I'm not dead yet!

Hey, Folks.
Sorry it's been so long--the past two weeks have been a bit... well, "hairy" is the first word that comes to mind. "Hellish" is also pretty accurate. "Frenetic," "insane," "intense," "nervewracking," "frustrating," "upsetting," and "ridiculously busy" also come to mind.
The short version: Mum took a bad fall two weeks ago today and was rushed to the emergency room (I wasn't home; her brother was). I had to fight to get her admitted; the ER doctor missed the compression fracture of one of the discs in her back. I had to take Tuesday off from work and spent it making multiple phone calls, talking to several different caseworkers, and... yeah.
Three days later--right before she was transferred to a rehab/nursing home, I was laid off from my job.
Yep, I am unemployed.
The next morning, during my physical, my GP told me that the weird spells I've been having are caused by serious depression and stress. I've been ordered into therapy and need to find a new psychopharm because my GP thinks I need better monitoring than he can offer.
My insurance expires on April 30th.
An hour after seeing my GP, I saw my orthopaedist. Both of my knees need to be replaced. However, for the short term, I'm going to PT.
Did I mention my insurance expires on April 30th?
Yesterday, I saw my bariatric surgeon for the 2 year post-surgery follow up (four months late). Discovered that I have gained one pound since July (I thought it was more like 20; it FEELS like 20). Told him about the vomiting. The constant, regular vomiting and the fact that most food is so not my friend. He informed me that I needed to be scoped. Immediately. Because I may have burst my staples. Or could have an ulcer. No matter what, there's a problem that may require surgery.
Did I mention that I only have health insurance for four more days?
So this morning, I had The Ride deliver me to LMH at too friggin' early for me to be functioning. To be told that they couldn't do the test (I have to be sedated for it because of PTSD--basically, if I go through the tube-down-the throat-gagging test conscious, I will end up having a psychotic break at the level of stress I'm at).
Did I mention that I only have health insurance for four more days?
So, I'm off to the ob/gyn in a few minutes--I was ordered to get my arse in there, too, because I haven't had a visit from God's Final Insult since December (and I know that I'm not pregnant, sadly). And have a meeting at the nursing home to discuss/assess Mum's situation at 2:00.
Add to all of this... running to the nursing home on a daily basis... postponing the Nova Scotia vacation for a month... still need to clean out my desk... needing to clean out the house before either the bank or the uncle sells it out from underneath us... the Blue Bomber needs a new fender desperately (and a new dashboard array)...
I'm a little stressed.
What's funny is that I've had three people tell me I look happy. I find that really amusing.
On the upside... I am involved with a wonderful, supportive man whom I wouldn't trade for the world. AND I'm seeing Jim Jefferies in Pittsburgh next week. AND going to Nova Scotia once I get unemployment and insurance sorted out.
Despite the depression and stress, I feel ridiculously optimistic.
Yeah, I know. I'm nuts.
Admit it--you wouldn't want me any other way.

In Which I Challenge the Medical Establishment

It is 2:27 a.m. on Tuesday morning as I type this. I am FUCKING FURIOUS. I am also trying not to weep out of frustration, anger, anxiety, stress, and utter complete despair. Why? Well, it's like this... as regular readers know, my mother is dealing with kidney disease. She's in kidney failure and undergoing dialysis three times a week. She comes home from dialysis loopy--unsteady on her feet, out in left field, weak, and just not on this planet. She's also been falling. A lot. She's blacked her eye at least four times since December--she's fallen on her face on the front walk coming from (or heading to) dialysis. This is NOT a good thing. This is, in fact, a VERY BAD thing. And today was the kicker--she went out on my uncle and hurt her back. He had the sense to call an ambulance. They rushed her to Lawrence Memorial. He called me around 6 to tell me, I went up and took over the watch, and then, convinced they were going to keep her, left for home around 12:15 a.m. Yeah, quarter after midnight. I hadn't had dinner. I was exhausted (loooong but productive day at work). I had been trying to keep Ma calm while dealing with assorted head-splitting beeps and lots of horrible energy (psychically, emergency rooms fuck me up completely, and tonight, all four bays were filled with elderly patients; the woman in the bay next to us had the single most annoying son... I wanted to strangle him to make him stop talking; yes, my nerves were shot, and to have done so would have been MOST insensitive of me because the poor bastard was in the same horrible position as myself). I got home, reheated some leftover Harrow's chicken pie (mmmmm... chicken pie) for me and the cat (even though she has nothing to do with my mother, she still likes the company in the house--she likes to have someone to nag), managed to eat most of it (sans the bit for the cat) when the phone rings. It's 1:00 a.m. I KNOW it's the fucking hospital before I even answer it. Sure enough, it's the hospital telling me that they're releasing my mother because there's no reason to keep her. Allow me to repeat that: they are releasing her because there is no reason to keep her. Less than 45 minutes before, I had left my mother, ditzy and out of it, dehydrated, weak, in the hospital, secure in the knowledge that she would be safe for the night. She would be watched over in a place where they could monitor her and find some answers. Now, they were telling me they weren't keeping her. I put on my hoodie over my sweats (I had shucked the clothes and contact lenses), slipped on the sneaks, heated up another hunk of chicken pie and grabbed a water for her because she hadn't eaten since breakfast and I proceeded to drive like I was trying to qualify for NASCAR up to LMH. I found my mother still loopy, still dehydrated, unfed, undressed, and out of it. And they said she was fine. I lost it. To use a favorite Britism, I went spare. I flipped the fuck out. Folks, my heart is being ripped out of my chest watching what is happening to my mother, seeing the bullshit going on. She's dying. Slowly, horribly dying. There is nothing good, just, or clean about her decline. It's horrible, unfair, and if I had a direct line to God or whoever is running the show, I would call the fucker out and kick his or her ass six ways to Sunday for this, and FUCK the ineffable plan and everything happening for a reason. This is my Mum and she's suffered enough. The long and the short of it is that they kept her over night. I'm not going into details--suffice to say that the words "malpractice" and "lawyer" and "don't fuck with me" were used. I mean, she couldn't even sit up without help. They were going to let her go home? Over my dead fucking body. So now, I am going to finally get some sleep. I had planned to bake tonight. And make chicken chili in the crockpot. And maybe even some homemade pasta sauce (because my honey's back is out and I owe people cookies). Tomorrow, I have a slate of phone calls to make. Including one to her GP to tell him he's an ass and to her nephrologist to ask WHAT THE FUCK THEY ARE DOING TO HER IN THAT SODDING CLINIC! Plus Elder Services to find out where the fucking cleaners have been because her room MUST be cleaned out of all of the clothes in there so she can move around. I leave for Halifax in ten days. Provided Ma is functioning. And I don't end up in either jail or McLean's for flipping out completely. Pass the Xanax, will ya?

