Over It

I surrender. 

Making do with what I have

I've made my peace with the fact that I cannot afford my favorite hobbies and amusement right now. I'm still bitter about being out of school and scrambling to pay bills, but I realize that those issues aren't going to be resolved anytime soon. 

I've begun taking mom to the gym. There are senior fitness classes she can attend twice a week and the possibility of a third coming soon to our local gym. This was our first week, so she's feeling more tired and weak than usual. I told her that it's too be expected until she gets back into the habit of exercising regularly. When I first started caring for her in March, I made her walk the grocery store with me for exercise, but once I started working part time that wasn't manageable anymore. I considered the time that it takes to get her to and from the gym, and it seems like this new schedule is better for both of us. Sure, I'd like to use the time to earn money instead, but mom's mental acuity suffers when she's left alone so much. Taking her to the gym gives her the opportunity to socialize with other seniors and gives me the motivation to get back into the gym. My hope is that, once she feels comfortable attending the senior classes without me attending her, I can do my own more challenging workout. It will take a few weeks at least, and that should give me enough time to figure out how I want to spend my time in the gym. 

Today we attended the aqua zumba class. I found it to be a good enough workout for my current level of fitness and perhaps a bit advanced for mom, but she will work her way up to following along with the instructor. At the end of the class, we are rewarded with a soak in the jacuzzi. I kinda expected to have a few hours of rideshare today, but there was no time. Getting her in and out of the pool takes a lot of additional steps in both preparation and cleanup. Since I am now working a both at the San Leandro farmers market Wednesday evenings, I can no longer drive on Wednesdays at all. I already miss the money. The struggle is too real, but I suppose that I still feel pretty good about the change.

Notes From Breakfast

1. Don't sit at the counter if you want quiet.

2. Always get the gravy/sauce on the side.

Sunrise, Sunset

I think I'm gonna start processing the paperwork for mom to go to the dementia facility. She's more confused every day, and the amount of work required to care for her is getting to be too much for me. I thought that I would have some assistance by now, but it doesn't look like it's going to happen. She's just uncooperative. She won't let anyone else help her.

I need to go back to work. The financial burden is too great for me to even wrap my head around it right now. It'll take me at least a year to dig myself out of the hole I created living without income for so long. And all the bills... It's overwhelming. 

The house will go to the bank, so I'll need a cheap place to live, if it exists.

At Rest

One of the reasons why I love to travel is the feeling of being a visitor. When I'm a visitor, it's acceptable to feel like I don't fit in. I am not embarrassed by getting lost or mispronouncing a name. I expect to be treated like an outsider. With the recent racism renaissance, perhaps not initiated by but definitely given momentum by Trump's hate campaign, I feel like an outsider in my own country. The pain is often unbearable. I ran from it as long as I could. Now, I'm broke and tired.

One of my passengers asked my opinion of Kaepernick's protests. Of course, he was white. I told him, just as I tell anyone,  that the man is an adult. He has the right to do what he is doing. I don't have to like it or dislike it. He is bringing energy and attention to a very important issue. The ignorant statements surfacing en masse are not surprising. Those are what make me angry. The time for change is upon us. Instead of resisting and opposing it, which is a waste since it's inevitable, help shape it. There is room for everyone to have their fears heard and addressed. If people only listened to each other. I mean REALLY listened, like they do with someone they love and want to help. If we only did that, this would be a much better world for all.

Meanwhile, at home, Mom asked when the white host was going to be back on the funny videos show. Apparently, she thought Alfonso was a temp. Yup, it's even in my own house. It's weird to be the black child of a racist Asian parent. She doesn't like to look at dark-skinned people on TV. It's been forty-two years of this shit. I don't even try anymore. What's the damn point? 

Settling

I'm working part time now. I run a both at the farmers market for a local bakery on Sundays. I drive Uber and Lyft at least a few hours on mom's dialysis days and around six hours on other days. The arrangement allows me to be home to prepare breakfast and dinner every day. With the dementia, mom isn't capable of using the stove safely. I've seen her set dish towels and pot holders on fire trying to make hot cereal, so I set everything up so she only needs to microwave her lunch or put sandwich bread in the toaster. 

In facing two big challenges right now. The first is paying bills, of course. I'm trying my best to piece together enough income to cover a fairly minimal existence. Most of my earnings go to food, gas and tolls. A Mercedes isn't the ideal rideshare vehicle. I have my first student loan payment next month, I'm 800 miles from the next scheduled maintenance on my vehicle and I gotta make tax payment arrangements in October. 

If mom would just do the few things that are required of her, I could find a way to make this work. However, she is not only trying to bend the rules at home. She has been intimidating the dialysis attendant to disconnect her from the machine before her treatment is completed. She doesn't think that I know what I'm talking about when I tell her that there are serious consequences to this behavior. I need to prepare myself for the doctors to step in and place an order for her to be institutionalized. I'm starting to accept that it is unavoidable. She is the kind of person who cannot be trusted to make her own decisions. That probably should've been obvious by now.

When worlds collide

A friend that I'd been missing recently got back in touch. She revealed to me that she's a medium. She knew all her life that something was different about the way she perceived the world, but it wasn't until a recent traumatic event that she understood just how different she was. I asked some questions. I never really doubted for a moment that she had good reason to believe what she said, but I was still holding on to some skepticism. Then she started saying things that I wrote here, and I am almost certain that she never read them. She talked about my family members, whom she never met, like she knew them. She repeated word for word things the clairvoyant in Phoenix said when I wandered into the oddities shop near my apartment. It was surreal, like a dream.

I found it really interesting when she described the way she receives extrasensory perceptions. I was completely on board until she began acting out of character. It frightened me at first, then I felt curiosity, then I was concerned for her wellbeing and safety.

Between that conversation (which ended mysteriously and abruptly) and its continuation the following day, the strength of our friendship grew in leaps and bounds. 

I have met a few people in my life who are different or special in ways that carry a stigma in our society. I tend to befriend them because I admire the courage it takes to explore and live their alternative lifestyles, but it also scares me. As the child of a Baptist and a Catholic, I was raised to see these alternatives as evil and dark. Now that I have seen so much darkness and evil within organized religion, I am more open-minded. It's each individual's choice to be evil or good, regardless of what kind of spirituality they practice (or lack thereof).

With this particular friend, I believe that she has a gift. But a gift can also be a burden. I feel like I need to step up and make myself more available to her just in case she needs someone she trusts to hold space for her, with her. Examining this feeling brings back memories of other friends that I believe may have needed something similar from me when I wasn't yet capable of giving it. I'm wondering if some of those old connections still exist and if I can nurture them now that I better understand how.

Above all, I'm beginning to think that I've been pursuing the wrong things. I wanted a piece of paper with my name on it to show people. I wanted nice stuff. Now, I just want to know more and to be awed by how much is out there (and in here). I want to feel more. I want to ask more questions that lead to more questions. I want to taste the freedom that comes with having no idea where a path is leading, but being absolutely certain that I need to follow it.

I was so sure that there was no "other" for me. I had given up hope that anything wondrous would happen in my life. I guess I should reconsider.

Between you and your God

Mom often comes and sits in my bedroom. I think she just wants company, so I don't drive her away (except that one time she wouldn't stop talking shit about the rest of the family). I don't engage her because I know that only leads to her baiting me into an argument. I sometimes hush her when she tries to talk over the TV. She has attempted countless times to have a conversation. I don't care. We are not friends. I am her caregiver out of kindness and my own feelings of obligation. I feel bad for her because she has no one else, but I also am aware that she has driven everyone else away. I know that she always blames the other person when they abandon her. Maybe that's why I feel such obligation, but that's irrelevant. This isn't about me. She needs help. I give help. She needs companionship. She doesn't do what is necessary to have it. I cannot control that. I cannot control her. I do often try to explain another person's perspective in hopes that she'll allow me to mediate, but it's just a waste of time. 

The other day, while I prepared breakfast, she made her usual comments about the morning news. She said she wished that someone would shoot Trump. In the next breath, she said she prays that I will hit the lottery. I wanted to tell her to stop - stop praying for me with the stink of murderous thoughts on you. I'm not sure how she can believe that God would (if he was in the business of granting wishes like a genie) grant both a wish to end another person's life and a wish for financial gain. I wanted to repeat what she said back to her so she could hear how crazy she sounds, but I've done that before without the desired effect so I did not bother. I just remained silent. She continued with her running commentary on everyone else's life, and I just let her. It would be disrespectful for me to say what I am thinking, and it would only incense her. What's the point?

When she's being nice, I automatically reinforce my defenses. She has an agenda for everything she does. If she is trying to make me relax, it's because she is planning an attack. I am not fooled by these tactics anymore. Forty-two years have finally taught me everything I need to know about her. She feels malice towards any object of her affection. She is angered by love. Expressions of love are taken as signs of weaknesses to be exploited. She is so different from me. I don't know how I grew up to be kind and compassionate under the rule of someone so manipulative. Then again, I always looked elsewhere for guidance. With her there is only criticism and cruelty. I tried so hard to hide everything that I am from her. Now she depends on the qualities she fought so ferociously to diminish in me. I'm certain that the same God she prays to finds that irony amusing as much as I am certain that she doesn't even see it.

Is this living?

I finished Notes From the Underground, and it got me thinking, particularly at the end. It doesn't take much these days. Many things I encounter regularly have revealed life lessons, even cartoon reruns I've watched dozens of times.

