Doorways, Sadness, the state of me

Every doorway is a choice, every choice is a doorway.

This is a key piece of my personal philosophy. I am a result of my choices, as are you. I am, at heart, an existentialist, constantly searching for some sort of meaning, that I'm not even sure exists. I identify as a witch, I firmly believe that some magic is science that we don't understand yet. I also believe that visualization is a powerful tool that can appear to be magic, if our belief in self falters. Much like my relationship with my vanquished loved ones, my relationship with certain deities is quite conversational. I fully realize that they are representations of aspects of things that provide focus. I follow no defined path. The deities that call to me are from vastly differing pantheons, but quite a few of them are associated with doorways and crossroads. Anubis is usually associated with being the Egyptian god of the dead, but he is also the god of divination and doorways. Death was a doorway to somewhere else for the Egyptians, after all. Papa Legba is the Keeper of the Crossroads.
I speak to quite a few Voodou loa, but always Papa Legba first. I have a large Anubis tattoo, with a matching tattoo of Sekhmet. Most people assume that it's her sister, Bast. Bast is a motherhood goddess. Nurturing and caring. Sekhmet is a war goddess, goddess of wrath and vengeance. The only way to stop her vengeance is to mix beer with the blood she has released into the streets, so she drinks it until she passes out. Sekhmet is to remind me to slow my roll.

Doorways. Each is a choice. Doors can be opened to something new. Doors can be closed, to keep one hidden or sheltered. Doors can be opaque, translucent, or transparent, just like choices. Doorways are deeply mystical, to me. I speak in my head to Anubis and Papa Legba, to articulate needing help with choices.

I am deeply unhappy, and catastrophically unfulfilled, at this point in my life. I made the choices that got me here. I do not know how to get out in a satisfactory manner. I take care of my Grandmother. I am her only caretaker. I receive exactly zero income from this. I pay the bills from her social security, which leaves very little. I am poor. Devastatingly so. Several friends unexpectedly gave me money in December, which allowed me to get the final heaters that we needed for the winter, and restock basic pantry necessities. I am grateful beyond words. Truly. I am left, now with a series of choices, from here.

Do I find a job, to bring in money? (I am looking) If I find one, then I leave her alone for part of the day, putting her, my pets, and everything I own in danger. Her dementia is advanced. Also, I could face neglect charges if anything happens to her.

Do I focus on making my jewelry, and trying to sell it? Like anyone who makes things, I have stuff, still, collected over years, to keep creating. However, it doesn't seem to sell. I know that I'm supposed to keep trying, in the face of complete rejection of my craft. If I wear any of it, people ask where it came from, I give them cards. Nothing. I have sold a couple of pieces, but not nearly enough. I am going through the process of getting what I have out there on social media, again. Making things brings me some amount of peace. I can't start an Etsy store, because of money. I have to do everything by PayPal, which I'm okay with. I don't even have Netflix, because I can't guarantee having the $10 or whatever, in my account each month, I definitely can't do Etsy fees. I am looking for places to carry it, in boutique stores, but that requires gas money and such. Vending events needs upfront money. Unfortunately, and not melodramatically, food comes first, these days. There are many days a week that I never even get dressed, and I go nowhere at all.

I have tried to do the state and federal forms for all kinds of assistance, everything that's been suggested to me. I can't even fill out most of the forms, because a lot of the info needs to come from a woman who can't provide it. I need a lawyer, I guess? That needs money. Find my ombudsman? I've left messages and sent emails and I get no answer. Call this person...I promise that I have tried. I don't know why I can't make it work, I promise you that I feel really fucking stupid, so I don't talk about it much, anymore. The dismissive answers I receive feel really judgmental, sometimes. I'm aware that I'm failing horribly. I know I chose this, but now all of my decisions involve, fully, the welfare of another human, and now I feel just as abandoned as she doesn't. It's just like having a toddler that remembers being completely in charge for forty years, with zero concept of how much she has changed.