Foxwoods: The Aftermath

Or, A Mother's Ultimate Revenge

OK, so I gave y'all the review of the fantabulous show at Foxwoods last Saturday night. You heard how utterly, brilliantly hysterical Jim Jefferies was, etc. (And thanks to all the friends who have given me shit about the picture. I love you, too. ;-)

So... The trip itself.

Now, regular blurkers are aware I got a little wrecked on Friday night/Saturday morning. I was catching up on the podcast, the mood was right, and I wanted some fucking tequila. So I had some tequila. And then I went to bed and overslept a wee bit, which means I was running a shade behind on Saturday.

You know where this is leading. You've been down that road with me... you know what I'm like. A madwoman. So, I run around the Somerville/Cambridge area, fueling up the car, getting coolant (and yeah, there's definitely a problem with the Blue Bomber's cooling system which means large repair bill headed my way if I want to drive to Nova Scotia in April and see Jim in PGH in May. Shit), directions, etc. Before I head out, I make sure St. Teresa's arse is in gear because she's sod-all slow and dithery, and no effin' way am I going to miss the damn show because she's dawdled and I got stuck in traffic in $%^&*()_ Connecticut like on the trip to PA.

So... Yeah. I get the missions accomplished, get my ass back to the house, showered, dressed (and was incredibly disappointed to discover that the brand new black jeans were boot cut instead of pegged. Sod that--not with brand new, custom painted Chucks. Besides, I hate boot cut--they make me look short and fatter), the Amazing Tess arrives, I manage to get makeup on, and finally out the friggin' door.

Half an hour behind schedule. NOT happy.

Get Mum loaded into the car along with her blasted walker.

Allow me to describe her walker. I wouldn't call it the Cadillac of walkers (thinking back to the time when Cadillacs were actually elegant and an automotive thing of beauty, rather than the pieces of ugly, generic, over-priced shit they are today; show me an Escalade, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I can show you an asshole behind the wheel of it), but it's definitely a luxury model: padded seat that flips up to reveal a storage space, mag wheels that pivot, hand brakes, sparkly paint job--definitely NOT your bog-standard hospital-issued brushed aluminum mobility aid.

It's also a pain in my fucking ass because I'm the poor sod who has to get it off the porch and somehow wrangle it into the car. Accomplishing this took moving up the driver's seat, unpacking everything that had already been packed, wrestling with the blasted contrivance, and a whole lot of swearing whilst Mum attempted to be helpful and yell suggestions and other cars swerved around me, honking, because there's still a fair bit of snow on the streets. Oh, yeah, and a high, biting, whipping wind.

Now I am running behind, am freezing, and am THOROUGHLY annoyed.

"I have to go to the bank!" announces the little old lady in the HUGE blue puffy coat in the back seat.

"Both of them!" she adds.

*slams head on the steering wheel*

So, stop at the little bank on the corner. She spends five minutes just trying to dig out her card. I get out of the car, come around, and look for it for her. In the high wind.

As I said, Tess is amazing, so she is maintaining her good humor and being cool.

A couple of minutes later, the woman who had been standing inside the ATM knocks on the window to let me know that she has had to explain to Mum how to operate the ATM because she was leaving the card in the slot.

*slams head on the steering wheel*

Ten minutes later, St. Teresa returns to the car, annoyed that the ATM won't give her what she wants. Now, she KNOWS there's a daily limit to how much you can withdraw. She KNOWS this. But she is not acknowledging this. So I now have to drive to the other bank across town. Steam is starting to come out of my ears despite the cold.

Get there--swearing at other drivers along the way--get the card from her, go through the drive thru, and she instructs, "Get me five hundred!"

At which point, I keep myself from diving over the back seat and strangling her because I can just imagine how much money she was originally planning on pissing away on the many-buttoned bandits. I get her $300, which is the limit the ATM will spit out in a given shot, and which is PLENTY to spend on a fucking slot machine. Too much, if you ask me, but then, I don't gamble on anything but myself and the occasional date (usually to my detriment on the latter).