I once comforted myself with a belief common in Buddhist teachings, considering each trivial task as a labor of love. The tasks themselves weren't important. I focused on my frame of mind. That hasn't been working very well lately. In fact, the very thought itself has been met with an army of opposing thoughts in my own mind. I once fought against the bitterness, assuming that it would make me hard and callous if I allowed myself to feel it. These days I often succumb to it completely, but the outcome is not as I expected. I am not inflexible or unsympathetic. Although I am not as talkative and it seems like I appear outwardly less approachable (judging by the way others treat me), I feel more. I hear more. I understand better. Something inside me is opening. I am quicker to shut people and things out, exterior influences that I believe are toxic, but everything else is allowed to wash over me. I submerge myself in listening, watching, paying attention, and I allow ideas to echo inside my mind to see if and how they take hold.

At the end of the book, the narrator talked about the assumptions we make about how to live our lives. He talked about the excuses we make up to validate the fears that hold us back from truly living and fully experiencing life. This spoke to me. I am filled with fear. The things that I feared most have already happened, and yet I am still controlled by fear. I thought that losing my job, my path to the goals I'd set for myself, my tentative foothold in the capitalist economy and the illusion of financial security would ruin me so absolutely that I would cease to exist, but here I am. Some days I feel like a great weight presses down on me from the removal of those crutches, but other days it feels like the weight was actually lifted when those things were lost. Illusions, every one of them. Certainly one is liberated by the removal of Illusions, right? Then there is this other, this nameless burden, this weighted tether holding me and causing me illogical despair. I said before that it is empathy, but it is so much more than that. I walk among them now, an ocean of mindless apes slowly marching to the grave. All of my life I believed in magic, luck, spirits, divine intervention disguised as coincidence. I took crazy risks because I believed that I had an invisible safety net. Now I only fantasize about it, accepting that it is nothing more than an imaginary friend I created to distract myself from the truth. Now I ask myself, which is living? Was I living when I believed in the the magical and wondrous or am I living now?

I'm not depressed anymore. I am grateful for it. I am grateful for many things. At the same time, I have no hopes, just wishes. No plans or goals, only dreams. So what am I afraid of?

Passing Ships

The years I spent hanging out at the boy club are a blur. When women became less rare there, couples often came looking for a third. That was annoying. I danced with anyone, so I met a lot of couples. Once I met an escort. He was handsome, charismatic and a very good dancer. I thought he was gay. My closest friend thought the same, and he pursued the guy with enthusiasm. 

One night during a trip to the "car bar" (I started keeping a cooler in the trunk for those hours between last and first call), handsome escort guy asked me to tell my friend to leave him alone. I was surprised. I was even more surprised a few weeks later in the car bar when he asked me to run away with him and start a new life somewhere else. I declined. 

I avoided the club the following weekend, and he called me at home. In front of my boyfriend, while we were lying in bed, I tried to be both kind and unyielding. The few seconds separating the end of that call and the beginning of the argument that followed were pregnant with insecurities that the boyfriend and I were trying desperately to keep from coming between us. It was the beginning of the end for that relationship. Fast forward through a handful of embarrassing drunken impromptu appearances in front of my friends, family and coworkers and I found myself single again. 

I've thought many times since then that perhaps I should have gone with the handsome escort, but I did not love him. It would have been wrong to encourage him to believe otherwise.

The Masquerade Ball

I cannot sufficiently express in words how it feels. As a child, I watched a lot of television. I saw myself in characters that bore little or no physical resemblance to myself or anyone in my family. I related to them strictly based on their personalities and how they reacted to life's adventures. I was a big fan of adult-themed sitcoms. For some odd reason, M.A.S.H. was my favorite. Hawkeye was my favorite character on the show because, although he had normal emotions, he didn't let the things that happened to or around him diminish his ability to find humor and amusement. There was always conflict, stress and danger, but the characters on that show still managed to work together as a team. I had other shows I enjoyed like Star Trek, Married with Children, Roseanne, Laverne and Shirley, Night Court and so many more. I never got into the black shoes : Cosby, A Different World, 227, etc. because I didn't know people like them growing up. My family is a mix of two races, and my Filipino mother didn't approve of me spending time with my black friends' families. When I was with my father, I was frequently surrounded by old military vets. Even now, I prefer the company of military vets to civilians.

This concept of belonging to a team appealed to me and still does. A team is certainly stronger than one individual, and the combination of weaknesses and strengths gives the team an adaptability one person could never attain alone. I had this idea in my mind as I matured that I would find my team, and on a few occasions I believed that I had. I never belonged to a team that consisted of a single nationality. I hadn't even considered it. 

As I get older and see more of the world, I find my race to be a bigger restriction than I could have ever imagined. I am judged before I've had a chance to open my mouth by people who have never met me before, and it's difficult to understand how one could possibly justify their prejudice. Many of those who took the time to get to know me well enough to mention it admit that they've never really known any black people before me. I don't mind them saying that. I know that I am part of a minority. I also know that black people are often portrayed negatively in the media. I don't blame people who haven't had the opportunity to discover otherwise for believing what they see. I do, however, blame those who accept what they're fed by the media as unquestionable truth. There cannot possibly be just one type of person in any nationality. People are complex. We are not all clones of one master copy. It is unfair for someone to be judged by the physical characteristics given to them at conception. Then, to assume that every person of a certain race shares the same mind is just plain stupid. 

I personally feel most comfortable surrounded by a diverse group. I have a fair understanding of most of my friends' cultures, and I enjoy the way they mesh to make life rich and interesting. I tend to keep the ones who share certain personality characteristics. They do not have any desire to cause a scene. They will not yell and fight in the middle of the street. They don't take things personally. They won't put their intimate business on display. If they have a dispute, they'll handle it semi-privately or just let it lie until it's no longer an issue. They don't lower themselves to petty scrapes, but they simply work harder to rise above them. They believe that there is no better revenge than to overcome an obstacle placed before you by a disliked rival. They are a well-balanced combination of intelligence, curiosity, empathy, logic and perseverance. We talk about everything from philosophy to toilet humor. No topic is sacred. Yeah, that last bit is usually the limiting factor. I've missed opportunities to be closer to people who were brilliant because they were too refined for crass conversation. Oh well. I don't want friendship with censorship.

I have tried to come to terms with prejudice and find a way to tolerate it, but I cannot. It's maddening. Bigots won't listen to reason, and we can't keep them from procreating. My anger is wasted on them, I know. So what am I to do instead?

The illusion of choice in modern civilization

The upcoming election has my country divided in a very confusing manner. On one side we have the approved candidate who is believed to be the one to maintain the status quo, which the majority of us find unsatisfactory.

On the other hand there is a caricature of the bored rich guy. It's almost as though he's been placed there as a joke to mock the stupidity of voters who believe they have any real choice at all. However, people are indeed voting for him! I wonder who the joke is on now. I have a feeling that, if he is elected, no one will be laughing.

Upon Waking

The transition from the dream world to the waking world has an odd beauty in it. I haven't yet figured out that what I'm seeing is real, so I'm still observing as though I expect it to morph into something else before my eyes. 

This morning, in my dreams, I had a conversation with my mom's doctor about treating her ailments with medical marijuana. As the dream pushed me away and out into reality, I held on to the idea. It is a good idea. After gathering my wits, I grabbed the phone and read up on the accessibility of mm in my area. Since she and I are surviving on her fixed income, the cash only access to mm is a major limitation. 

I've spent long hours considering our finances. I am, without a doubt, very uncomfortable. I frequently must console mom about money since she is both mentally and physically unable to help. She still worries although she knows that she is powerless. I must pretend for her sake not to be worried. I'm not sure how convincing I am, but I'm doing my best. I lose a lot of sleep over it. When I woke up at 4:30 this morning, I didn't get upset  about it. I knew that insomnia would return, so I just sat with it and let my mind go through whatever motions it desired.

I went back through my triggers for a while. Then I felt a bit of space open up, which allowed me to just observe without reacting. I saw myself always shielding from attacks and feeling anger about not being able to find peace. I saw myself feeling pain from criticism that was never fully directed at me, but projections of what others felt about themselves. I saw myself magnetized to negative emotions, drawing them in from every direction, absorbing them and allowing them to change me. I saw the optimist in me shrinking away. I saw my happiness as a tiny flicker being blown by gusts of wind with every word I used to weaken myself.

I am not a fighter. How many times have I said and written those words? I was lying. I am fighting all the time against myself. I have so many selfish desires that I completely deny. They're not evil, but I feel guilty for having them. If I was talking to someone else, I would tell them that they have every right to pursue whatever makes them happy and ignore or push out anything standing in the way (within reason). Why am I unable to give myself the same permission?

The consent conversation

When I was a student in prep school I was was a train wreck. Predictive text wants me to say that I was a train station, so yeah, maybe I was a train station with a bunch of wrecks in progress and more inevitable wrecks to come. I was too ignorant, too angry and in too much pain to let anyone help me. I had no coping skills. I had no confidantes. I had so much untreated trauma roiling inside my heart and brain that most people just wrote me off as a lost cause. The walls I erected around myself were impenetrable. I downed my sorrows in booze and sex most of the time, but on occasion I'd channel all that emotion into a school project or assignment. Then I would be unable to discuss my work or receive feedback without either getting defensive or shutting down. 