My personal life is fairly nonexistent. I feel like no one wants to really spend time with me. I can't really afford much, anyway, sometimes not even gas money. It's weird for me to contemplate how many people are leaving facebook. I understand the reasons, I do. But, then, those people will just be gone from my life, as it's most of my social interaction.

So, I'm looking for doors, and contemplating the consequences of going through them. My drug of choice, that brings me peace and clarity (and isn't a drug or a substance at all) is unavailable at the moment. I dance. A lot. Around the house and yard, which is great, but isn't what I need. I see exactly one person, other than my Grandmother or Mom, regularly. One of my oldest and most consistent friends. I try for once a week, to get that hug I know is coming. It costs me nothing but gas, and the smile I get upon arrival is everything, and is holding me together right now. It's not like I'm turning down invitations.

I know I'm sad. I know it's unpleasant. I'm doing the best I can from being squished between a rock and a hard place. I know my best isn't good enough.

I know.

A Typical Day in Dementialand

I wake up around 7:30 every morning. Well, to be honest, the dogs wake up around 7:30 every morning, and they are leash walked, so that is when I get up. I open Gramma's bedroom door to glance in on her, and I usually get my first "What?!?!" of the day. This happens a lot. This phenomena needs a bit of expansion, this "What?!?!?!" that haunts my days and nights and rings through my head when I sleep. It seems such a simple word, one oft repeated in daily life. Gramma says she has a hard time hearing, but she doesn't, I took her to the specialist to have her checked. Her problem is all in cognition, not aural at all. She simply doesn't understand what she hears immediately. Generally, she understands about 6 beats later than most, if she gets it. (Some things she swears are completely alien, more on that later.) This simple word, necessary for everyday life, is not merely muttered as an inquisitive, it is screeched, loudly, generally while I am mid word answering the very question at hand. It has a peculiar, nasal, impatient, angry parrot, nails on chalkboard quality. I probably hear it a hundred times a day. It is always grating and makes me clench my hands, or roll my eyes if facing away. It's always very loud, as if she can drown out her own confusion. I do one hell of an impression of it, but I probably won't do it for you, I generally only say it that way to my Mom, who will then, gently, lovingly, slap me about the back of my head. Around 9:00am, the lady of the manor rises from her bed, puts on a robe, and shuffles to my door. My bedroom door is directly across the hall from hers. She greets the dogs "Good morning poochie! Good morning poochie! Hey poochie!," then looks to me, I spend most of my days in my room. So, I'll be sitting in bed, looking at my computer, reading my Kindle, playing games on my phone, something along those lines, drinking coffee. She'll ask what i know good, what day is it, anything she should know, anything going on, in rapid fire succession. Generally, there's not much going on. If it's Wednesday, her friend Jane will pick her up for bingo and lunch at the senior center. The senior center has Meals on Wheels lunch every day for qualified recipients. Most days, she does not want to go, but she loves bingo on Wednesdays. They each bring something to offer as a prize, a trinket, a book, candy, an orange, etc., and winners get to pick from the prize table. I finish my first (or second) cup of coffee and go into the den, where she has made herself a cup of coffee and settled into her recliner with the local daily paper, which I brought in when I walked the dogs. I'll ask what she wants for breakfast. When I first came, two years ago, now, she was still driving and cooking for herself. She could spend a night or two alone, she had been