THEN I speed across town to my Starbucks because I need coffee for the fucking road. I mean, if I don't have caffeine, we aren't going to get there safely nor will we get home safely. (Granted, I had stashed my tin of Via iced coffee packets and a quart of half-and-half in the back seat, but better to have it ready-made with an extra shot or three of espresso for safety.) Of course, I have to get Herself a cup of tea.

Now, I know how to make my mother's tea. Stas, lovely fella that he is, knows exactly how to prep her tea from the barista side of the counter. I grab a protein pack, Mallorca sweet bread for her, water for Tess, St. Teresa's tea, and two trenta's for me. Because that's how I fuckin' roll, dammit.

Show off my new custom kicks and the fabulously vulgar yet elegant blouse (I'm going to have to replace some of the crystals on the hand if I want that to be my stage shirt), and get a pleased crack from Stas about getting flashed (I was mortally embarrassed, but he was teasing. I mean, I love my tits, but I'm not flashing flesh in Sbux, y'know?). Hit the ladies, prep Ma's tea, and hop back in the car.

To almost get into an accident from an ignorant piece of shit coming in the exit. I really, really hate people. He tried to get into a pissing contest with me, but a) I drive a Buick; and b) despite being expressly female, I have bigger balls than God when I'm in a hurry and behind the wheel. I called him an ignorant cunt and went around him, despite his attempt to prevent it. No way some dumbass mofo was making me any later to see Celebricrush.

OK! On the road! Backstreets through Cambridge, out to route 2, on to 95, cruising and doing a fair clip at 75-90 for most of the way until I hit traffic in Rhode Island. *shrugs* It lasted about five minutes, and I hit Foxwoods about 8:30, cutting the drive time by about fifteen minutes--not my best time, but still, not bad. St. Teresa keeps asking for napkins because she has spilled her tea all over her coat. *sigh*

Parking was fairly simple, the wind was fiercer than a blow torch, and we managed to finally, FINALLY get inside the fucking casino. OK!

Drop Mum off at the Dream Rewards counter, check she has her cell phone, tell her that the show will be out around midnight, and I WILL CALL HER AS SOON AS IT'S OUT.

Then... pick up the tickets, catch Jim at full throttle in the background, walk out grinning grinning grinning and PSYCHED up for the show. You know how the show went--you know how awesome it was.

And then... it's 12:35. I'm sobering up (thank you, gastric bypass), hungry, tired and ready to find Mum, grab a quick bite, and get on the road.

So I call her cell phone. Five rings, and the canned voice, "I'm sorry, but the person you have called has not set up their voice mailbox."

Shit.

Wait a minute, call again.

Five rings, canned voice, shit.

Wait three minutes, call again.

You get the picture.

Tess and I start walking down towards the casino room--I am still OK, still fairly up (I mean, hey, I just had Jim Jefferies's arm around me and a great convo with Pat Oates. Life is awesome!). Tess takes a troll around, doesn't see her, we walk down to the food court in case she's gotten tired and sat down... No Mum. I hear a page over the speakers, get the idea, we walk back, ask the guard at the door and get directed to the security desk in the back.

This is where my high ends. I HATE casinos. I REALLY, REALLY FUCKING HATE casinos. Too many people doing something I find really fucking stupid and useless, and now, I have to enter one. Immediately, my spidey senses start screaming because there is some dark and ugly energy in the room. I mean... it's like being in Dawn of the Dead, and there is a part of my soul screaming, "GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT BEFORE THEY EAT YOUR BRAIN!!!!!!!" I mean, seriously, it was not a happy experience, just walking through, and no sign of the little Irish American lady with the giant coat and tricked out walker.

A lot of people with drinks, cigarettes and crap food mindlessly whacking buttons. *shudder*

Not good.

Soooooooo... I have her paged.

Nothing.

Go outside, wait in the corridor.

Nothing.

Go back, have her paged again, tell them to tell her we're in the food court.

Nothing.

Tess goes and looks again.

Nothing.

I am getting pissed.

Enraged.

Angrier than hell.

Panicky.

Because she was VERY unsteady on her feet. So now I am scared that she's taken a header and no one has been able to get in touch with me.

My groove has been so harshed the record has been shattered into a gajillion shards of vinyl.

We actually walk back down to the club in case she's wandered down there looking for me and run into Pat Oates who I'm SURE didn't need a panicked me asking him if he'd seen a little old lady in the club lost and looking for me.

Jesus, I felt like a loser. I mean, seriously--43 years old and I take my mother along on a trip to a comedy gig. I mean, yeah, it was the right thing to do--she needed to get out of the house and have a good time for herself, but... sheesh. WHY DID I HAVE TO BE INVOLVED?!?!?

ANYWAY... now, I am mad enough to kill. Fed up. Panicky. HUNGRY. Exhausted. Groove harshed. And still no St. Teresa. Tess needs to get home--she has a lovely man waiting for her. We were supposed to be on the road looooooooooong ago and on the way back to Boston. Back to the security office for another page, and this time, the guard asks if she has a Dream Rewards card because they can track her down with that.

Thank the fucking Gods.

So, as they're pulling up her info in the computer (which I find really, really creepy but was thankful for), Tess comes rushing back--"I FOUND HER! I must have gone past her a dozen times, she's tucked back in a corner. I told her to stay put!"