My female English instructors found me particularly frustrating. I had a goldmine of unresolved women's rights issues to pull from, but I couldn't stand in my own truth. I couldn't see myself as a person who deserved a voice. I didn't understand that, from a feminist perspective, I was the embodiment of what was wrong with society. I was a scared and helpless little girl in a woman's body, easily accessible and disposable. I didn't realize that I was a victim, STILL a victim. I was victimized at a very young age, and I was unable to mentally mature past that age. I was stuck. I believed everything that happened to me was either due to my poor judgement or because I wasn't good enough. Now that I am a mature woman, aware of my rights, honest with myself and receptive to love, I see it. I see why I made them so angry when I shrugged off their questions and refused to tap further into my feelings. It took forty years, but dammit I get it now.

I don't know what to do next. There's a lot of crying. Yeah, more crying. Great. It feels like somebody I love died.

There's a firestorm of sexual assault scandals brewing around my old school. They're gonna get crucified. And you know what? Fuck 'em. We all have to deal with the ugly consequences of questionable decisions we make. The school decided to protect students who victimized classmates. Now it can find out the cost of that decision. One of the minority faculty members is being unfairly ostracized for his involvement in one of the scandals because he was unable to provide effective counseling in a situation where the offense was in the process of being swept under the rug by the institution's leadership. Yes, that is the school's response to the scandal - fire the guy who was just trying to help the kids.

In this world a girl has to stand up for herself because the adults around her are too chicken shit to protect her. If that girl is like me, she'd rather just disappear. When you start fighting, you never stop until you're dead. I don't wanna spend the rest of my life fighting. Ugh. Maybe I'm deluding myself by thinking that I have a choice. Maybe that's what all this 

mother-loving crying is about.

Ugh. This shit again.

I saw a comment while scrolling the fb timeline that concerned me. It went something like, "Black people can say 'all lives matter'". The commenter isn't black. My gut reaction was, 'I love her. She totally gets it.' Then I was overcome with a very unpleasant feeling. We just created a new "nigga". Black people can say it, but white people can't unless they want to be considered racist. Damn. Another division. That is the opposite of what we're trying to do here, right? Or is it? What are WE trying to do? Who is "we"? I am trying to keep the family together. It pains me to see people so divided, especially when I so strongly believe that the only answer is unity.

I've said this a few times to people individually, but I haven't posted it because I don't want to make my page an open forum for this conversation yet. I have enough to worry about without adding this. I am barely managing what's already on my plate. Anyway, here it is. I did not take the Black Lives Matter pledge. 

Although I agree with the core values of the movement, I support many who are actively representing it and I even defend it when I see it being misrepresented, I will not join. Why not? Because there is too much fury in and around it for me. Extremists have practically assassinated its reputation, and it may never recover enough to be considered inclusive or nonviolent. I am not capable of processing that level of emotion without doing something really desperate and really really stupid. I am angry/upset/distressed/fed up. I understand the people out there setting shit on fire. I would probably be high for days on endorphins if I allowed myself to hit the street in a whirlwind of rioting rage, flames, breaking glass and primal screams. It would feel AWESOMMME and so satisfying in the moment. It would solve absolutely nothing. It would serve no one. It would make me "another one", another nameless, faceless, violent, angry black person. It would divide us further.

I don't need to constantly be reminded that we come in different colors. I don't need to be reminded that some people think they are better than me because they are not the same color as I am. I know that my ancestors were bought and sold as property. I don't need to be reminded of that either. The ones that need reminding are actually not affected the way one would hope - they're proud to be descendants of slave owners. They would like to return to those good ole days. None of this is new. None of these tactics are new. You wanna know how to change people's prejudices? Live. Be unapologetically yourself. Pursue your joy. Love yourself. Love them. Let them see your happiness. Let them share it. Let them love you. Work together. Play together. Build shit together. That is the only way.

I have shit to do. I can't risk getting arrested. I have this crochety old lady depending on me every day to keep her alive, and that is more urgent than Civil War Episode 53. I can jump back in for episode 55. It doesn't matter if I miss a few because every episode is the goddamn same. All these years have passed, and this ignorant racist shit is still an issue. Hold on, lemme check... Yup, still there!  Are you fucking serious? Go away. Get off my mom's lawn. And while you're at it, shut up. Shut up and go sit in the corner until you can act like you have some sense.

The world we live in today breeds extremism. The constant barrage of hate is too much. We fucked up. Full stop.

Still moonwalking

I'm back to baseball caps and sweats. I went to war with my emotions, and I used the chocolate chip cookie mug recipe I found on Pinterest as a weapon in several epic battles. My face suffered the most casualties. I decided to begin a sugar detox after developing a particularly menacing cystic pimple on my cheek. I tried to prick it with a hot needle today, and it turned out really ugly. I acted prematurely because the pain was nagging me, but I should've given it another day. The inflammation spread quickly, and I attempted to calm it with an aloe and lavender salve, but the damage was done. I had to pick up mom from dialysis, so I tried to reduce the swelling by applying an ice pack, but it had the opposite effect! It became sentient. So anyway, I have a conjoined twin on my face now. I'm calling her Frida.

My shoulder is worse now than when I originally injured it. I can't even let my arm hang at my side without pain, and I keep aggravating it every night since that is my preferred sleeping side. This morning I woke up with a headache from clenching my teeth every time I tried to roll over in my sleep. I usually fall asleep on my stomach, but that is also a painful position for the bum shoulder. I now have to sleep on my back. I hate it. I'm up late pretty much every night watching TV. I attempted to strap an ice pack to myself several times today, and I simply cannot secure the Ace bandage without painfully twisting the shoulder. It's frustrating.

Mom's having a hard week too. Her mood swings have been intense and unpredictable. I had to put her out of my bedroom a few days ago - after telling her that I am no longer participating in her manipulative conversation tactics. She looked offended, but I think she was mostly surprised. I've been calling her on her shit with the exactness of a scalpel lately. I'm not doing it to hurt her so much as I am protecting myself. I'm sick of always being the one to take the abuse, internalize the pain and cry it out. I think 42 years is more than enough of that. She still tries to ambush me with the blame assignment in the middle of a self-pity party, but I am getting good at shutting that shit down to silence. Today I put the Benadryl on top of the fridge after she asked me how many pills were in the bottle. I know that her suicide talk is another manipulation (because I have offered her the gun too many times to count and she won't take it because Catholicism), but I figured I should still be cautious just in case. I'm taking her in to see a doctor tomorrow. I think the inconsistency in her blood sugar levels and moods over the past few days are related. I think it's a UTI. Dialysis patients have a strict limit on how much liquid they can consume, and she hates drinking water. Hates it. She won't admit it, but I have been arguing with her about drinking more water for at least ten years. I wish she would've listened to me before her kidneys failed, back when she could've saved herself from all this misery. She used to complain so much about arthritis (refusing to drink water because she didn't want to walk to the bathroom so frequently), but I bet she'd give her right hand to go back to having only arthritis pain. Her health is so delicate now. I feel bad for her. Yes, I do feel bad for her, but she's still an emotional tyrant. I am developing the ability to see her as both fragile and cruel. I don't like that at all, but I'm certain it is helping me to overcome a bunch of my limiting beliefs around love and pain.

Last, but not least, the poverty sucks balls. I still don't have the money together to register my car. Several somethings will have to go unpaid (joining an already significant stack of unpaid bills) so I can legally stay on the road. Mom is still unable to demonstrate that she is capable of taking care of herself for more than a couple of hours. She cannot get a meal together, even when the food is already prepared and placed in easily-recognized containers. She acts like she doesn't want to eat when she's hungry - she just wants to whine about it until she is too sick or weak to do anything for herself. I'm not sure how I can go out and make money if I need to be here for every dang meal. Considering the gas mileage and maintenance costs for my vehicle, SF is the only place where I can drive Uber and potentially do better than just breaking even. Being poor is not cute. Having accounts in collections is not cute. They don't even bother calling me anymore. They can't threaten me with anything, not that they've actually tried - most of the creditors' reps are very empathetic about my family situation. My credit is already shot, and I can't work so there's no income for them to garnish. It's the American dream.

Open your eyes!

When I was 26 I made friends with some retired cops who worked security for the Sorenstein-Hayes theaters in SF. We'd joke around before my ushering shifts, and they bore witness to the greatest heartbreak of my life. Karl was my favorite. He had rosy cheeks, white hair and a white moustache. He gave me great advice. He taught me how to parallel park. One day, just before the end of the ten year run of Phantom of the Opera at the Curran, he gave me his business card. He was working in the DA's office in Oakland. He told me to be careful out here and call him if I ever found myself in any trouble. He said that I was a good kid, and he hoped that I'd one day go on to be successful at whatever I chose to pursue. I visited the theaters several times after securing gainful employment, but I never saw Karl again. I found his card in my files a few years ago. I knew that he couldn't possibly still be there because he was already an old man when I knew him. I wonder if he's still alive. I wish I had kept the card so I could look him up.

I know that there are more cops out there like Karl than there are bad ones. I wish they weren't all grouped together and demonized as monsters simply because of the career path they've chosen. I don't think that anyone becomes a police officer with the intention of abusing their authority. People are just unpredictable. Some of us end up being evil. If there wasn't such a terrible punishment for whistle-blowing within law enforcement agencies, the bad ones could be easily weeded out. People are not the enemy. Policy is.