living completely on her own, up until then. Honestly, nobody really saw how bad she was, because she has always done stuff for attention. She is loud, and brash, and an attention whore, she always has been. She's also always been one of the most completely selfish and self centered humans on the planet. I got it easier than most, because I was her first grandchild, I was golden. Her second grandchild is the only boy, and blind. She is not a fan of the mother of my cousins, and was pretty disdainful, or downright mean to the youngest two. I went out of town for a couple of nights, when I had been here for a few months, and she managed to drive herself into town, get lost for hours, and lose $200. No more driving. We were getting calls from bill collectors, so I took over paying bills. She had gotten herself into a lot more financial trouble than anyone realized. She can't cook, because she almost burned the house down with a fried egg. Twice. So, I make her oatmeal, and/or some toast. Mom usually boils eggs for her, and leaves them. I can't even keep raw eggs, because, as she says often, "I'll damn well do what I damn well please." Not that I know how to cook an egg, honestly. I don't eat them. She reads the paper and does the crossword. If I'm in the den, I answer her crossword clues, if she asks. It makes her feel good the next day, to see how well she did, when I help. About fifty times a day, every day, I hear "I guess I'm worse than I thought." She'll get a phrase in her head, heard on tv, or read, and she'll say it over and over. She'll ask me to explain it, and then swear she's never heard of such a thing. Like corn dogs, or summer sausage. She'll ask to to explain, and then screech "what?!?!?" at ear splitting volume when I'm about four words in. I'll start over. She'll shake her head. I'll explain it again. She'll shake her head. She'll pout, and tell me it's not her fault, she has dementia. I am far more aware than anyone on earth, Gram, I really am. She eats very small meals, and complains about how big every single one is. Every single one. Big spoonful of mac and cheese? Oh my god, it's so much! Unless it's sweet, she never runs out of room for dessert. She'll ask me to do something, then get mad that I've done it. She doesn't bathe if I don't tell her, and sometimes that's a fight. I am responsible for all of her meals, which is fine, I can make sure that she eats enough protein. Most days, I'm in the house with her all day, or she's out running to the store and such with me, If I can get her to not look like a hobo. She was never very girly, but she has always been vain, until this. True story, she got married in a grey skirt suit, which just wasn't much done in 1949. Every day is a battle in which everything I do is wrong. My Mom comes up every Saturday to help. They have never been close, at all. I am the only member of my family not born in Eastern NC, because Mom got pissed off and moved to Georgia when she was 19. My uncle is just like Gramma. Selfish. Entitled. A pathological liar. He has a son just like him. My female cousins help some, but I know they don't feel it's their responsibility. Once Gramma wasn't good for free child care, they pretty much let her to be. She's not my responsibility, really, either. I just believe that you don't get rid of people, and warehouse them when they are inconvenient. I will be here, to keep her in the house my Grandaddy built for her, as long as I can. I had a part time job, for a while, but my boss became ill. I'm trying to find another that I can work and still care for her. I am out and about at night, sometimes, because of all the things, she is not a wanderer. She goes to bed around 5, and stays in her room until about 9:30 am. To say money is tight is a hysterical understatement. I'm doing the best that I can. Which isn't good enough, but I'm still trying. This post didn't go where I expected, but there will be more Dementialand posts in the future.