Bless Tess. She is going to be an amazing therapist some day (if that's the path she chooses). She really deserves the modifier "Amazing" because anyone who can deal with me dealing with my mother and remain positive and pleasant is a saint.

Yours Truly stalks across the back of the casino, holding back my rage, and muttering, "I am going to STRANGLE her!"

Sure enough, there she is, tucked back in a corner, whacking away at a slot machine.

"Oh, hi! How was the show?"

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?!?!?"

The exchange that ensues goes like this:

"No."
"It's two a.m."

"Really?"

"WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?"

"I've been here the whole time!"

"Ma, the show was over an hour and a half ago; I told you midnight, it's 2:00 a.m."

"Why didn't you call my cell phone?"

"I've called YOUR CELL PHONE A DOZEN TIMES!"

"I need a new one."

You get the picture.

To make matters even worse, she turns back and starts whacking the button again. At which point I stand up, announce, "I am leaving. NOW."

"But I'm winning!"

"NOW. Or take the fucking bus home." And I turn around and stalk out.

What makes this really amusing--in a dark and twisted way--is that she and I have had the same conversation, only she was the one in the rage making pronouncements.

Yeah.

Well, she eventually dithers out. I am ensconced on a bench, taking deep breaths, trying not to flip out or make a scene because I am ready to fucking lose my shit right then and there. And she says to me, as I sit on the bench, glowering, trying NOT to yell, "So, where are we going to eat? I haven't eaten yet."

It is after 2 a.m. in the morning. We have been here for almost six hours. And she Never. Ate. Never. Ate.

NEVER FUCKING ATE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I explain to her--in a very, very quiet voice, the voice that makes most people who know me run for the fallout shelter, that everything has closed--all of the shops and restaurants. And We. Are. Leaving.

I stalk off, looking for the elevators downstairs, walk past them because I thought they were the wrong elevators, and find myself lost, heading for another fucking casino. I mean, it's worse than the mall! And zombies... so many zombies, smoking, doused in cologne and perfume and trashy clothes, and I'm lost and REALLY starting to panic and can't take a Xanax because I was drinking tequila three hours ago and it will put me to sleep and REALLY fuck me up.

Finally get to the correct elevators, the doors open, and I here a *thunk* behind me. Mum has taken one of her famous falls, and now I am panicky, angry, upset, scared, and feeling GUILTY because I have been mean to an old lady who is now on the floor and has knocked her head on the crown molding. So I switch immediately from Raging Bitch to Terrified, Highly Competent Caretaking Daughter, lift her back on to her feet, deal with the nice man from the casino who has an EMT meet us in the lobby downstairs while the Amazing Tess runs to get me a hot dog and a bottle of water because I need hydration and protein, and get her downstairs and checked out.

Still with me?

Get her settled in her seated walker, order up the car from the valet service, wait for the car and listen to her complain about everything and ask inane questions. Including, "Can we stop at Dunkin Donuts on the highway?"

Get her into the Blue Bomber, wrestle the walker back in as the razor wind rips through me, and try to find my way out of the fucking casino. I get turned around, take the wrong exit out of there, and end up tooling around the back roads of rural Connecticut at 3:00 in the morning. Ma announced she was hungry and got handed the protein plate from Sbux.

Thanks to Google Maps and my Droid, we eventually made it to 395 north. We passed Mohegan Sun on the way. We skipped Rhode Island completely. I almost cried when I saw the sign for Worcester and the Mass Pike. If it had been warmer, I probably would have pulled over the car and kissed the tarmac after we crossed the Mass border.

Around 5 a.m., I pulled up in front of Tess's man's place. Thankfully, he only lives a few houses down from me. I found the last parking space on the street, got St. Teresa out of the car and headed for the house, and got myself in. I left the walker in the car.

I was in bed, asleep, within about fifteen minutes. I think I hit the bathroom before I made it to bed. I managed to get my vitamins and some water into me; beyond that, the details are fuzzy.

The next night, after blogging from Starbucks, I pulled up at home and cleaned up the car. I finally got the damn thing tidy (instead of looking like a frat party aftermath), I wanted to keep it that way, and I damn well didn't want anything rotting in the backseat (because Mum is a cross between a toddler and a teenager with the car habits, and it just ain't pretty). Sure enough, there was the protein plate on the floor, egg still intact. However, the packet of Justin's Honey Peanut Butter was still in there, unopened, and damned if I was going to let THAT go to waste.

I picked up the protein plate. I opened the protein plate. I lifted up the packet of Justin's. I screamed.

Underneath, I found her bottom set of teeth. There is nothing more disgusting than dentures (well, except shit, but you get my drift).

The next morning, I couldn't find my keys. She'd borrowed them to find her teeth. The ones sitting right next to the chair she was ensconced in. She left my keys in her coat pocket and made me quite late for work.

The way I see it, my mother has paid me back in spades for any trespass I ever committed.

And I'm a saint.

Why is this my life?

Sorry, my blurking darlings, that I've neglected you this week. It has been a very rough one that has gone from unpleasant to awful to, just when it seemed all had turned a corner for the best, disastrous.

I left here last night around 3:00 a.m. after putting a bunch of stuff on ebay--the trip to PA that was cancelled is now happening. Huzzah! I get to see the fabulous KJ and my equally awesome godson, Hayden (and earn a gazillion points for being the coolest fairy godwitch on the planet--I know this because every guy I know to whom I have mentioned what I'm getting him has gotten this look on his face of complete, total envy and immediately transformed into a 5-year-old boy in front of me with lust for it--yes, the piccie above is Hayden's Xmas gift. Shhhhhh! Don't tell him!). So I need to raise a little dosh to pay for gas down and back, especially with Xmas pressies to buy next week.