Phew

I don't know what to do with myself. I think about the gambling and the designer party drug scene and all the money I spent. I mostly remember the dancing. It was always about the dancing. I didn't need drugs to dance if the music was good, but it was most often just tolerable and I needed to dance out all my frustrations. Hours would fly by and everything that worried me would evaporate away with my sweat. Over the years I watched some of my closest friends get lost in the drugs, but I mostly kept to the dancing. It's funny how I can take a break from something that seems impossible to resist. I've always wondered how I managed it. I even surprised myself when cocaine made a glamorous comeback. It's not that I didn't like it. I just had this terrible feeling that it was more than I could handle. I spent my entire life avoiding the law as much as possible, and cocaine, mushrooms, crystal meth, special k and a slew of others that I never had the courage to try all seemed like they were going to get me in serious trouble. I just wanted to have fun. In general, none of that shit is fun. It's just like alcohol - you can have a great time when you're tipsy and your inhibitions are lowered enough to silence self-conscious thoughts, but once you're drunk it all turns ugly. It's another delicate balance. I think that's also why I stopped smoking weed. I enjoy feeling relaxed and tipsy, but I hate being so intoxicated that I can't trust my own judgement or worse, that I am completely out of control. I hate waking up the next day regretting things I've said or done. I got enough of that when I was discovering the effects of alcohol in high school. Once you turn 18, consequences get all too real.

I wonder how I'm gonna find a good physical outlet without the money for parking, gas and club cover charges. Even if I could miraculously come up with all that, mediocre music would only frustrate me. In Phoenix I looked for studios where recreational dancers could go and get a good sweat, but I spent so many of my waking hours chasing money that there was nothing left for dancing. 

I have almost three hours of free time on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday mornings that I use for errands. I contemplated going to the gym instead, but I haven't made it there yet. I'm not sure what I'll do there on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but Saturday mornings have a few promising class options. I just need a little bit of gas money, which shouldn't be difficult to squirrel away once I've taken care of my already overdue car registration. Yes, the gym will probably be my saving grace. Not only does it give me an important physical outlet, but it's also a potential hub for socializing. I need some of that back in my life too. I am so glad that I kept my yearly membership dues paid.

During the past week I managed to make myself presentable, no longer leaving the house in sweats and a baseball cap. I don't have anywhere to go, but I think it's helping all the same. I still have that little nagging feeling of wanting to start a fire (figuratively) or wander into a dark and seedy, back alley bar and get drunk with a stranger. That's probably what motivated me to cut my hair, shave and exfoliate. But I've somehow managed not to do anything stupid. I'm gonna call that a win.

A balancing act

I'm angry again. The numbness has worn off. I miss it. It's no wonder that I was such a stellar citizen when I had a drug habit. I needed that shady underbelly as an outlet.

I now understand why I'm so angry. It's empathy that pisses me off. I have ruined every aspect of my life in favor of trying to keep this family together because I love these fucked up dysfunctional people. I feel their pain. I give up everything to try and help them. I'm angry because they don't deserve any of it. They don't deserve my love or empathy or help. They blame me for things that were beyond my control. They blame each other. They are trapped in a cyclical abusive dance, and they push me to dance with them every day. I'm angry with them for not making an effort to change. I'm angry at the system that causes so many like us to repeat the same process. But mostly I'm angry at myself for sacrificing every opportunity I've had to break away from this family. I'm angry at my friends for telling me not to return here, even though they were right. 

I think a lot about the things that are missing from my life, basically everything. I've kept my nose so clean that I have no outlet for these emotions. Albeit delicate, I managed to strike a balance when my former employer rescued me from obscurity and gave me a purpose. It wasn't perfect, and I still had a hole to fill, but it was direction and focus and it kept me busy. There was a way to channel some of this energy into something productive instead of allowing it to fester in my brain the way it is now. Every day is the same exact battle, and I am so tired of fighting it, but I didn't leave myself an out. I burned every bridge to another option. If I can't save it, 'm going down with this ship.

So, I am angry. I am so angry that I could explode. I'm afraid to work on the book. Remembering the past just makes it worse. It makes me hate them. I know that hate is never the answer to anything, but I need to finish the book. I don't know if it will solve any of these problems, but maybe it will free me from this overwhelming guilt and obligation I feel towards these people. I am afraid to feel more anger. I don't know if I can be strong enough to keep myself from being overcome by hatred. It's not the book that scares me; It's me.

Comfort in dark places

I wrote about my first childhood memory. It's the first complete chapter I've ever written, the first time I felt like I didn't need to keep something open for editing. That was three weeks ago. I haven't been able to touch the computer since then. 

I thought I would be weepy, but the more I remembered the less I felt like crying. I just felt numb. I feel numb. Well, sort of. I mostly feel numb. The rest of the time I feel either anger or hopelessness. I fantasize about sitting in front of my family, pulling out my loaded gun (which is funny since I have never actually loaded it) and shooting myself in the face while they watch. That doesn't make me cry either. In fact, it fills me with a satisfaction that feels selfish and naughty like setting something on fire.

Gimme a break.

I have no love for 2016. 

I keep examining the decline of my happiness. I had no delusions about returning home. I knew that this would not improve my emotional state. I also knew that I would be lost and plagued with guilt if I completely severed ties with my family. It was a difficult choice. Not unlike the upcoming election, I had to settle for the lesser evil. That's what I thought I'd done.

The longer I remain here, the less I value my life. Many of the things that brought me joy gradually disappeared. Others lost their magic. I occasionally still play xbox, but I have so little time to myself that I feel like I'm forcing myself to play. It's not fun anymore. What made it fun was the company. Now I have no place to host a group of friends, no time alone or privacy to enjoy a friend's company and no money to go somewhere to hang out. I have been without income for months. I am sick of relying on charity. It's humiliating. 

I have never wanted a job so badly in my life. I thought that keeping my mother healthy would be its own reward, but  I also assumed that I'd be able to at least work part time. I didn't realize that I'd be a full time babysitter and referee for adults who act like children. The arguments and tantrums are so damned silly, and the only way to shut them up is to remind them that I gave up everything to be here. I have a right to be more pissed off than either of them, but I don't bother because it doesn't solve anything. All the fighting is stupid. I'm sick of it. I'm the youngest person here, and I'm always the peacemaker. Does that make any sense at all?

I need a break.

The longest day

This alternating between seething anger and semi-suicidal depression is starting to seep into my core. I can no longer distinguish whether this is a mood or who I am anymore. I live only to serve. I subject myself to constant scrutiny at home every day, and now it also comes from the outside. Friends I have lost contact with are now hurt by my inability to keep the lines of communication open. I don't feel capable of doing anything about it. I have absolutely no desire to talk about any of this, anything going on in my life with anyone. I don't want to hear anyone's opinion. I don't want anyone's criticism. I get enough of that already, more than my fair share. It seems that the hopes I've locked away for safekeeping aren't buried deep enough. I'm not sure why I feel like everyone wants to attack me. Maybe it's life trying to shake me awake. Maybe I'm just going crazy.

I am not a fighter. Fighting has never served me. I withdraw. When one is surrounded by people who know nothing but fighting (and who are so much better at it than me), one learns to absorb the blows. Eventually they will get tired of attacking. Then, there will be a moment of peace to try and reach them... followed by more attacks once they've rested. I know what historically happens to people who don't fight. Yes, they are eliminated. Fine. At least then I can finally have  peace. 

I always believed that if I just loved people they would eventually be kind to me. It doesn't appear to be true most of the time, but there are occasional moments when I think I've broken through. They think that I am weak because I won't fight. Well, I say it is them who are weak because they can't see what's right in front of them. They fight without knowing what it is they're fighting for or against. In the end, nobody wins a war - both sides are damaged. No matter how this all turns out, I want to know in my heart that I did what was right and good. Perhaps that will be enough to keep me going as long as I am needed. I will not fight. It is pointless. My family is constantly arguing about who is to blame for the current state of affairs. Duh. We all are. My mother's health and finances are her fault. My brother's finances and unresolved anger are his fault. My finances and depression are my fault. I could've stayed away and held on to the tiny bit of peace I had. Yes, I blame myself for coming back here every damn day, but that was my choice. I'm stuck here taking care of her because I chose to do it. It's not that I wanted this specifically, but I cannot live with myself if she goes to a home. I spent many years witnessing what happens in those places, and I would feel like a cold and heartless, self-centered spoiled brat if I didn't at least try to help. My discomfort is the consequence of that decision. Whatever ruin I am subjected to is a consequence of that decision. I am no stranger to bad decisions. I don't fear them. I don't fear much these days. This is my duty. Of that I am certain. That is all I have. The rest be damned. And it is.

Dear Lottery Fairy,

Mom's bored. She is trying to figure out a way to get back to the Philippines and carry on with the McCoy-Hatfield style family rivalry they've got going on there. She's got some money stashed in a bank there, but not enough to justify the inconvenience of travel abroad for someone in her condition. She keeps talking about the money as though it's more than what we've already confirmed is there. In fact, there is only enough in the account to cover the trip. 

The biggest problem with that is we have no way of getting there. I can't drive for any of the rideshare services until my registration is brought current, and we've had no money for that. The cost keeps increasing the longer it's past due, but I have no way of making money until it is paid. Mom's got a bunch of overdue shit that I have been working on bringing current, and therefore all of my bills are unpaid and most in collections. My credit is shit. Now she's talking about taking this trip for some reason she's not revealing, which I am certain has to do with the rivalry, and I am sooooooo fucking done with the whole conversation. We've already completed the cycle twice this morning. She brought my brother into the conversation a few minutes ago, and it didn't take him long to see that she's got a hidden agenda.

