on the fact that I was still sub par. Always anxious and paranoid of everyone in my neighborhood, I’m just a regular Ms. Congeniality. She wanted to try me on Risperdal or Zyprexa, and decided on the former.
when I finally had the courage (and my $3.00 Medicaid co-pay) to try it, I looked upon the tiny brick-red pills with a mixture of trepidation and psycho hope. This could be my missing link to making life worth living! Maybe I can be normal now or fake it. Maybe I can stop hating myself and having ideation pop into my head.
The risperdal has helped some. I feel less terrified around my neighbors. I think a medication would have to put me in a coma, however, to stop me from checking the front door for an angry missive or an eviction notice twice a day. I still feel like I could lose everyone and everything I love in an instant. Everyone I love dead in a pile like Hamlet.
Sometimes my depression just slaps me when I least expect it. Sometimes I regurgitate everything in my head. I hate being a sub-standard person. I sometimes feel like festering trash of the
Bleeping September, but I’m still here, and as charming as ever. Today is the 5th anniversary of me moving in here. Just me, my mom’s ashes in a plastic box, and a laundry basket with what the fellows allowed me to have. The rest was either confiscated or in my storage unit. Oh how exciting it was to me that at 34 I was finally on my own. No one to threaten and lord over me anymore. When you had been through all I had in the expanse of one year being alone completely lost its sting. I missed my ex-roommate for a long time, but he and his drag queen boyfriend had become menacing monsters to me.
As of the 13th, it’s been six years since my mom died of sepsis. There’s so much I want to tell her, but I am happy to be on my own as much as I loved her. I really want to tell her about Donald Trump, about everything that’s happened. She wouldn’t believe me.
This December, I will be turning 40. One of the things I regret most in the world, besides being an asshole, is not jumping at the opportunity to land on the dick of my former elementary school crush. At least I wouldn’t be the dreaded 40 year-old virgin then. The only other people who’ve asked for some were pervs that one couldn’t be sure wouldn’t kill me. Thus is my fate for being ugly and shy. It’s truly a shame, because I think given the opportunity, I could’ve been adventurous, and I’ll leave it at that.
My therapist gave me the news that her entire office will be shutting down, and that they don’t even know why. I’m going to hold out for a while before I look for replacements for my therapist and shrink in the hopes that they will find another situation. It has nearly taken 3 years for me truly to start trusting Pepper. I am not big on change and I know it will be hard to set up a rapport with someone new.
It didn’t take any act of congress this year to get my new lease signed. This is really a funny thing because my neighbor across the street had me convinced that management was conspiring to get me. People allegedly think I have 16 cats and that either the cats or me had to go. I feed several strays in my neighborhood, so that is likely how it all started. But , I surely believed my neighbor, especially since the kids of the ‘hood kept picking on “Cat Lady.” I suppose I should have found her suspect when she postulated that someone swimming in the ocean had caused the mold stains on the pool, that it was actually salt water algae. First of all, can salt water algae live in freshwater, let alone chlorinated water? Truly rumors suck, and I must remember not to believe that dotard across the way (thanks, Kim Jong Un). My mind always conjures up scenes of being homeless or in a home. People don’t get how obsessed I am with that, and they can’t understand unless they have been through something similar.
Everything is going along awesomely adequate. I’m avoiding the elementary school bastards who keep calling me “Cat Lady” by going to my apartment pool earlier in the day. I’m swimming everyday, and while I doubt I’m losing much weight, maybe it will tack on a week or two to my life. I’ve gone to the beach a couple of times and the impressive community pool when our pool wasn’t open. I finally got a reduced bus pass, so that I can go more places and live more life in our redneck paradise. I dread autumn, but hopefully I will get a membership at the YWCA for the winter. I cooked out for the second time in my life and didn’t burn down the joint, so I’d say that was a win too.
On a sadder note, I lost my Dondee. His health began to go downhill around March and July 5th his heart just stopped. He didn’t even have time to hide and he had been acting as normal as his “new normal” was. He was the closest to my mother and the sweetest cat I ever knew or will ever know. He is buried next to his brother, Phillippe who I lost in May of last year. Both were around age 15.
I still wonder if all my neighbors and management have it out for me. They might, or they might not, but then again they might. That is my number one obsession now. My second major obsession if you don’t count fear of angering everyone, is what is happening in Washington, DC. I’m afraid the other shoe will drop faster than you can say, “McCain is a douchebag.” I imagine block granted Medicaid, cuts to disability, being homeless and unprepared for life without the dole. I’m being honest. I don’t know if I could hold down a job with my problems, or if I’ll crash and burn.
Speaking of problems and buses, waiting for the bus one day downtown, I met a man with schizophrenia. He asked me when his bus would come and proceeded to tell me he’d just got out of prison after 22 years for killing a man and that Jesus killed people all the time. I wasn’t really scared of him, though I bet he could have been telling the truth about being locked up. Who knows. I was glad when we went our separate ways.
Hope you’re having a great summer or winter wherever you are!
I like to blame my mother for my personality disorder. She’s dead, so she won’t take it personally; besides, it’s traditional in psychiatry. My father, the drunken spermatozoa, no doubt helped, but I never met him. His absence gives him a free pass, and he is also dead. I suppose I could blame God for making me of a species that desires companionship. The fact that I’m human sometimes makes it hard to distinguish the blur between pathology and normalcy.
If you turn back time to the 2010-2011 me documented on this blog, my life and strife was my mother. I wish she were still with me. I miss her unconditional love very much. There are no substitutions. Everyone else pales in comparison. BUT. She didn’t prepare me for this world. Maybe it was that I was her only child, but she insisted on doing everything for me, and if she didn’t, I probably asked her to do it for me. Maybe it was the two years I completely isolated myself from people my own age, ages 13-15, and I just never caught back up socially.
What’s the point of this post? Besides killing time waiting for the maintenance guy to put some freon in my air conditioner, I guess it’s just to say that I’m miserable, and thought I’d bring everyone along for the kill-joy ride. My main problem, besides it being 85 degrees in my apartment, is my fear of my friend abandoning me. I got really upset over the weekend, she berated me, which made everything far worse, so I stayed in be for a couple of days. I fed the strays by my house, but I didn’t feed the strays by a doctor’s office.. I think those cats get fed everyday, or virtually everyday by the doctor, but it was still bad of me not to go. She won’t forgive me and I feel lost without her. I just feel terrible and weepy. I feel like life is hopeless without her, and that’s probably my personality disorder. We talked all the time and she’s virtually withdrawn from me. It’s driving me crazy like when my ex-roommate (ca. 2012, for those of you following along at home) would give me the cold shoulder.