Smokey Blue.

An accumulation of grotesque emotions, throttling anxieties, and darkening expectations has built up inside of me over the period of time in between now and the day in early December that my Mama was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

The earliest days of her treatment were nightmarish; the febrile pneumonia, C-Diff and drop in her blood oxygen level that nearly killed her and kept in the hospital under intensive care over the off and on over the holiday season of the 2016-2017 threshold was an experience that left me in motional shock. My initial intentions of being a staunch ally to my mom were tested and tried (and continue to be worked hard on a daily basis).

An emotional earthquake and subsequent spiritual tsunami have occurred in my soul and mind and heart throughout the best and worst of the newly defined existence shared between her and me, leaving perpetual aftershocks and a flooded wasteland in its wake. The inside of my own eyelids seem unrecognizable to me these days, so hideously changed has the world become since the diagnosis. I am 110% detached from my attachments, withdrawn and withered into a defensive ball colored dark blue to mirror my soul.

I am living inside of a new loop right now:

I long to spend as much time with my mom while I have the chance;

yet, she is so broken down and different from the default mom I still somehow envision and recall, that spending time with her is not pleasant and/or fulfilling in the ways I seek out;

This fact makes me feel guilty and awful, so I typically spend time with her whether it helps or hurts my own state of being, which causes the visits to be those of a highly forgettable, even regrettable strain.

The moments passing by feel like torturous slashes and slices; the time feels as if it is laughing in my face. I know that after she is gone, I will hate myself for all of the things I am doing wrong or not doing at all with/for her; I know that I am letting too many opportunities slip by, but I am can’t do any differently than what I am doing. I don’t have any control over her illness, I couldn’t keep her from starting to smoke again either – which has also become huge tension between us, as it symbolizes things to me that she seem blind to.

I don’t have the heart to tell her that going anywhere with her has become something that my anxiety ridden, ADHD, PTSD brain has to build up to being to do because it is always SUCH an ordeal to go ANYWHERE. And anywhere we do get to, we are unfailingly in the way because of an absolutely and obnoxiously un-foldable walker thing with a seat and handbrakes. She has become resentful towards my aunt and uncle (who have been beyond good to her and taken her into their home immediate family, and daily life. Nothing she does is enjoyable to her for the most part; she told me over the phone the other day that she is ready to die.

This statement hurt me deeply, though I didn’t say anything to that affect. The gist was that despite the grueling and miserable months that I have sacrificed to my mom, and regardless of how many things I hold back and suck up in attempt to ease her reality, she still feels alone and burdensome enough to disregard the miracle of her ongoing existence at present (if that makes any sense).

 

 

He Versus I.

Had I not already been neck-deep in the execution of self-sabotaging the thing between me and a particular (possibly) impossible person whom I have been trying to let “court” me, when he opted to get pissed off at me (for the very first time) and wrap yesterday up by dumping me, another Valentine’s Day might have become memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Luckily (and I say luckily with a heavy and exaggerated roll of my eyes), I was well into that familiar, contradictory and counter-productive pattern of “seek-build-destroy” when it all happened – so I wasn’t too heartbroken.

I expect such things anyway, Hell, I create them. I tried to tell this one from the start, too – how we seemed to represent like, Polar Opposites at the end of the day. We have very little in common besides work (yes, we work together) and physical attraction. He literally left me with my mouth hanging open when he asked me to go out with him because I had previously imagined him as a total yuppie that travels for fun (he’s very worldly) with season tickets to the Warriors or whatever. Like many men from “the clean side of the tracks”, he was intrigued by my roughened edges, I suppose.  When I told him that I thought we had nothing in common with each other, he said something like,

“Just let me surprise you on that score.”

A surprise that I am still waiting for…

 

He:

is too normal (he reads the newspaper and drives an SUV)…too well-maintained by scheduled workouts and personal tailors…too condescending without meaning to be…too hopeful and focused on The Big Picture.

I:

am so fucked up in the head that I can’t get close to anyone (the more I want to, the harder it gets to actually let happen)…too unbalanced and paranoid by a lack of human interaction…too defensive without meaning to be…too traumatized to exist outside of One Moment At A Time.

Tears.

 

I’m crying a lot again lately…the Holidays, I assume…

the point of my post is not to gain pity from anyone reading this, it’s simply an observation that I’ve made over the past week about my own tears and the way that they seem to work.