My brother volunteered to go in her place of she buys his ticket, which she initially agreed to do. Now she wants to go herself. She mentioned to me a few days ago that she was afraid he'd get shot if he goes to the farm. I told her that he wasn't going to the farm. She never mentioned anything about going to the farm until that day. She went on to say that the rival family was squatting on a parcel of land that she wanted to get back. I asked her if she considered selling it to them, and she protested. She said that she's waiting for the other family's patriarch to die so she could end the rivalry by removing them for good. I just stood there and looked at her for a minute. I wasn't sure if I was disappointed in myself for believing that she could stop being a greedy, mean-spirited gossip and clean up her act before she meets her maker or disappointed in her for completely disregarding the sacrifices I made to be here taking care of her and continuing with this crazy ass rivalry when it's so fucking obvious that we're drowning in bills and I am walking so close to my edge that I'm practically insane already.

I told her that the patriarch would likely outlive her, so she needed to think of another way to end the rivalry, preferably selling the other family the parcel of land they wanted so it could be done quickly and easily. Then it was her turn to be quiet, which is a rarity. She won't consider another option. She wants them off the land - the land that no one is using and hasn't been used by our family for decades. She doesn't have any plans to do anything with the land ; She just doesn't want them to have it. Seriously...

This is bullshit. I should've never come back here. If you are listening, Lottery Fairy, please get me the hell away from this crazy ass woman. I want to go back to school and get on witha a calm, relatively normal, pleasant life and let this crazy old bat go and chase her silly family rivalry to the grave. She needs a new caregiver who will travel because I will not be joining her.

Count the Days

I'm a good kid. You're a terrible parent.

There. My anger has a name. It does me no good, of course, to be angry with a person so helpless about things that happened so long ago. I cannot bring myself to speak the words because I know that it's cruel. I am not her. I believe that cruelty is unnecessary. However, I am still angry. That anger festers in my brain and my heart is shrouded in a sooty darkness. With every criticism, I feel it thickening. I look at ambitious people with an envy so deep that it makes me wonder what is happening to me. Once I have served my time as caregiver, I am not sure who I will be. 

Each day that passes chips away at the optimistic and hopeful girl I once was. I see no future. I see no reason to believe that there is anything good waiting for me. I live in a fantasy world inside my head every minute that I have free. All my creative energy goes into the fantasy. All my hopes and dreams are alive in the fantasy. It is the only place where they are safe. 

I have a few hours free three days a week. I often use them to have pleasant conversation with strangers at the store or play video games. The rest of the time I am an automaton, taking orders and doing the things that are needed to keep the old lady alive and well. It is much easier to be completely detached. If I don't feel anything, I do the job very well. If I don't allow myself to consider how deserving she is of kindness, which she is so apparently incapable of demonstrating, I have no problem with it.

She has no friends. I see why. Whenever she tries to start a conversation, I immediately shut it down. The only things she talks about are other people's shortcomings. She insults people. She gossips. No, I have no interest in participating in any of it. Do not attempt to involve me. If that's the only way you can carry on a conversion, then I guess we won't have any. I often change the channel on TV when she starts bashing celebrities because I just don't want to hear it. And so it goes. I am fulfilling my duties as a daughter, and that is all.

The Beanstalk

When I saw the neighbor's ice cream truck on the way home from mom's dialysis, I pulled over and bought some cheese fries just like the ones I ate for lunch every day in Jr High. He asked about mom, and I told him about her new dialysis port and the convenience it will afford her once the temporary one has been removed and healed. I'm just as excited as she is about getting her back into the pool and hot tub at the gym.

Rudy looked troubled, so I continued talking about the little things that mom and I deal with every day. He told me that I had a good heart. I said that I know this opportunity won't come again, so I must take it. Any other plans I have can wait.

Rudy told me that he lost his mom seven months ago to liver cancer. She was a breast cancer survivor, but the doctors didn't diagnose her liver early enough for treatment. They gave her eight months to live. She died two months later. He misses her; It shows in his eyes. I asked him a few relevant-but-not-prying questions to keep the conversation in motion so he wouldn't cry and feel embarrassed. To clarify, I don't mind if he cries, but he doesn't seem like the kind of guy who would be okay doing it. I understand much better these days that people need a release of these emotions. There's no reason to feel ashamed, but do many of us do. I have no idea what to do with the shame - theirs or my own. I don't know how to comfort someone who feels ashamed of their vulnerability, but I do often find myself in their company often. I suppose we hold space together by "coincidence" (which I do not believe in). We don't recognize anything in particular that is wrong with us, but we just don't feel right... or maybe we are okay and the world around us is broken. Whatever it is, it connects us on a much deeper level than anything that divides us.  At least we can agree on that.

Anyway, I told Rudy that I lost my dad in 1989 to cancer, and I didn't get the chance to care for him or be with him at the end. Although it is difficult to watch someone you love suffer, you want to be there to help in whatever way you can. Despite my intense admiration and adoration, my dad died alone and far away. I wasn't given a choice in the matter. This time it will end differently.

It's all part of my master plan

Humor me for a moment.

If souls choose their parents and their next life, what did I see in this one that made it so appealing? As a being of pure energy without a physical body, perhaps I took the linear timeline of this existence and its outcome as a package deal. Why?

I often feel like there are some people I love so deeply that our friendship could transcend lifetimes, but could that be reason enough? Okay, even as I wrote that question I totally believed it. Maybe I chose this life to be close to the ones I love. Suffering would be irrelevant. 

After my father died, I wondered how many years I'd have to live without him. How long would it take me to find him again? Will he be back during this lifetime in another form, or will I need to go looking for him on my next go round? I was certain that the few years we had together couldn't be all there was between us. The older I get, the more I start to believe that maybe that was it. That's all. So... if I knew that I would only get a few years with a person I loved more than life itself, would I still choose this life? 

Yes. Yes, I believe I would.

Ray of Light

My calves are tight and my knees are creaky. I danced until I feared I might injure myself. My legs are exhausted, and I'm delighted by it.

I haven't gone to a party yet, but I played xbox for a couple of hours yesterday and almost three hours this morning. I'm not going to push myself to also try to socialize. I think what I need right now is baby steps.

I know this much is true

Visitations from ghosts of the past in my dreams lately. Old, buried emotions stirred up. It feels like I never forgave anything, and I'm just going through life carrying all that shit on my back. Maybe I didn't know how to forgive. Maybe I still don't. What I do know for certain is that I have been calling it by the wrong name. I've been "protecting myself out of caution based on past experiences". NOPE. What I really do is withdraw in fear when I take a risk that ends in failure and pain. I'm not resilient in a way that easily bounces back with a smile, although it might appear that way. I have dreams and desires that refuse to be extinguished. They make me fucking miserable. There can be no peace unless they are satisfied. My mind is only quieted by working my ass off in pursuit of some chance. It's a crazy way to live.

I once loved with my whole heart. Every time it was broken, I closed part of it off. I didn't know how to stop the pain and I had no productive method of coping. After reaching a point of desperation, I just shut it off. It worked, so I kept doing it. Now I allow myself to feel so little. Why? I don't want anyone's pity. I hate to see it in someone's eyes. I thought that I must be a freak to feel things so deeply. People can't love that intensely. It's too scary. They always run away when they get in too deep. So why even bother to love at all? There must be a lucky few out there who have found someone who pulls them in closer when things get scary. I'm happy for them. I don't envy them because I tried my best. Maybe it just wasn't meant for me. Maybe I wasn't ready. Maybe I'm still not ready.

I wish I was one of those people who turns pain into productivity, who becomes more motivated with each failure. I'd like to immerse myself in creating a new project instead of wallowing.

Up and around again

I stubbed another toe on my left foot. This time it was the baby toe, and I'm pretty sure it's not broken. I still think that I fractured the middle one when I stubbed it. It took forever for the swelling, pain and color to diminish. This time the pain improved after a few days of limping. Today, day four, I felt like the toenail might be disconnected although I've kept it wrapped in a bandage. So, after the morning's errands and an hour or so of elevating it, I decided to take a closer look.

There is just a bit of redness on the inner edge of the knuckle and it only aches when I apply pressure. The wound, which I super glued closed before applying the first bandage, wept for three days. On the second day I began cleaning it regularly with my custom skin toner mix (witch hazel, hydrogen peroxide, lemon, tea tree, lavender, rose hip, sweet orange and calendula oils). When I applied it this afternoon, I saw that the glue was starting to peel. I also saw that the toenail was barely holding on, so I took out my cotton swabs, gauze and cuticle nippers, put on my glasses and got to work. It was a bloody process, but the gross, crusty infection that threatened to take hold on day two had no chance against oil magic. Once the partially disconnected toenail was sufficiently moistened with the toner blend, I could see the areas where it was still secured to the toe. I carefully snipped around them with the nippers until the nail bed was exposed. Blood. Gauze and pressure. Clean up with toner. More blood. More gauze and pressure.

Eventually I was able to trim off the remaining pieces of separated toenail from the cuticle and stop the bleeding. I let the raw skin breathe for a few minutes before applying coconut oil, new gauze and a bandage. No more limping! Yea!

Sifting through the dogpile

Every time I open the mail there's an overdue bill. Some of which haven't been paid in quite some time. Fees. Fees. Fees. This household needs more income. Even if I can get mom into the adult day care, it won't be enough. I don't know how to make the amount of money needed to get this house back in the black while caring for my mother. 

I was wrong.

