This Is Just No Fun Anymore

So.  As you're probably aware.  I haven't posted in a while.  Nor have I been commenting.  It's not that I didn't have anything to say.  It's just that I knew my posts would be dripping with self pity; and, as I sink further and further into the abyss, whining doesn't help. 

I'm still unemployed.  I am now looking at eight months without a job.  I have applied for every job within a 30 mile radius of my home to no avail.  Obviously I can't apply for some jobs.  My health won't allow me to do a sales type job or anything that requires me to lift things as part of the job description.  I am an employment liability.  Businesses rely on bottom lines and it will cost more to hire me than some 18 year old, fresh out of high school, who is willing to work for minimum wage. 

After more than 12 years of trying to re-establish my credit that my ex destroyed, I now cannot buy a hot dog with credit.  At least half of my creditors have closed my accounts and all but one are in default.  And.  To add insult to injury, I remain a steady 30 days past due with my mortgage.  Me.  Of all people. 

My relationships with the spawn has gone south again.  The middle spawn kept me at arms length throughout her pregnancy that by the time my newest granddaughter was born, I really felt no particular joy.  I wasn't even there when the baby was born because the other two made me feel unwelcome and that my presence was more disturbing than helpful.  I stayed at home and received updates via mass sent text messages.  I didn't even see her until she was a week old.  And the invitation from her mother was as follows:  a text message saying, "If you want, you can come over." 

The youngest spawn starting dating a complete psycho.  A young man out on bail for domestic violence, possession and distribution of marijuana.  He's a drunk, controlling and violent.  Of course, when she brought him over to my house, she lied about how long they had been dating.  When I found out that she knew about him but continued to see him made me feel confused and worried.  Had I left this scar on her because I wouldn't leave her father?  How could she possibly remember?  She was just a 17 month old when I threw him out of the house. 

She had an accident on my birthday.  Minor in terms of injury to herself and the other woman; but, the car was totaled.  After paying off the lien there would be about 2k left over.  She has refused to sign the paperwork to have those funds released because she feels it was *her* car and those monies belong to her.  I reminded her that I made the majority of her car payments; including making the payments while I've been living on my savings and unemployment insurance.  That doesn't seem to matter to her.  The reconcillation of early summer was short lived.  I let her borrow one of my credit cards to purchase the tools she would need for her apprenticeship and then she was gone. 

The oldest spawn is now living in my spare room with her youngest.  I worry that, at her age, she just can't seem to pull her life together.  The agreement was she didn't have to necessarily pay a set rent; but, she would help me out around the house because, as my health deteriorates, I can barely keep up anymore; and, if I needed a few extra bucks, she would pick up the slack.  Instead, she sits in that room, that damn iPhone in her hand constantly, and only comes out to feed the baby.  Then she's off to work or to run errands for herself or whatever else she's doing.  We really aren't talking to each other; and when we do, it's stitled and tense.  You ask why she's living here?  Because I just can't allow her to not have a home.  I know she brought this on herself.  But, there's my grandson.  What else can I do?

I'm sure some of you are aware I ended up in the hospital in mid August.  My thyroid numbers had soared to 130 where normal numbers are around five.  My tongue was swollen in my mouth and I sounded like I was drunk all the time.  I had bags under my eyes so filled with fluid that it actually had begun to interfer with my line of sight.  I barely had the energy to get out of bed let alone try and keep myself fed.  Yet I continued to gain weight.  My blood pressure was out of control and the tightness in my chest had become a daily challenge.  Finally, if that weren't enough, I fell on the stairs.  I haven't gone to an orthopedic doctor, nor have I gone to the hospital; but, I can't lift my arm or use it to pick up anything.  The pain shoots through my upper arm up through my shoulder and I literally see stars.  My doctor seems to think I've torn my rotator cuff and just because he'll see me without worrying about money right now, he doesn't seem to understand that other doctors want money.  Needless to say, I walk around the house cradling my arm and hope that this lawsuit will come to fruition soon. 

So. Now you know why I haven't posted.  This is all I have to talk about; how things are just bad and I can't see the light at the end of the tunnel anymore.  I don't feel any sense of relief by purging this from my system.  You all know me well enough to know I'm not trying to solicit sympathy.  It's just how things are right now. 