I left here in a damn good mood--felt like I'd really accomplished something. Ten minutes later when I walked in the house, that mood evaporated. KABLAM! Why? Well, the cleaners were at the house yesterday. I had had a long chat with Bob, the guy who runs the service. We were clear--working in the kitchen. Getting the kitchen cleared.

Well, one guy worked in the kitchen. The other guy, however, worked in the dining room. An Amazon box with a very important present is missing. A SEALED Amazon box. I found things thrown, unorganized and without regard for damage, into crates--my webcam, for instance, was at the bottom of a crate with books and CDs piled on top of it. Fuck knows where the USB camera cable that was on the table has gone to.

The worst of it, and by far the most serious of this, is the fact that all of the research--all of the papers--that were on the table and in files at the end of the table--is gone. Research for my paper on Hamlet--the paper on Ophelia I've been toying with for two decades, what I was hoping was going to be my first ever conference presentation. Research for Richardson's War. ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT PAGES for at least three novels. Edits for the one-woman show. Research on the supernatural, paranormal, writing, ritual magic... research touching EVERY FUCKING GODSDAMNED THING I'M WORKING ON was thrown out. Without discretion. Thrown out.

Why? Because my mother told them that I am not taking this cleaning thing seriously, so they could work in the dining room. She denies saying this. Knowing what her memory is like, I'll take Bob's word.

I'm in shock right now. A bit numb. Been crying quite a bit today. I feel like I've been shot through with a cannon ball. I'm at the end of my tether. I blew up this morning--she threatened to hit me. I made it clear that if she hits me, she's going in the grave and I am going to jail. No one will EVER FUCKING HIT ME ever again. Especially as her utter daftness has driven me to the brink of a nervous fucking breakdown. (And for anyone who doesn't know me personally, I can put a fist through a wall easily. As a result, I do not use violence, and only strike others if struck first. It's an ethics thing.)

On Monday, I will have to stand guard over the mountain of trash bags in my driveway to make sure that Asshole doesn't put them to the curb. Because he will--to be spiteful. Asking him not to will not work--he's evil that way. And blames me for everything. She's pissed about the drum kit sitting in the living room; well, I can't carry a full-size set of drums over a 3' thick wall of laundry that has been piled chest high at the bottom of the stairs to the third floor. I can't move ANY of my things off of the first floor with those stairs being regularly, routinely blocked by Herself. She did this when I was living up there--would block the bottom of the stairs. I can't tell you how many times I almost broke an ankle climbing over her shit piled at the bottom.

My mother says she's never "run me down" to anyone; she says she's done a lot for me. What she doesn't see is all the horrible things she does TO me. And she thinks she's going back to a "normal" life soon. That once the house is cleared out and she moves into Elder Housing, she's going to be driving and doing everything she used to do.

*slams head on the desk*

She doesn't see how she's behaving; she doesn't accept that she has been thoroughly irrational, and that the reason I end up yelling is because she ignores me when I talk to her. She has admitted as much--"Oh, I always listen. I just choose to ignore you sometimes."

This is not a rational person's statement. Especially when what she chooses to ignore are things that directly impact her personal safety and health and well-being.

But I'M THE BAD GUY.

A little advice to anyone else out there dealing with an elderly parent (or a parent approaching being elderly): Cut off all communication, especially if they're not married or partnered. Move out of town, change your name, email address, phone numbers, and don't let them know where you are.

You'll thank me for this advice. I wish to fuck I'd taken it when I had the chance.

So, my goal for the next six months is to get Hell's Vestibule cleaned out; sell as much of my shit, give away, recycle and donate as much of my shit as possible. Get my finances in order. Finish the rewrite, find an agent, and polish up both my theatre and mundane resume. Anyone knows of awesome opportunities, let me know. I'm ready to do whatever--maybe get into event planning and management (because as my theatre resume and experience here proves, I am sooooooooooo fucking good), maybe look at getting into marketing and promotions, maybe get another library job, who the fuck knows? I'm done. I'm worn out, I'm spread too thin, and I am burnt out.

And I'm done. I am not playing politics in this office any longer; I am not dealing with manipulative middle schoolers masquerading as adults who need a good swift kick in the arse. I am not dealing with unnecessary bullshit from our "roommates" here who act like we're the evil landlord in a pantomime western, trying to swindle them and cheat them at every turn, when in reality they're stiffing us left and right and getting a sweet, nearly free ride whilst abusing the good nature and professional services of some very dedicated and lovely people (and yes, myself included). I am done with all of the passive-aggressive cowardice, the "Lesley way," that is SUCH BULLSHIT! I am done with the double-standard of treatment. I am done with the inadequate wages. I am done, done, done, done, done, so utterly fucking DONE.

And I am sick of whining at all of you about how miserable my life is.

So let's state a few POSITIVE things:

1. The lovely antiques dealer in North Cambridge still had the sewing machine I bought back in July that he graciously stored for the past five months. If you are looking for a good deal on lovely furniture, odd knickknacks, clothing, bits and bobs, go into All and Everything in North Cambridge on Mass Ave. LOVELY people, fair prices, good quality.