The words that I avoided saying all my life have become common themes. I used to feel too exposed to tell people that I love them. It's still hard, but I do it often. I used to think that the only love that really qualified for verbal expression were family and romantic. Everything else was considered just friendship or lesser association. After finding so much comfort in friendship and so little from family and romance during the brief time I've spent in this body and mind, the realization of the depth and variety of love was not really a dramatic "ah ha". It was more of a "duh". I have a fairly large group of friends that I truly love. The passage of time and differences in spirituality, priorities, lifestyle or whatever the world throws in between us don't affect how I feel. In fact, a friend to whom I have given my love will still have it despite betrayal. I can love them from a distance. They don't have to love me back.

Since being separated from my thirteen year buoy, the job that figuratively and perhaps literally saved my life, I've failed and fallen on my ass really really hard and ugly. I was heartbroken and desperate to feel security. I didn't find it. I clawed and scratched my way to nothing. I was very angry about that. I took a lover and abused him. I gave just enough of myself to keep him around and denied anything he asked. When he presented me with an ultimatum, I told him (in not so many words) that there was a whole world of women out there who would be willing to respond to his requests. I was wearing my armor, so either he wanted to battle or he was of no use to me. I was incapable of removing it. There was no discussion. When he returned to withdraw his ultimatum a few weeks later, I turned him away. That was probably the most merciful thing I could do. I didn't let anyone in close enough to love me. It's not that I felt undeserving. I was tired of being hurt. I am tired of it. I've had a life full of unreciprocated unconditional love. The wellspring is tapped. At least that's what I thought.

I walked around feeling down and awful. I wondered why everything had to be such a struggle. I thought every easy acquisition was some sort of trick. I believed, during this entire transition, that I was being crushed, broken down to the barest foundation so that I could rebuild. I  release you, sob story. You were a lie. All this time I thought that I was clinging to my sanity, but it was the armor that I exhausted myself trying to clutch. Now, I am naked. It's uncomfortable. I feel too exposed. I feel a bit embarrassed by how exposed I am. I want to cover myself up, but I know that the effort is useless. I don't have to fight anymore. Good, because I don't want to. I have no expectations. I have no plan. I have no goals. I have no direction. I have no focus. I have no motivation. None of those things served me. I release them all. I release them and accept the one thing I am certain that I do have - this moment. Maybe it can be enough.

The Left Behind

I've held religion in such contempt most of my life. The idea of organizing people to pray together should be beautiful, but it has been defiled so completely that even the word itself makes my skin crawl. I understand now that it isn't fair. My opinion is extremely biased. I've been surrounded by God pushers all my life. I have only met a handful of true devotees, and, looking back, I think they mostly just felt bad for me because I was lost and too far gone to recognize much less accept anything resembling guidance. They were right.

No, I do not plan on joining a church, although now that I'm putting it in words maybe I should. I just want to acknowledge that I was wrong. Just because something powerful has been used to abuse and control people doesn't make it evil. It was the people who were bad, not the power. We humans know so little, but we behave like we know everything. Those who are the most ignorant seem to do the most talking and have the strongest ambition. So many evil people want to control everyone and everything. It's all one big ugly lie. Here I am living in a tiny crack beneath it with most of humanity. The weight of it is crushing us. The weight of an illusion is crushing us.

Prince died. My favorite artist since adolescence. I think maybe Elvis was my favorite before that. The moment I began to feel womanhood breaking through, Prince's music began to make sense. When his work got weird, I was already weird enough to appreciate it. He spoke of the dark places inside us that we try so hard to hide that they secretly control everything we do and the innocence beneath it all that can only be freed by the admission of our guilt and weakness. Even now, many of my favorite Prince tracks are those that do not interest the mainstream. I loved him. No, not the person (I've never met him), but the artist. He was, to me, the embodiment of creative purity. He was uncensored. He was unapologetically human. He was raw. He was beautiful. 

I grieve this loss so deeply that I surprise myself. It's the final knot undone in my unraveling. All of the feelings of loss I've ever had, denied or acknowledged, have come rushing out to the surface and blocked out the sun. The amount of crying that I've done over the past few days is disturbing to me. It hasn't shown any signs of diminishing. On the contrary, I've sobbed so intensely during the last 24 hours that I'm beginning to wonder where this is leading. It has taken away my dance! I have never been without my dance before. It feels so strange.

Now it is insomnia.

Logically I know that burning the candle at both ends isn't doing me any good. I just don't know how to relax. I mean, I am not doing anything but I can't stop thinking long enough to fall asleep. The bills are overwhelming and I'm really trying to figure out how to make the few dollars we have sustain us. Mom's medical insurance payments are in collections. I'm on the verge of having my phone cut off. Although I keep the limited variety of foods she's allowed to eat well stocked, I'm feeding myself instant noodles. It's all I can do to keep the car, which we need more than I need interesting meals. I haven't figured out how to pay the phone yet. Entertainment is out of the question. I also don't know where to find gas money to keep trying to drive for Uber, especially since I haven't figured out my most efficient locale or even how the hell to get enough rest to enable safe driving. It's kind of a mess right now. I am aware that sleep deprivation is not helping at all. I just don't know how to make it stop. 

A very wide right turn

It's difficult for me to believe that the series of events that put me back here has helped me to grow, but the feeling of stagnation is beginning to pass. I don't know what it means. I've watched and rewatched many of the shows that I love, Sherlock being the favorite, and today I thought that I might be time to pick up a book. I'm bored. It's not the same sullen rotting that I've been experiencing; I feel the need to act.

Sustaining two people and paying for my car is challenging on my mother's meager fixed income, and I have been unsuccessful at finding time to get out and earn money driving. The only hours available for such endeavors are the ones that my body prefers to use for sleep. When I haven't rested enough, I cannot tolerate the crochety old tyrant, and the few dollars I made driving nights weren't enough to justify the discomfort. There must be something else. I just need to find it.

I do like how simple my life has become. I just need some socializing and sweat. I'd like to go dancing, but I need money for that. I don't think I need much money, but I do need some. The taxes I owe are certainly going to prevent any leisure travel for quite some time, so I've abandoned that hope indefinitely. I still, however, feel my heart sink when I think of Venus. I need a bike. It's strange to say, but I don't feel like myself without one. Riding a motorcycle is so much a part of me that it hurts to not have one. I don't know how it developed into such an intense attachment after so many years out of the saddle, but now that I have only time I return to the thought repeatedly. It feels like heartbreak. It's more than leaving school, more than being brought back here to fill an obligation. I love bikes. I hear my breath and feel my heartbeat when I'm riding. I constantly analyze my stress level and awareness. I notice patterns in the way traffic moves. I anticipate what the other drivers will do on upcoming turns and twists of the road. I feel my vitals connected to the hum of engine and the pulse of the city. I feel alive. That's the best way that I can explain it. 

It actually wasn't the city that I was escaping, it was my family, specifically my mother. I love this city. I missed it. It was unfair to associate my mother with this beautiful place. This is my home. I have begun to meet compliments with contempt again. She gave me a compliment the other day, and I immediately dismissed it as manipulation. I'm still quite certain that it was, but I'm just beginning to consider that the compliment was still valid. My "driver belly" is shrinking. I suppose it was inevitable when I consider the disappearance of fat food from my diet and no more long hours behind the wheel. I haven't cut down on the smoking at all. No surprises there. I've stopped drinking. That was a pointless pursuit anyway. I only drink for fun and there's no fun to be had. I crave the intimate touch of another human being. I have someone in mind, but no free time, privacy or resources to enable the chase. What a wicked sense of humor fate has. 

what the future holds

I'm awake. I'm exhausted. I'm stressed. I've run out of my favorite shows to watch on Hulu and Netflix, so I'm watching those recommend for me. Currently I am watching Luther. I don't think Idris Elba is attractive. I typically melt when I hear a British accent, but his sounds gutteral and sloppy, like a drunk version of the British accent I covet. I like to watch him walk. His face is just okay in my opinion, but I haven't been too concerned with pretty faces since my own beauty began to fade in the mirror.

Luther's friend Alice is the type of friend that I most value. She will kill for you. She's crazy. Any friend who will kill for you is crazy. That's why you never ask those friends to do it. If possible, you never ask those friends for anything. It's better to just know them socially. However, everyone should have at least one.

I don't ask for help unless I have no other option. Sometimes I just don't ask at all. There's a price to pay for favors. Even when something is given to me without expectation of return or reciprocation, I have guilt and anxiety about the gift. I've learned that nothing is ever free.

I really really really really really wish that I could go gambling right now. I haven't been able to get my fix in over a year. That didn't bother me so much when I was working towards a goal and a dream. Now, in between preparing meals, driving to and from doctor's appointments, dialysis visits and negotiations to get my mom to put clothes on, go to bed, take hey medicine or even to just stop having a tantrum, I peel off my clothes, don my  pj's and watch TV in bed. I try to drink most days. Today I have a big glass of lemon drop on my nightstand. It is room temperature after sitting there for hours. It smells like vodka. I don't smell any lemon at all. It's unappealing. I guess I wouldn't make a very good drunk. I'm not even sure why I still try. I've no desire to recover from any kind of substance abuse. It doesn't look pleasant. I've enough unpleasantness in my life as it is. I hate feeling sick and I often get a hangover before I've even gone to sleep. Then there's the hives. What's the damn point?

I still don't feel suicidal. I know that I'm needed at the moment. Without that purpose for being here, the financial ruin I'm just beginning to suffer would drive me to dangerous behavior. Then again, if I wasn't here I could work and make money to pay these goddamn bills! I wish I could just get drunk or high or something. All this sitting, doing nothing with my hands tied by obligation is driving me fucking crazy.