I have kept up with all of you, though.  I read your posts and cheer at your accomplishments, laugh at your stories and feel your pain.  Regardless of anything, I still find this site to be a powerful healing place, a place to grow and hone the writing skills of many of you, and a place to share your life with others. 

But, for me.  This is just no fun anymore. 

Either Way, My Tummy Hurts Now..

Okay.  So.  I've done it. 

I've just submitted an essay to a magazine.  For possible publication. 

And I can feel the bile welling up into my throat.  Where's the *I want to take that back!" button??  Like, what the HELL was I thinking??

And, well.  Let's be honest here.  It's all YOUR fault.  Yeah.  I'm talking to YOU guys!  Three months ago I never would have even CONSIDERED submitting something for publication.  Like, really.  My stories are mine.  They entertain ME.  I can pretend I'm this reclusive writer; typing away at my keyboard; living on my secluded island; which, by the way, is RIGHT next door to Johnny Depp's.  We're great friends you know.  His beautiful children playing contently with the grandbabies.  Oh, and I have a cabana boy.  He keeps giving me *the eye*. 

I went through my files and found the one I wanted that fit the bill for the submission's criteria.  I reread it; tweeking a few sentences, deleting others.  I tried to read it as if someone else wrote it.  Did I like it?  Was it interesting?  Was it inspirational; or, was it just some maudlin ranting about how life sucks, blows, is slightly off center? 

It seemed okay.  I WOULD read it if someone else wrote it.  I would care about the person and would be hooked to the end.  I could feel the elation of the writer as she spoke of her success! 

Or, on the other hand.  Maybe I'm reading it with my glasses on backward. 

Either way, my tummy hurts now. 

You must be THIS tall to ride this ride..

It's been almost three months now.  Three months since I was called into that little office and told that my services would no longer be required.  Actually, to be honest, it wasn't presented quite that kindly.  More like; you are being FIRED because you are no longer dependable due to your illness.  I almost believe I would have preferred to have been told my performance was so lacking as to be a risk for my company to continue my employment.  I would then have a goal.  I would know that I had failed at something and would have had the chance to improve on myself. 

See, I've always been a "potential".  I found out early in life I had a voice.  A beautiful voice.  I could sing anything and any instrument I picked up, I could play.  I had a knack for acting.  I could "feel" the emotions of a character and bring her to life.  I always could tell a story in such a way as to make people laugh with me.  I wanted to entertain.   

I've always been rather intelligent with an interest in everything.  Lawyer?  I would have had OJ in shackles.  Writer?  I would have written the tome of the century as I wove a story so rife with characters; they would jump from the page and into your world.  Teacher?  Your children would have been enthralled with every class as I expanded their desire to learn.  Psychologist?  My heart would have had the intellectual outlet to soothe the souls of those who were so wounded. 

All of these desires, dreams; they remain just that.  Potential that never found its voice; never found its stage. 

I was the child of a mother who married for, perhaps, all the wrong reasons.  My parents were married for five years before I was born, so she was well aware of the problems that existed with my father.  Yet, she chose to have me.  My father was an abusive and angry man who found great humor in putting on a full head Halloween mask and waking me from my sleep.  My fear was so intense that my mother made him cut the mask in front of me to convince me it wasn't real. 

When I was four, he needed someone to hold the garage door open as he changed the spring.  A few boxes on a chair and voila!  I was tall enough to help.  I ended up on the ground with my arm stuck under the door. 

He, somehow, was unable to keep a job, so mother was the breadwinner most of the time.  Which left father as the babysitter.  His ideas of "playtime" cannot be found within the pages of Dr. Spock's Infant and Child Care. 

When mother finally decided to divorce him, I became a weapon for him.  I was invited to spend the weekend with my friend from school and her family at their cabin at Lake Arrowhead.  I was standing in the driveway; so excited; my little suitcase firmly in my hands waiting for mother to get her purse so we could leave.  Father drove up. grabbed me and threw me in his car.  He drove around town; nowhere in particular; oblivious to my screaming and crying to be taken home so that I could go on my wonderous adventure.  Mother was behind him with her new boyfriend the whole time.  She could see me through the windshield.  He finally just stopped the car and told me to get out.  There was no adventure that weekend. 

