Two Can Play That Game (October 2016)

You know the one; the game of "Gratefulness and Gratitude".

Tonight I bought groceries for the house using MY bridge card. I don't mind contributing this, seriously, I don't. When I got home I brought the milk in first thinking (silly me) that that would let him know I was back and the car needed to be unloaded. 

Not a chance. 

Instead he starts bitching about a full and tied off garbage bag sitting on the kitchen floor for three days and was there a reason why I hadn't taken care of it? Jokingly I told him when he stopped throwing his trash into the kitchen sink, then we'd talk. He said, "Fuck that, I want it done now." I told him it was all about compromising. He basically told me to fuck off. So, he didn't help me unload the groceries, he bitched about the trash, gave me instructions on where the groceries go, and was basically an asshole. Which I have come to find is his normal.

Well, I'm going to stop doing all the nice little things I've been doing, like the dishes, vacuming, cleaning the kitchen floor, dusting, making sure the main bathroom is clean. I've even vacumed the furniture! It's going to suck to be him when he demands I do these things and I say something like, "I did those things to show you my appreciation for letting me stay here.  When you started taking me for granted, and stopped appreciating things I was doing, I thought, why bother?  The fact that this is YOUR place, and the fact that you had to make sure I was aware of it every second of every day, really got old." 

The thing that pissed me off the most, was when I would be watching a show on the living room television, he would pick up the remote and change the station saying "My house, my rules."

What's worse? He is teaching his kids the exact same behavior.  The exact same "entitlement" chip sits on their shoulders.

Not Settling (October 2016)

It is nearly impossible to blend into Jack's place when he is such as ass. If I'm watching something on television, he doesn't give a shit; he picks up the remotes and channel surfs until he finds what he wants to watch - which is either about hunting, hunting or hunting.

I have yet to hear one grateful word from him and the things I do around here and until I do, he will not hear one grateful word from me. I don't care what Kay thinks about me or what she thinks I should do in this situation. I am more than earning my keep around here, and it's killing me to do stuff around here because they don't appreciate what I do for them and they are ALL a bunch of spoiled ungrateful people. They are absolute pigs. I will have to capture some pictures and post them. You have to see it to believe it.

The other night when Jack told me I would be cooking dinner every night, I'm pretty sure the "fuck you" look on my face spoke volumes.

Dad has a truck camper in one of the barns and I got to thinking - what if Jack's truck could take it to a campground where I have water/sewage hook-up and I live in there.  Now THAT would work much better than staying here with Jack the jerk.

I got an eye exam today and because it's through Medicaid it might take 6 weeks to get them back.

I also scheduled my first psychiatrist appointment for tommorow and I can't wait. i need this appointment desperately. I can't take anymore of Jack telling me to quit all my meds. There is no reasoning with someone who knows absolutely nothing about mental illness. Asshole.

The Voice (November 2016)

I talked with my dad a few minutes ago and as I had suspected he had no idea what had transpired between Kay and me earlier in the week. I told him about sleeping in my car at the farm and he was fine with it and said that sometimes people just need their space. I told him the stars were magnificent.  He did tell me I should have told someone where I went. The thing is, until I actually wound up there, I wasn't exactly sure where i was going. 

I didn''t sleep well at all. Not because of the bed arrangement, it was because looking up at the stars I realized how insignificant we are.  Not just me; all of us.  At the end of the day, nothing really mattered at all. (Waking up to Jack's deep baritone voice yelling my name didn''t help matters any either.)

Here We Go Again (November 2016)

Last night I, once again, hit my shattering point. The sharp edges of every object available to me were begging me to make just one cut. Just one tiny cut to release all of this pain bottled up so deeply inside me.  Instead, I did two very smart things. 

I called a crisis helpline and after talking with her I pulled several blankets out of my POD and slept in my car at the farm. For whatever reason, Jack came out to the farm and noticed I was here. "Are you all right", he yelled? "Would it matter if I wasn"t?", I yelled back.  "I've got kids", he yelled over his shoulder as he walked away.