2. I am going to Pennsylvania in a week and a half. HUZZAH!

3. I will be returning to Nova Scotia in April. HUZZAH!

4. I am surrounded by incredibly lovely, lovely, kind, generous, gentle, caring and good people who when they see me in such distress, reach out with kind words, support, gentleness, and reassurance that I am a good person and worthwhile. And that my family are fucked in the head. Some days, you need to be told that you don't belong in the asylum because the inmates can make you crazy by association. Thank the merciful Gods for friends.

5. Despite feeling awful, I am NOT suicidal. THIS is incredible considering how down I was earlier in the week.

6. Did I mention I have awesome friends?

7. I was able to download all four of Jim & Eddie's podcasts to my lappie. This means I can listen to them while I'm baking tonight. It's the little things, as the bishop said to the actress.

8. Sbux. Dearest baristas, I love you for the jokes, the good cheer, and the coffee.

9. The Solstice is Tuesday. The sun will be coming back. Finally.

10. There are some great bids on my ebay stuff. I will have at least an extra $100 crucial dollars for my trip.

That's all I can think of right now. Not bad for someone who's been weeping all day.

I hope everyone else is having a better day. Really. I wouldn't wish this shit on anyone.

Well, that blew today's plans...

Greetings, oh, my cherished blurkers, from the emergency room of Lawrence Memorial Hospital in Medford, MA.

NOT where I'd planned to start my day--I was planning to go to the gym when I woke this morning, get back in the swing of lifting again, trim down the flab and tone up the muscles again, get the body beautiful and drop at least four more pants sizes.

For once, something utterly inane is not on the television--Quigley Down Under, an amusing film that I'm tuning out thanks to the Silversun Pickups on the lappie. I like Tom Selleck--likable fella, not a half bad actor, and of course, Alan Rickman playing an asshole. That man is still hotter than sin... it's the voice. I would have gladly ripped off the Ken doll bit of makeup in Dogma and shagged him so long as he kept talking.

Yes, I am distracting myself. It's 2:30 p.m. I was woken from a sound sleep around 11ish because Ma fell in the kitchen. Full face plant. I mean, flat down. "Help me!" I'm trying to get up, get out of the tangle of blankets and put on pj bottoms, while shaking off sleep and the cat. Let me tell you, lifting someone off their face is not easy. It's fuck-all difficult. It's a good thing she only weighs about 150ish. Maybe less at this point, who knows. I couldn't have done it before her gastric bypass in 2000.

Yeah, fat runs in the family, at least over on this stout branch of it. She's dropped over 200 pounds since her surgery; the kidney disease over the past few years has helped her to keep it off and lose more, which is a good thing, considering she still tries to eat like a fat person. *sigh* It's really annoying. Seh actually misses "her best friend" i.e. food. I don't get that part of things. Food has never been my friend--I mean, I'm allergic to so much stuff, things that are both good and bad for me, and so much makes me puke and always has--do you know how frustrating it is not to be able to eat seafood, fish, sweet potatoes? IT SUCKS. All this good stuff that is so good for the body, and it just makes me either vomit or stink like a garbage pail in high summer.

And Mum... Mum still sees herself as fat and ugly. *shakes head* Sad.

Anyway, she did a full face plant. I had to shift all kinds of crap in the kitchen (surprise, surprise. The cleaners are going to be ordered to finish that shithole next and forget the rest of the house until it's completely cleared and organized. I am NOT doing this again; strong as I am and back to the gym as I'm going, my back and knees don't like deadlifting in non-ideal situations that do not have soft mats and safety stops built in), lift her to her knees, and then get her on her feet.

And she promptly stomped on mine, making me scream. "TOES! MY TOES!" And she pitched over the kitchen table, with me trying to hold her steady from behind to keep her from slipping back to the floor while trying to get my naked feet out from under her Frankensteinish stompers, screaming in pain, and catching sight of the blood on the floor.

I really hate the site of blood. It stresses me out.

Finally managed to get her into the chair and saw her face. *sigh* HUGE goose egg over her right eye--gigantic--cut and bleeding all over. I said, "You're going to the hospital. Let me get dressed."

Ten minutes later, I'm back down from the bathroom, she's got a tissue held to her head to catch the blood. Got her to wash it off while I dressed, got nagged by the cat whilst I dressed because she wanted the bed back, got out there to find she'd taped a bit of gauze over it and fed the cat.

Progress.

"You're still going to the hospital."
"Yeah, after I looked at it, Lee, I think I should."

More progress.

So by the time we got to LMH, her eye is swollen to the point it looks like a purple bag of blood, and she's walking incredibly unsteady. She's had a CAT scan by now, and I'm sitting here, writing and waiting, dealing with the reek of old lady perfume drowning out the stench of hangover & fresh alcohol on one of the gang members sleeping at the kids table across from me. Forgot my writing music, so I'm listening to the Silversuns. Hoping the new Zune will have arrived so I can fully load my music up and download the stuff I want and am missing.

And yeah, I'm hoping Mum is all right--no concussion or stitches. It would be a relief. But it also means I have to talk to her doc on Monday because this is bad fall number two in a week. And she needs a cognitive functioning test. I'm trying not to think too much about it because I will start weeping. I love my mother, but I don't see things getting better. It's not fair, not for her or me.

But then, life never is.