For mother, I became her burden.  This was in the 60s.  Divorce was not common and mother did not want to be reminded of her mistake.  I remember the endless rides on the school bus because the driver would keep me until the end of her route; hoping my mother would be home by then.  If not, I would just sit on the porch until she came home. 

Then mother meet the man who would become her second husband.  I felt safer around him initally.  Glad to have a "dad" back in the house so I wouldn't have to be the weird kid at school anymore.  "You don't have a dad?  What's wrong with you?"  Children can be so cruel; and I was the only child at school from a divorced family.  The great red letter D seemed stitched on every piece of clothing I had. 

And then I became the reminder.  I was taunted with the name "Geraldine".  How much more could I be like father than by having the feminine version of his name. 

And I lived up to that potential.  I was an angry and unhappy child at a time when no one cared or understood the changes that were happening to me.  I was just "spoiled"; "ungrateful".  How easy it became to punish me.  Again, I was the reminder.  The reminder to my extended family.  "Oh M, you've found this wonderful new man to start a new life with.  Too bad she's around to remind you of that mistake you made."  The fact that I was in earshot of these comments was my own fault.  I shouldn't have been listening!  Aunts, uncles, cousins.  I was the emotional punching bag.  It was always okay to tease me; hit me; ignore me.  I was his daughter.  I was just like him.  And everyone knew there was just something wrong with him. 

So I continued to live up to that potential.  I would fail at everything; why not?  I wouldn't amount to anything anyway.  Why expend the energy?  Drugs were an easy escape; but, they didn't fill the holes in my spirit.  Sex was a given.  How could I feel the need to respect myself when I didn't know what it felt like to be respected. 

And I've lived that same life since.  Marriages weren't unions of joy and sharing.  They were desperate desires unfulfilled.  Friends were fleeting because they couldn't overcome the fortress that surrounds me.  Loneliness has become my friend. 

I was blessed, though.  Not through any good decisions I may have made; but, blessed I still was.  Four beautiful daughters.  The trapped feelings inside me had an outlet.  The love that I could feel for them burned inside me.  They let me be silly and goofy and we would laugh until we cried.  And they loved me.  They LOVED me.  What a unique feeling!  And that was the problem.  It was unique.  A strange, scary, wonderful feeling that I couldn't always share.  And for that, the three surviving daughters carry their mother's scars. 

So, what HAS happened in these three months?  I have found a voice at the end of my fingers.  The potential that has always lived inside me can flow out from digits to keyboard.  I can weave a tale that can plant a visual in your mind.  I can make you laugh. 

And; for once, it is no longer "potential". 

I need to work..

I fear my depression is returning.

It's a double whammy actually.  With no health insurance now, I can't afford the anti-depressants that seem to have tamed the raging beast that has lived in my head since adolescence.  I also can't afford the thyroid medication. 

Along with all of the other maladies I am suffering from; I have hypothyroidism.  I've probably had it for a long time and never knew it.  This can be attributed to the fact that one of the symptons mimics depression.  I was gaining weight faster than I could eat and losing my hair in handfulls.  I attributed that to my age and my lifelong battle with that pretend disease.  And, of course, it became a vicious cycle.  Gain weight?  Eat to soothe the depression.  Hair falling out?  Emotionally slam my appearance against the wall.  Dry skin; wrinkles; no energy.  I could feel what little self esteem I may have plummet through the floor and into the abyss. 

Strangely enough it was my ex-boss and our manager who prompted me to go to the doctor.  They called me into the "huddle" room to have a private discussion.  It didn't cross my mind that they had a problem with my preformance.  I was doing my job as well as I ever had.  I've always been able to immerse myself in my work and leave the depression by the door.  I'm the life of the party; fast with a joke and available to anyone at a moment's notice.  The fact that my inside self was screaming, "you're worthless" my outside self could hold that voice in check. 

They told me they were concerned about my health.  Apparently my skin had taken on the color of putty, my eyes were dull and there was no mistaking the weight gain.  Massive weight gain. 

I actually broke down.  I couldn't believe it.  The tears came rushing out so fast I wondered if the little boy had taken his finger out of the dike.  I do not cry like that in public.  Or in front of anyone for that matter.  Why was I so out of control?

I vowed I would go to the doctor as soon as my case load permitted; sometime after the first of the year.  I wore more makeup than usual and kept my hair in snazzy little "business buns" to disguise the thinness.  The voice would be abated. 