I didn't enjoy my time in Phoenix. I should have. It was preferable to this. I should've  gone out more and had more sex. I didn't know that the time I spent chasing jobs was a waste. I thought that I was building a nice life. I thought that I was pursuing a dream. I thought so many things, so many things that do not matter now. I wish I had gone to the museum and shows while I was there. I wish that I'd spent more time connecting with the people I liked and singing in the karaoke clubs. I should've gotten more tattoos. I should have gambled. If the money I spent trying to build a life was going to go to waste anyway, I should've gambled more, taken more trips, seen more places. Why even bother with Phoenix or school at all? I should've gone back to London. I liked London. What a fucking waste.

I envy people with religion. They believe that God is going to make things better for them if they are faithful. They pray for relief. When it comes, they give God the credit and praise. When it doesn't come, they pray harder. The hope that God is on his way keeps them going. So, what keeps me going? Where does my hope come from? I don't know. It's there. The damn thing refuses to die. Someday I will be thankful for that. See, there it is again! So annoying. Here's the thing, though. When things are going well, I pray. You know, just in case. I don't know who I pray to. It's weird not knowing who or what to thank. I also share. I figure that blessings don't really "belong" to me, so it makes sense to share them. It's funny because my mom always hated that about me. I love to share with strangers too. Why not? There's no difference between us other than the routes we took to get here.

And so I push on.

wasteland of the ruins that were once my life

Mom still needs 24 hour supervision. I left her for fifteen minutes to go to the post office yesterday (she lost her SSI W2 so I had to mail a request for a duplicate), and she went wandering outside. If not for the steps at the front door, I wouldn't have such anxiety about it. I was angry with her for defying me and leaving the house. She didn't try to call me to see where I was, so she didn't do it because she forgot; She purposely went outside to be rebellious. 

Tomorrow I have an interview for a barback position at a place in Alameda that I once frequented because of its location. When Jeff and I lived nearby, it was our closest bar. I would be hopeful about that if I didn't get such grim news about my taxes today. I don't know how I'll come up with the $706 the preparer is charging me to file them, much less the several thousands I owe despite the prepayments I made last year. The preparer warned me that I will pay dearly for not having heath coverage right now, but without income I don't see how I'm supposed to remedy the situation. I'm ruined. I can't think of it any other way.to look at it. I am ruined.

When I picked mom up from dialysis today, she was weak and weepy. She's declining steadily. They need to move her dialysis access point because it's not safe to keep it where it is, but she's too weak to be put under anesthetic. The estimate of when they'll even consider putting her under is two to three months from now, so whatever they do will have to happen with only local anesthetic. It's likely going to be extremely painful both during and after the procedure. I don't think she should do the home dialysis because she's too damned headstrong to follow directions. I also think that she has a UTI. She barely drinks any water, and we're constantly arguing about it. The advice from the dialysis nurse to limit her beverage intake only made it worse. I'm in way over my head.

So... Murder-suicide? The only other option seems to be bankruptcy and government assistance. Either way, I'll need to surrender my car. It's the last piece of my old comfortable life. There isn't anything else left to give up. 

Do butterflies get trapped in spiderwebs?

There are so many layers to the lies that are constantly being uncovered in my mom's life. If I didn't pity her, I would be angry. I understand so much better why she has no friends. Those who find out or witness anything that she decides she wants to bury get pushed away and out of her life. Now there are none left.

Years ago, she'd planned on retiring with a close friend and they were going to share a home in the Philippines. No one knew what happened to that plan except her and that friend. Recently my sister-in-law ran into the friend on the street, and the friend inquired about mom's health because she was concerned about her following a stroke she suffered during one of their trips to the Philippines. This was maybe fifteen years ago, and no one else knew about it. Mom buried it by ending the friendship. I wondered what happened between them, but mom keeps so many secrets and takes so many things personally that I just dismissed it as another one of her perceived personal attacks. She used to say that the other woman was a witch and practiced voodoo. Now I see that was a tactic to keep me from talking to her and finding out the secret. 

I can't begin to estimate how many people and experiences I wrote off and avoided because of mom's advice. I thought that I was being a good daughter and listened to a lot of what she said, but she was wrong. It wasn't until my thirties that I really started to make my own judgments independent from my mother's opinions. My life hasn't been a huge success since then, but I have seen and done things of which she didn't approve and thoroughly enjoyed the ride. There is no life without risk, and there is no way to calculate every risk. Fear of risk is a crippling mental illness. I was raised on it. I don't think I'll ever be free from it, but knowing that it is there driving many of my subconscious beliefs helps me to move forward through what is often not as scary as I imagined.

I often feel like I am running out of time. These realizations about my beliefs and what has shaped them seem late. I'm 42, and I don't know what's to be done. Every time I stand my ground something falls apart. The safety net I thought I was building is an illusion. I am currently in the midst of financial ruin by my old standards, but I don't feel as suffocated by it as I felt when I was so busy trying to maintain the false sense of security. I'm not sure where my life is headed, and, for the first time, I don't really care. Things that were important to me before were based on values that were instilled in me by a liar. The only ones that mean anything to me now are those that I built myself in spite of my mother. I think she intended me to grow up to be a heartless gold digger or trophy wife. She didn't approve of any man I dated unless he catered to her (with cash gifts and physical labor). She never wanted me to care for anyone more than her. She was jealous of the tenderness I showed friends and insulted my generosity towards the downtrodden. She made me think that an open heart was a weakness, and that, above all else, was my defining personality characteristic. I couldn't change enough to be who she wanted me to be, so I just wanted to be nothing and feel nothing. That didn't work, of course. I tried sex, drugs, alcohol and gambling to numb out all the emotions. 

What's weird is that gambling is the worst of my vices, and just happens to be the only one she and I share. She gave me my first taste of it when I was about thirteen. We were in Reno for one of our "family vacations", and she decided that it was better for me to spend money in the casino than the arcade. I won a $56 jackpot on a nickel slot that first night, and the rest is history. Now, nothing feels as good as hitting a jackpot. Chasing gambling jackpots is what has ruined my finances. The drugs didn't stick. The alcohol didn't either. I wasn't sure why I was able to leave those vices before they got their hooks too far into me, but now I understand. Gambling feels like the old "happy family". The only time the family ever got along was when we were gambling together. I know now that it wasn't real. We were never happy together. We were merely distracted together. I have referred to my gambling habit as the greatest distraction I have, and it is the truth. I'm not sure if I can quit because I don't want to. I want to keep that distraction available to me. This lack of income is getting in the way. 

Take the dream away and just let me be.

It's weird, feeling heartbroken about a thing. It feels a lot like the time that passed right after my father died. I used to hear his voice on the street and turn around to look, only to realize that it wasn't him and remember that he was gone for good. I look at pictures of Venus, my dream bike that I finally had the chance to ride after wishing for her for 15 years (and never really believing that it would happen for real). She's gone. 

The dream of being surrounded by, playing with and fine tuning the machines that always excited and intrigued me is dying. I thought that holding on to the goal of getting back to pursuing it would keep hope alive, but knowing how close I was to realizing it is just making me miserable. My heart sinks every time I think of it, every time I hold my breath to listen to a passing engine. I forgot about it when I entered the work force. I accepted my station. After striking out to chase that dream over the past year and feeling so driven and alive, it's extremely difficult to do what must be done right now. I rediscovered my childhood sweetheart, fell deeply in love with it and now I must give it up again. It's time that I faced the reality that I really am giving it up. There's no way that I can go back to school anytime soon, and there is so much debt that I'll likely need several years if not the rest of my life to dig myself out once I am in a position to look for work again. 

I'm wondering if I should just surrender my car to remove the financial burden of paying the note and insurance. Since I'm basically surviving on the charity of others, I think it should at least be considered. I won't be able to transport mom to and from her dialysis and other appointments, but she could potentially use paratransit or some other disabled transport service. It is not realistic to believe that I can have a car without an income. Another sacrifice. You'd think that it would get easier.

What am I having for lunch (other than bitterness)?

Periodically I must answer the question, "What are you doing?" It's like I'm a child again. The huge difference is that now it can happen every two minutes if mom's having an episode of particularly forgetful dementia. After four or five times, I get annoyed and tell her to stop. That usually buys me a few extra minutes.

I've noticed that when she doesn't try to remember things the episodes are much worse. I'm not sure if she's tired of trying or just doesn't feel like making the effort. She has always been a chronic worrier. She gets herself stuck in these "concerned" loops, when she obsesses over one thing incessantly. Most of the time it's something unimportant, a detail that doesn't affect much. I have begun to tell her that I am not going to continue repeating myself for something inconsequential. If we're talking about her health: medications, diet, appointments, doctor's orders, etc., I will become a parrot. I am sure to try and repeat the same words every time until she gets frustrated. When she starts bitching, I know that she has absorbed what I said. She has a habit of asking similar questions as a manipulation method as well, constantly checking to see if my answer will change and trying to find a lie. I am not very good at determining whether she's repeating herself on purpose or stuck in a loop... not yet. I treat both the same way, so I guess it doesn't really matter. There's no benefit in me lying to her about her health. She may not ever realize that. I have to disengage to save myself. Otherwise I will go nuts.