The Bottle and the Damage Done

The siren song that is your madness
Holds a truth I can't erase...
You let me down, I said it...
- "The God of Wine," Third Eye Blind*

alcoholic: One who has accepted they have a drinking problem and is dealing/has dealt with it
drunk: Fucking loser who has a drinking problem, blames everyone else and keeps drinking, destroying their own life and the lives of everyone they possibly can.

Alcoholism, addiction and their attending madness have been a part of my life since conception. My father is a drunk; has been for all of his adult life. All three of my mother's brothers have/had drinking problems (two of them are dead; sadly, the youngest is still alive and making life fucking miserable). My ex-husband and three long-term ex-boyfriends were all drunks. I had a brief flirtation with the bottle about 9 years ago--partied a little too hard for about eight months and then got really bored with it.

Drugs... with the exception of a little weed every now and then, I've never bothered with them. They scare the fuck out of me--most of my idols and Celebricrushes have battled the bottle and/or drugs, so I learned my fear from them: I learned from the stories of Peter O'Toole and David Bowie back in high school to keep my nose clean and behave myself (granted, Peter O'Toole is one of the greatest actors on the planet; and Bowie made incredible fucking music when he was a mess, but his best album came after he cleaned up [Scary Monsters & Super Creeps, if you must know, although the Berlin Trilogy has some spectacular songs]). John Belushi's OD had a major affect on me through Robin Williams--his comment made on a talk show (Donahue, I think it was), to the effect of, "He was a bull. What was that going to do to a little guy like me?" [paraphrased from memory; it's been 30ish years]

All of the people I've really admired have had addiction issues--all of the comedians especially. Carlin... Carlin was famous for his drug use, and so much better for quitting (although he was another one who kept a little weed around). I think I was the only person in the audience who cheered when Jim Jefferies said he'd been sober for a month in New York. The two guys I was sitting next to had said he was awesome fucked up; I've seen enough clips of him fucked up--he was better sober. Sharper, more on point (and he looked fabulous). And honestly? Enlarged liver and shitting blood... no. Not something I would wish on anyone but my mother's younger brother. That comment snapped people, but not really. I mean... WTF? Haven't we lost enough great comedians to substances? Stay sober, Jim--stay alive, keep making people laugh, and get your ass cast in a movie that will actually showcase your acting talent. That's an Imperial Edict, dammit. ;-) Stay sober, and the next time you're in Boston, I will buy you dinner (yes, a beautiful chick DOES know how to pick up a check), and unlike most of the men I've dated, I won't expect sex afterwards.

Hmmmm... that also reminds me... need to think about finding an agent for Keith J.'s script. Anyone know anyone looking for a film script for the best buddy comedy ever written? I could kill him to this day for that--boring me to tears with all the proposals for action adventure CRAP, and all the time he had a near-perfect comedy script on his shelf. I love the guy like a brother, but there are days... *smack* And that's why we're still friends.

But I digress...

Back to substances... The only thing I've ever really had going for me was my brain. I mean, my body has never worked properly, and even my brain is pretty fucked up with the chemistry issues, but I've always known I had intelligence, creativity and talent, and all of those relied on me keeping my brain up and running properly. The one thing drugs fuck up completely is your head, and this goes for the legal as well as the illegal.

Now, I take anti-anxiety meds daily. They are necessary, unfortunately--if I don't take them, my panic attacks get pretty ugly. During the PMDD, they get even uglier and require the additional support of Xanax. I take a low dose of that--just half a tab of whatever I was given because if I take the whole thing, I fall asleep instantly. I drink rarely these days and have to be careful about what I drink because certain things will send me off the deep end--I don't touch Jack Daniels any more (and I used to be legendary for dancin' with Mr. Damage), can't touch most grape wines unless they're fizzy (don't ask me, I don't get it), beer is baaaaaad (although the coffee porter was OK--must be the crap-ass American piss), and me and absinthe never liked each other. The gastric bypass made drinking even dicier because if there's no food in my stomach, I go bright red and burn up--seriously, I have to ice my face. I've been told it's like a diabetic reaction to alcohol, and considering the fact that my sugar & fat filter is no longer connected, I get it.

At one point in my life, I was misdiagnosed as bipolar II. THAT was entertaining. NOT. Before the diagnosis, to deal with the weight that was packing on for no apparent reason, my GP put me on Prozac. I slept for two weeks and felt AWESOME afterwards. Then we tried Zoloft: no reaction until PMS kicked in and I went homicidal. Entertaining... I chased a guy all the way across Somerville with the intent of pulling him out of his car and dribbling his head off the pavement like a basketball for cutting me off. A little voice inside my head kept trying to get my attention and tell me that it was a bad idea. It took three miles for me to register that voice, and I was traveling down Somerville Ave--consider the number of traffic lights, pedestrians, and other cars I had to deal with in that three miles. Yeah. Zoloft... NOT a good idea. Then came the lower does of Prozac--sleeping without the happiness afterwards. Then shipped off to a psychopharmocologist who evaluated me as bipolar II. Paxil was my friend, and then Depakote got added, and then the doses went up... and don't forget the emergency Xanax, and then the anti-psychotics when the Xanax stopped working for the panic attacks... that was about the time I started keeping at least a bud around because three tokes did what all the meds in the world couldn't--calmed me down and kept me from slashing my wrists.

Of course, I ended up in a blanket of cotton wool about three feet thick, lost my sex drive, and didn't function as an artist. Due to circumstances, I ended up having to stop all meds, cleaned out my system, and then... started over again. Once the hypothyroidism was diagnosed and under control, the anxiety disorder became apparent and that was treated, and the bipolar was off the table.

