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.