I blew my nose this morning after a disgusting sneezing/coughing fit (yes, I have the creep and bronchitis still…), and was somehow given the cursedly magical flashback of a time during Boo’s earliest years alive – she was probably around 3 or so; she inherited her mother’s schedule-bending allergies, and I flashed upon the time she was learning how to blow her nose. I was overcome by the memory of holding a wad of tissues to her little button nose and directing her to blow from her “booger holes” as hard as she could – and the experience that followed my instruction – the one in which I learned how well my only child can mimic me; she blew with all her might into the tissues and never had a runny nose again, to my recollection. People always used to trip out about the way my toddler regularly retrieved a tissue and blew her little faucet nose, without being told to do so.

She was such a miniature adult, always….

I cried for about an hour after I finished blowing my nose.

 

Next, were the stupid Candy Corn Rocks in the box of Halloween decorations that I begrudgingly pulled out at my roommate’s out-of-character request (wtf???)

The year before she left my life, Boo and I painted some river rocks that we had started collecting right after I came home from the hospital; the collection had grown over the handful of years, and we spent a lot of time and attention on finding rocks that were specifically reminiscent of Candy Corns, because when we started out with it, she was too young to differentiate shapes very well and it was one she could easily identify. It had been her random idea to paint them in time for what would become our very last Halloween at home together. When I see them, I feel both endearment and bitterness; one of my hands wants to throw each rock as far away from me as I can manage; the other hand wants to somehow wrap each one up and protect it from anything and everything because it’s Boo.

Not-So-Spontaneous Combustion

 

Today I have felt like the biggest failure of a mother possible…because I’ve been reflecting on the continual tragedies that have plagued my experience of motherhood…

I have been going through the archives of my daughter and I’s life together (and apart) and trying in vain (the only thing that I know to do) to make sense of such senselessness; to reason with the unreasonable. I feel resigned to the permanence of desperation and devastation today – I haven’t felt resigned for a while – not to this reality, at least. Accepting a reality of the life and future existence belonging to somebody other than me doesn’t feel at all “right”.

I’m somebody’s Mom…

but I’m no longer a Mom to anyone…

so I walk around feeling half-ass finished with my tasks each and every day – I can’t braid my daughter’s hair or paint her nails; I can’t buy her clothes and shoes that fit her comfortably (with a little room to grow into); I can’t cook her a meal or go through her phone – I can’t be her Mom because she’s out there being something meaningless to some heartless, shameless and most likely dangerous grown man who is just as likely to end her life when he’s finished with her, as he is to drop her off naked and shivering in the rain at a public bus-stop, in a state of sleep-deprived confusion and drug-induced delirium.

These are the types of people with whom she repeatedly chooses to keep the company of – as opposed to a warm, safe, consistent and nurturing – even semi-normal – life with me.

So, I live in a mind-fuck paradox in the land of Cause and Effect – when it comes to my kid and my mental stability (or lack, thereof)…

When she is around and accounted for, I can move mountains if I need to; when Boo is safe (no matter how pissed off she may be about having to be), I am able to be more productive and to maintain momentum like I swallowed a bottle Dexedrine, just begging someone to step up and take a shot at the Title, to try and slow me down.

But when Boo is missing; when my heart is out there walking around outside of my body in places unacceptable to me, I am virtually paralyzed and non-functional in general. It is impossible for me to carry on with day to day shit like everything’s ok, when it’s about as far from ok as it could fucking be… I’m a train wreck – no clarity, no security, no direction – on the verge of not-so-spontaneous combustion.

 

 

Nice People Swallow.

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While I’ve always loved the epic bumper sticker that was super popular during my senior year of high school and has remained so since: MEAN PEOPLE SUCK, I’ve grown to see the other side to this statement over time and experience.

My love for this particular bumper sticker stems from the fundamental fact that I am NOT, by all intents and purposes, a MEAN person; on the contrary, I am very much of the big-hearted, detrimentally intuitive clan of human beings. 

So I wanted to take a few moments today, in light of the personal struggle that I continue to endure through Motherhood and its own twist on an all-too-literal Living Hell, to give acknowledgement to all of the other people out there similar to myself – the “nice” people of the world, through my own rant on the topic of MEAN VS NICE.