Whew. But I still need the meds.

I hate them. I hate what I'm like without them even more. I have gotten so attuned to my body that I can feel the chemical changes--I know when my thyroid is off, I know when my hormones surge--there's a little bump mid-month, then a BIG bump about five days before the bleeding starts--and I know what real depression is.

I also know when it's safe for me to drink, and when it's NOT safe because it will start a chemical downward spiral that will end with me trying to slash open my veins and die. I am long past the days when I want my friends babysitting me to make sure I don't shuffle off the mortal coil under my own steam; it's humiliating and exhausting, and eventually, it loses you friends. So, legal or not, I guess I'm a drug addict like damn near most of America these days (at least, those of us who have health insurance with prescription drug coverage).

But I'm not a drunk, and the drugs I take are to keep me sane and functioning. It's a very different thing from the animal I'm dealing with at home. Now, Moron has been sober since the end of January when I had his ass clapped into rehab. At the court hearing, the court shrink--who it was obvious he thought he had flim-flammed, FUCK! HE IS SO GODSDAMNED STUPID!--who evaluated him stated that he had stated that he had "tried cocaine a couple of weeks before."

Right.

The reality--as we found out from his friends--is that he had a full-blown coke habit. It explained quite a bit, like why the flooze he had been trying to bed was calling in a panic, the impotence issues (there are some things NO ONE should know about older members of their family), and of course, the paranoia.

Now, understand that I really DON'T like cocaine. I've never tried it, but I really DON'T LIKE what it does to people who use it constantly--the paranoia, the itchiness, the suspicion, the coldness, the one-step-removed from the world. I don't like it. I have run away almost every time I've had it near me; I have never forgotten a coke-fueled ride home from a friend--beautiful girl to look at, smart, funny but coked out of her head and telling me how much she envied my ability to say no and stay away from it, that she and the hottest guy in the office [whom I had been crushing on up until that minute] were fucking each other and getting high all the time and were both broke and losing everything because of it; I was 18. I didn't need any other warning or example.

Alcohol is a familiar demon--I understand alcohol-fueled violence and stupidity--been surrounded by it all my life--I know the signs, the stench, the clues, and I know how to deal with it. I can kick a drunk's ass easily--let them think they're leading the dance, fake 'em out, step aside, let the punch fly by, and then step in under the guard, and WHAM! Easy-peasy, down he goes. Coke adds something to the mix that makes a drunk think he's invincible--it adds a persistence, an unstoppability that means the one punch won't take them down. It sharpens the shit the alcohol usually dims.

Once I found out that coke was in the mix, I knew why he was overheating and freaking out. And why he swung on me (and yes, as empowering as it is to know I have the PTSD under control, I still wish I had crushed his windpipe. Life would be very complicated, yet so much simpler). See, Moron learned back in '02 what happens when you swing on me--I humiliate your ass. He backed his car into mine so it looked like I had those special shocks to make the car bounce. Several times. And then, when I ran over to his car to get him to stop, he started throwing punches out the window. I caught the punches in my hands and forced his arms back, bending back his fingers.

He's now trying to blame the surgeries he's had for his hands on me--because of that, I caused all of his problems with arthritis in his hands. It's not he was a telephone lineman in the worst weather for 25 years; it's not that I was defending myself and not allowing him to pummel me--he had a right to do that.

*slams head on the desk*

Can I just state for the record that I am done? Beyond done. I had a conversation with Elder Services today because I can't take the madness any longer. Mum doesn't make it any better--she just accepts life with an addict. And I wonder why it took me so many years to get healthy, why it took me so long to wake up and realize that no one has to endure being abused. I lost it last night; she spent fuck knows how much in the grocery store to buy a shitload of stuff that we have no room for. He strong-armed her into buying a small refridgerator with an ice maker--vital for a drunk who sucks back cocktails, not necessary for two women who like to cook and need storage space. I cannot take the hoarding, I cannot take the addiction, I cannot fucking take it any longer.

So I called Elder Services. I'm getting her a lawyer to deal with the foreclosure issue; Elder Services is going to get referrals for help with the house. I've contacted her kidney doctor for a shrink. The bills will go on a schedule; there will be a calendar posted on the fridge for her fucking doctor appointments so I don't get surprises sprung on me.

As for the Moron... argh. I have one possible ace up my sleeve for that, and Gods help him if I call that one in because his ass will be nailed to a wall. There is one person who, if he finds out what that idiot has been doing, will set his ass so straight, it will be practically set in cement.

Cement might work, too, come to think of it... Nah. Considering how toxic his body is at this point, I really wouldn't want to poison the river any further.

Any advice anyone has to offer, I'll take at this point.

ADDENDUM: Just wanted to add that I DO NOT condemn drinking and recreational drugs in general. If you've got a handle on it (and I know a lot of people who can do a little and be fine), no worries. Hey, I like my shot of silver tequila (with five slices of lime because it's going to take me 10 sips to get it down and sea salt on the side) and the occasional toke still. It's just the idiots whose bodies can't handle it and who are destroying lives... *sigh*

* Today's epigram is from the first album by Third Eye Blind--amazing friggin' album from start to finish, only two songs that I didn't bother to put on my Zune. Lyrically astounding, musically fabulous... if only their other albums had been as good. This song is incredible, especially if you've ever had a drunk in your life. You will know it and weep to it.