I already knew I had COPD.  I had been diagnosed several years earlier.  Along with an explanation of how the disease would progress; he stressed that my smoking had to stop.  No more fucking around.  If I kept smoking, in five years my lungs would be unable to fight even the smallest of colds and I would be subject to recurring bouts of pneumonia.  Sleeping in a prone position would become almost impossible as the fluids filled my lungs. 

I tried Chantix.  Gum.  Patches.  All at once.  I was a walking nicotine cessation program.  It worked for about five months.  A 37 year old addiction was not going to go sweetly into the night. 

I never, actually, made it to the doctor.  One afternoon at work, I couldn't breath.  There wasn't even enough breath to utilize my inhaler.  And my chest hurt.  Really bad.  A tight, pinching feeling as if someone had grabbed my heart in a vice.  An ambulance was called and I was mortified.  I hate hospitals.  And ambulances?  I'd almost rather die than be carried out on a stretcher. 

Needless to say, you already know the outcome.  I no longer have a job because I have become a liabilty due to my illnesses.  While they stated that my performance as a litigation specialist was unmattched; the possibility that I would go out on another extended short term disability made my continued employment impossible. 

So, now I have no insurance which mean no ability to continue to see my doctors or pay for my prescriptions.  I've filed the prerequisite complaints with the EEOC and the Americans With Disabilities Civil Rights Division and they both agree I have been discriminated against.  The state's department of labor also agreed and my unemployment was not held back due to being fired for "cause". 

This does not negate the fact that I am 52 with a terminal illness.  Potential new employers are not breaking down my door as they would have in my younger, and healthier, years. 

And, I fear my depression is returning. 

If I Had A Hammer..

I'm not allowed to owe a gun.  It's not like I've been convicted of a felony.. plea bargin took care of that.. and.. I'm not completely mentally unstable (yet) but.. evidently.. there are folks who think I shouldn't own a weapon.  Folks who actually love me.  They base their evaluation on the choice of t-shirts I choose to wear in public..

"51% Sweetheart.. 49% Bitch..  Don't fucking push me"

"Back the Fuck Off... or I'll kick you in your esophagus"

"It will be fun to annoy you today"

"Drinking from the Fountain of Stupidity again?"

Now, in my defense, I wear these because I can't afford a bodyguard.  It's not like I'd really kick someone in their esophagus; but, it's an option I leave open. 

Here's the issue.  If I owned a gun, I couid, possibly, go to jail.  Unless, of course, I move to Texas.  Then I could invite idiots to my house and shoot them as they crossed the threshold.  This is legal in Texas.  Well, I don't know if you're allowed to actually INVITE them over first; but, what the fuck.  They'd be dead and I wouldn't necessarily have to mention that during the interrogation.   

I can't own a gun because, I come across way too many stupid people in the world (I'm sorry honey, women your age don't really fit into our bras). 

This would be scenario:

Me: (using a wire hanger on my truck door because I've just locked my keys in)

Stupid Person: did you lock your keys in your truck?

Me: stand still while I get my gun so I can shoot you in the face. 

I'm also not allowed to go to WalMart during normal business hours.  Or by myself.  There's a sign at the door and everything.   

The problem is this:  it's not like I have any aversion to the mulletts, old broads trying to buy clothes in the junior section. men in really tight sweat pants (is this even possible), screaming kids or rude muthafuckahs who aim straight at you with their carts.  Well, to be honest, it DOES have a little something to do with that.  It's that I can't get anything done when I'm there.  I stand in the aisle and stare.  Like, right at them.  With my mouth agape.  And before I can stop myself, I'll say something really rude (I know.. I know.. you wouldn't expect that of me.. would you): 

Me:  You wear your hair like that on PURPOSE? 

Me:  Wow, honey, embrace the age!  That mini skirt is SO not doing it for you anymore!

So, I have to wait until three in the morning to go to WalMart.  I need pillows and a storage thingy and trash bags.  I'm considering moving to Pennsylvania because they have a concealled weapon law.  I don't know (yet) if you're allowed to actually FIRE the weapon; I'm still looking into that. 

Dating 101 - part um..

In my own words

Dating 101?? Oh, this one's gonna hurt..