The other day, on the way home from mom's dialysis, a tiny dog ran out into the street in front of my car. I stopped and got out to take a look. The sweet little thing came up to me and I picked her up. She was so happy to have found help. I asked the nearby landscapers of they knew which house she belonged to, and their guess led me to a trail that ran cold pretty quickly. I took her home with me and mom. I knew that mom wouldn't feel up to a field trip, so I figured I'd keep the pup overnight and take her to the shelter in the morning. Seemed like a simple plan. Well, about an hour after I made her lunch, mom started screaming about the dog and demanding that I set it free back out on the street to fend for itself because it wasn't my responsibility to care for it. She went on like that for at least five minutes while I got myself and the dog ready for the car ride. She refused to come with me, although her doctor requires that she be supervised 24 hours a day. She just kept yelling like someone was trying to do something bad to her and insulting my kindness, the same kindness that brought me here to take care of her. I wanted to tell her that she and the dog were the same and that I would send her to a home because my kindness and compassion was obviously something that she didn't appreciate. I didn't. I took the dog to the shelter. It was chipped, so no worries there.

I didn't want to come back. I wanted to jump on the freeway and just drive. I wanted to keep driving until this place and this life were as far away as possible. I love her because she is my mother. I hate who she is as a person. I know that hate is a strong word, and I am not exaggerating. I hate her. All of the things that I hate about her are the things that I am continuously subjected to. I'm not sure how love, compassion and hate can be so intertwined, but they are there. 

I'm gambling again. Yeah, I'm gonna be in deep shit if I can't find a way to work. The few hours I have free while mom's at dialysis haven't been lucky ones for me. I tried to turn a hundred bucks into a car payment, but I just lost the hundred bucks. For some reason I am not worried about losing my car. I don't really care about much these days. I figure that if I just lose everything it'll be a tidy end to my dreaming. If not for the dreams, I wouldn't feel so broken. Maybe if I let them go, I can just exist and I won't have to feel so unhappy and unfulfilled. Maybe that last little shred of who I think I am is what's holding me back from feeling alive. Maybe the thing that I believe is keeping hope alive is actually extinguishing it.

I am depressed but not suicidal, so that's a step up I guess. No drugs so far. It's not that I don't want any; I just don't have the connections anymore. I don't have any desire to go find them either. The drugs I loved were party favors, and I don't much feel like celebrating anything. There's a ton of booze in the house and no one else here drinks. I've tried drinking; It just makes me more bitter and depressed. I hate being hung over. I'll keep trying simply because it's so accessible and I am in desperate need of some type of escape. I'm smoking a lot. Everyone who smokes has a secret desire to be dead. I read that somewhere. Sometimes I don't want to smoke but I go out anyway because I just need to go outside.

I'm almost certain that this is a penance. That's the only way I can justify subjecting myself to it. 

When I get old, I'm taking up skydiving.

Transient Global Amnesia is the inability to either retain short term memories or access long term memories. It's pretty common for the elderly and people who have severe illnesses. Typically this condition's episodes improve after 24-48 hours, but it could take longer for individuals who experience delays in healing (such as dialysis patients). The doctors think that mom's got the short term memory TGA. Sometimes she's completely sharp. Sometimes she resets after five minutes, and we have to repeat the same conversation several times. Sometimes she resets after thirty seconds. Those are the episodes that concern me the most. She asks a question. I answer it. She stands there looking at me for a few seconds, then asks the same question again. If this type of episode happens while she's in the middle of something, she gets really confused. She then has a brief period of panic, which is almost immediately replaced by anger. When she gets angry, she attacks whoever or whatever is an easy target.

She's giving the nurses so much hell this morning that they've called me twice in the past hour to talk her down. I think I better go back to the hospital and give her a familiar target to attack so those poor women can have a break. Lemme just get some coffee on the way.

It's not insomnia

I'm awake. It's after 6am, and I've been awake for almost four hours. Why? Mom woke up at around 2:30am and came into my room asking what day it was and if she was finished with dialysis. I answered her. She asked again. I gave the same answer. She asked again. I then asked her what she was talking about, hoping to get more information about what she was asking. She sometimes forgets the words to express what she wants to say needs a minute to sort it out. After she repeated the same question about six times, I told her that it was still nighttime, and she should go back to bed. She said she had a headache. I told her that she should rest. Then she asked me what day it is and if she was finished with dialysis. 

"Go to bed, mom. I'll get you up when it's time to go to dialysis."

"Okay." She shuffled away, and a few seconds later I heard the lock on the front door click.

"Hey! Where are you going?" I jumped out of bed and flew to the entryway.

"I don't know."

"Come on." I led her back to her bed as we repeated the loop of her two questions and my one answer. She complained about her headache again, and I convinced her that getting in bed would help. I said that I'd call the doctor, but that was a lie. Migraine headaches are a common side effect of dialysis. I'm familiar with migraines; They are debilitating. I usually get them a few times a year, and I spend two days alternating between functional semi-conscious in the world under a carefully-layered combination of pain killers and shutting myself away in a dark room to suffer in silence. I know it sucks. What I don't know is how a person can cope with feeling that misery in addition to the apparent physical trauma of having their blood filtered through a machine every other day for the rest of their life. I don't know how to help. I am not good at consolation. That is not likely to change. 

The thing that I am obsessing over in my mind is WHY DID SHE LET IT GET THIS BAD? This is what happens when the doctor tells you that you need to change your diet and lifestyle and you ignore the warnings. You ignore them for OVER TWENTY YEARS! I want to yell at her about it, but it won't help. It won't make me feel better. She won't accept responsibility for it. Most importantly, it won't change anything. It's just wasted energy, and I'm already so tired.

Yesterday morning we had a 15 minute argument and standoff just to get her to put on shoes to go to the grocery store. She wanted to wear slippers. I wouldn't have made a big deal about it if she wasn't going to leave the car, but I insisted that she come into the store because she needs exercise. I didn't tell her that because it would've caused another argument. 

It was a very hard day for me. I took a lot of shit from her about everything, and eventually I told her that I'd heard enough. I had to shut her up, so I told her that nobody wants to listen to her criticism. When she started again, I told her that she needs to stop talking about things she doesn't know anything about. That got her. She threatened to punch me and stuff rocks in my mouth. I told her that a person who couldn't put on shoes without an argument didn't have the ability to intimidate me. Silent treatment. Success! I texted my brother to let him know that she might be ready to try and buy his love now. That's what she does, plays us against each other. She has always done it. She will never stop. I once told her that talking about my brother to me behind his back is something that she should consider stopping because it doesn't do anything but make her look bad. She hasn't really stopped, but she has adjusted her approach. The mudslinging has been replaced by what appears to be inquiries based on concern. It's the same thing. She just wants information that she can use for manipulation. Well, I don't have any.

I've been walking around, looking at everything and thinking, 'I thought that I finally got out. I thought that I had finally escaped this place, this family, this mess.' I hated Phoenix. I seriously hated it. However, I miss it. I miss school. I miss privacy. I miss having a clean kitchen and bathroom. I miss not having to explain every goddamn thing I do. I miss getting a direct deposit paycheck. I miss solitude.

Zombie

I'm a peace-loving person. There aren't many things that I'm willing to fight for, but peace is one of them. That sounds strange, but some people will continue to make your life hell until you fight, and then they'll leave you alone and move on to their next victim. I hate fighting. It pisses me off when someone makes me fight. Every time I feel anger, it turns into pain and sadness. It seems like the natural progression of those emotions. I understand the cycle. It's not the anger that I try so desperately to avoid ; It's the sadness. You can't turn sadness into anything. You can turn anger into productivity. You can turn pain into artistic creativity. Sadness doesn't have a complementary characteristic. You just have to ride it out until either your situation changes or the emotion runs its course. 

I was depressed. I changed my surroundings by moving to Phoenix, and I hoped that the things that made me so sad would be left behind. They weren't. Those things just became more demanding and urgent. I should've seen that coming.

I firmly believe that you attract people, things and events to yourself with your energy. Positive people can attract other positive people, but they'll also attract negative people who either covet their energy or want to bring them down. It's hard to tell which is which sometimes. I can feel when someone is going to engage with me, but I'm often stunned when the interaction is unpleasant. I used to believe that bad things happened to me because I deserved them, and there's still some part of me holding on to that belief. Logically, I know that's not true, but the idea of karmic retribution intrigues me so. Okay, now I'm rambling.

Going back home has me really stressed out. I have barely slept this week. In the we e hours I think about the events and decisions that brought me here and the ones taking me back. I think of all the comforts that I took for granted that I miss and the ones that I take for granted now that I hope I don't have to miss later. I obsess about being an underachiever. I wonder where all the time went.

I tried to escape Oakland for good. Yes, FOR GOOD. I didn't want to go back there, where the memories of painful events are constantly revisited and the same manipulative and abusive arguments are repeated with people that I just wanted to love. I'm not a fighter. When I'm backed into a corner, I become all claws and fangs just until I can clear a path to run away. I thought I'd finally gotten out of there. I had just renewed my lease. I thought that I was free. Well,

I.

Am.

Not.

Free.

The universe seems to be demanding that I fight for something. I don't want to! I am tired of getting my damn feelings hurt! I am tired of trying to live my truth and being vulnerable and raw in the company of liars. It has become quite clear that I am unable to stop caring about assholes (no matter what they do or say), so why is it so fucking impossible for me to get the hell away from these people? Somebody is going to start being good to me, dammit! <big sigh>

I love my family. I really do. That's probably obvious. I don't know how to fix us. If it wasn't for compassion I would just run away, but here we are. I've gotta go back. I have to try.