That was the end of that. For now.

What I am sure will happen next is Jack will call Kay and blow everything out of proportion to suit THEIR fucked up needs, Kay will call me again to tell me how ungrateful, selfish and whatever else comes into her crazy head and I will be right back where I started.

To What End? (December 2016)

I have a job interview on Wednesday (Yeah, me!) which meant I had to tear apart the POD to find everything I needed in which to do so.  I was going at a good clip, finding the things I need - when the tears started. Which brought me to a standstill as I had a rambling conversation with God about missing my kids, feeling to tired and beat up to continue dragging myself through what I think is a meaningless and useless life. 

Jack called me in for dinner, few words were exchanged while we ate, and afterward I went back out to the POD.

I had pretty much emptied the POD in search of the items needed, and found, when Jack came outside to make snarky comments about how better hurry up because it will be dark soon, blah blah. If he was so concerned about darkness coming, why didn't he pick up a box or two and help? Instead he went back into the house.  Later, I had my arms full of an 8-inch thick, queen-sized down feather bed so I tapped on the door with my foot. I could see him through the window and told him my arms were full so I couldn't open the door. He continued to sit in his chair. He made no motion whatsoever that would let me know he would come open the door. Really? Really?!

My dad keeps reminding me that I am a guest in his home. I get that. I am not, however his fucking housekeeper or cook. I'm a GUEST in his home. So either my definition of guest, as defined by Emily Post, is completely wrong or his and our parents definition is a big fat secret.

My anxiety level right now, on a scale of 1 to 10 is an absolute 10 so I am laying on Zane's bed, wishing like hell I had a Gordon Ramsey-sharp knife in my hand so I can just carve beautiful designs on every piece of my skin - right before I slit my wrists.

Edit: June 3, 2017

I forgot to mention that Jack-ass told his mother that I wanted him to re-pack the Pod. In hindsight I should have. Then, when he stepped inside the Pod, I would close the door and lock it. 

I can hear our parents now, "Do you know where Jack is?"

"No. No, I don't. Sorry." (Not sorry)

Bwahahaha

Frying Pan - Meet Inferno (October 2016)

I did not think I would finish loading the POD on time, yet I did. It was rough physically and emotionally. Physically for obvious reasons, and emotionally because I had always had just a teensy bit of hope that that would be the place where Henry would come home to me and also because I have now completely severed all ties with the HCA Town. As I took one last look around before I closed the door to Apartment 97 on Thursday - the feelings were indescribable yet overwhelming.

And then, on Friday night, my stepbrother and I got into a major disagreement (read: very loud argument) about how people need to leave the past in the past and just move on and quit dwelling on all the stuff that's happened; just let it go. I tried (unsuccessfully) to explain to him how I was not the type of person that could do that. I just couldn't.

The whole thing started when I told him I would like to hurt my brother and slap my mother and everything he said after that sounded like he was defending the both of them.  Those weren't even the worst of the words he hurled at me.  (Of course  by this time I am already sobbing and ready to slit my wrists because it was just one more time in my life where I felt so fucking alone, unwanted and unnecessary and I had literally NO place to go. My back was in the corner and I had no idea how to even claw my way out because he brought out the big guns, so to speak, and that crippled me then and there.

Jack, my step brother, told me I needed to get off all this med shit because that is what was doing this to me. (This came after he smoked marijuana.)  He walked into another room when he said it and I dropped trou and yelled at him to come back and look. I asked him several times to look and several times, from a different room in the house he said "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

I continued yelling - almost screaming - even louder, "Jack, I'm serious COME AND FUCKING LOOK AT THIS!" I showed him the healing cuts on my right upper thigh and the healing marks on my left forearm. "THIS IS WHY I NEED THE MEDS I TAKE. THE MEDS ARE THE ONLY FUCKING THING KEEPING ME ALIVE."

I hate my life.

P.S. I did not self-harm after that. I promise. I thought very seriously about it - especially when I had an extremely sharp boning knife in my hand - yet I didn't do it.