Because sometimes, as a non-mean-spirited person in this collectively cut-throat environment, it’s blaringly difficult to fathom anything besides the inevitable die-off of the “good”; as a person who truly doesn’t find any type of joy or self-worth through the torment of others, and never could; as someone who just simply wasn’t built in the ways required to be a back-stabbing, two-faced and shallow individual – “life”, at times, becomes quite obfuscated by its own right.

Mean people do, by all right, suck miserably and as if their own mean-spirited lives depend upon it; nice people, however – NICE PEOPLE SWALLOW. We get to live with the crap left behind by the mean person’s good time. Just sayin’…

Vicarious Sanity

I think that I am slowly going insane – or something like it – day by day.
I say this because things have gotten fuzzy around the once sharp edges of life for me; details of each day that would’ve once mattered are unimportant and irrelevant to my moments now;

and that is what I live inside of these days, are moments.

Just moments at a time because that’s about all the sanity I have left to deal with my reality as it stands…which is an exceptionally unpleasant place.

If I allow myself to be the Me that I have always been – well, more like used to be – I will default to a bigger picture…planning ahead…the maintenance of control over my life’s general course whenever possible…reliability…stability…motivations and goals, etc. The evolved Me is unable to look beyond the next few minutes in life past the immediate and present tense; the evolved me lives paralyzed inside of a bubble that will inevitably burst. My life has gotten this way because my heart has opted to crawl out of my body and go its own way, one unknown to me. I still hear its beat, feel its pumping pulse in my veins; but my heart has left my body and vanished into the night.

The evolved me has adapted to be able to swallow the tragedies that I have lived – am still living – through.

The evolved Me is stuck on stupid, like somebody pushed pause or something and life just hasn’t continued to play right ever since.

AUTO-PILOT FUNCTION (AKA GOING THROUGH THE MOTIONS):

My laundry somehow gets removed from the dryer and folded/hung up/put away during these Pilot Performances of mine; I spend a disturbing amount of time in frustrated conniptions over “missing” tops and sweaters that my Auto Pilot has already put up, completely forgetting(?) that I had spent 35 minutes of the afternoon putting my clothes away…

The constant need for physically exhausting motion and extreme mental/psychological stimulation i.e. terrifyingly scary movies or swimming in the ocean during January (wtf?)

The detachment from all good and positive sources.

The chronic and debilitating malfunction of my ability to give a shit about much of anything besides what the fuck went so wrong with my daughter to cause her to CHOOSE such tragedy time and again…

The obsession with my failures and the rejection of my worth.

All in all, I guess I’m just very tired of being so afraid of my ringtone…

of waiting for the other shoe to drop on my head…

I just want my daughter safe; so badly do I want her to be okay that I’d give up either or both of my eyeballs to heal her and give her the security she needs, even if it’s not with me. I ‘d turn over every ounce of my own self-worth or self-esteem to her, gladly. It’s so hard for me to understand…it’s so hard to accept.

Note # 29

Dear Self,

NEVER: (Continued)

  • Opt to be executor of a family member’s estate; it’s futile.
  • Underestimate the power of being misunderstood.
  • Forget how far from “your side” Lady Luck lives.
  • Entertain the idea of “justice” when there’s a lawyer, a courthouse, or a judge involved.
  • Suddenly decide that you’re ambidextrous and start using your “bad hand” to do everything.
  • Try to make your kid sister feel better about her lazy eye and the resulting eye patch by successfully enlisting the entire tribe to wear one also.
  • Tell the female Indian clerk at the front desk of your hotel that you’re half Indian too, but “with feather, not dot”; the rest of your stay will suck.
  •  Try to improvise while baking by replacing vegetable oil with some foreign, imported bottle that kinda resembled vegetable oil in a pinch.
  • Carry your keys in your pocket when you take your dogs to the vast, plush grassy field to play in the dark.
  • Reach in your passenger side window and pull the door open by the inside handle when you can’t locate your keys.
  • Run around with a loaded .44 in a panicked frenzy screaming, “Fire! Fire!” after somehow managing to ignite the paper target with your shot from 20 yards away.
  • Send your ex boyfriend a trashy selfie meant for your ex girlfriend.
  • Try and trick your kid into thinking that Santa is real by going up onto the roof around 1am on December 25 and jingling bells as loud as you possibly can, especially during a freeze.