New Year's Day

2018 sucked, no doubt about it. I’m in a very dark place, and I have no idea how to get out. One of the biggest mental problems I’m having makes me feel beyond selfish. One of my oldest friends is dying, which makes all my suicidal ideation feel even worse. He is amazing and revered, and so very loved, in big loud ways. He’s a giant in body and spirit. He’s handling death far more gracefully than I’m handling life. I am having a stupidly hard time with the fact that I’m about to turn 45. My heart is still broken. That man took all of my ability to believe that I’m worth, well, any kind of relationship. Which is complicated by the fact that I have a crush. Or two. One is easy. It’s physical and involves a friend, who knows quite well. One of the biggest, shiny, bright spots of my year, was a completely unexpected, vigorous and thorough kiss. We were friends before. Friends we will remain. They’ve done a lot for my self-esteem, just for the fact that before that kiss, they are pretty much the shiniest thing in any room, to me, a smile like a son. The other is far more complicated but still seems to be happening. It would be a completely different thing if it were even possible. I wouldn’t even know how to approach it. Or if I should. Or if I’m prepared for the rejection. Or if I’m prepared for not being rejected. Not right now, I guess, anyway. Right now I'm just a wee spot completely out of control.

Hug Your Friends, Or, A Love Letter to a Man I've Never Been in Love WIth

So, here we are. One year ago, I was counting down to going to Atlanta to see Gary Numan. I was so excited. Best laid plans, yeah?
It was the beginning of the worst year of my life, not even being melodramatic. I literally almost died this year. Like, honestly almost died. By the anniversary of that, I don’t think I’ll even be able to see the scar that saved my life, it’s so wee. There have been good moments, sure. I’ve even made new friends and such. But December 10, 2017 started a vortex of suck. I lost what I honestly thought was my forever human in a disastrous way. It left me far more broken than I can describe. It left me completely alone. It’s not that I believe that I’m not worthy of love, I know that I am. I’m just not sure that I can do it again. I am a whole, complete, person on my own, I don’t need anything or anyone to “complete me.” I find the thought ludicrous. Several people have told me that they don’t know what happened, really. That’s true. I’m not a victim. I made wrong choices. I fully trusted someone with my heart. Turns out, that was a bad plan. This is what I will say, as plenty of you are friends with him, this isn’t a secret. He has an addiction to pain. As a mate, I don’t scream and yell. I don’t try to wound another for my own leverage. He found someone better suited to his needs. He hurt everyone involved tremendously in the process. As he says a lot, just like Bill Belichek says, it is what it is. I don’t hate her. I don’t hate him. I am tired of being nice. How should you be expected to treat your junkie ex’s dealer? I love him. I always will. I will never be with him, no matter what. I have no intention of being with anyone in that way, ever again. I’m broken, heart and soul. Just as much today as I was then. Just, broken. But, that isn’t the focus of this missive.
I don’t remember much about the actual show, I was slowly dying inside. I know that I have an autographed copy of Savage. That’s cool. Everyone involved with this idiotic farce was in the same room for the show. I lived in Atlanta for six years. I was desperately looking for anyone to talk to that I knew. Not like, serious, meaningful talk, just to say hi. A reason to walk away from him, as I went to the show with him, and was leaving with him. I saw entirely one person. Which brings us to the point. You ever know someone who affected you profoundly, but probably has no idea? This is kind of about that. It just needed that much setup. But wait! There’s more setup!
When I was a young goth, I loved going dancing. I lived in NC, but I went to Georgia a lot. Fun Fact: I am the only member of my direct family for many, many years not to be born in eastern NC. Generations, even. I was born in Duluth, GA, because my mom got pissed off and moved away. We moved back when I was five, so I grew up here, but spent a bit of time down there, because that’s where her two best friends live. Well, when I was of travelling on my own age, I discovered The Chamber in Atlanta. It was my super happy place. I have never cared about dancing by myself, but sometimes it’s just nice to be surrounded by a lot of people really digging the same thing at the same time. And at The Chamber, there were so many boys that actually danced, and danced well. It was like The Fallout Shelter here, but four times the size and people. Maybe five. There was one, especially. He was like a work of art. I could watch him for hours. Not even in a lustful sort of way, just like art. When I was living with and married to the first ex husband (it’s a joke, haha. There has only been one,) he frequently spent his nights elsewhere. On more than one occasion, I would drive to Atlanta, dance, and come back, and no one ever knew that I was gone. That kind of thing is very easy, when you are young. When I was stressed out, I would go watch this guy dance. Never tried to talk to him, nit sure that it ever crossed my mind. Years pass, and I end up getting pissed off and moving to Atlanta. Perhaps it’s genetic. Anyway, I go dancing, like I am wont to do. As often as I can. One night, I’m in the parking lot of the bar, and my most favorite car drives up. I’m finishing my makeup, as I do, in my car, and guess who gets out of that car? Right?!?! It’s him! So I go in, and I’m not sure it is him. Until he dances. He dances like I do, not really looking at anything around him, except for collision detection purposes. Completely lost in the music. He dances perfectly. He’s beautiful, perfectly. He really is flawless. One of the top three most beautiful men that I have met, ever. Like, ever. Oooh, but I haven’t met him, yet, right? So, one night, I walk up to him, because I was drunk, and I learned what it was like to have that brilliant smile aimed at me. Also like me, his neutral expression is very neutral, but if he makes eye contact with someone familiar, the smile is nearly blinding, it lights up his whole face. He smiles with his whole body. So, I’m fuck-it-all drunk, and I walk up and say hi, and tell him my name. He tells me his ( I knew it already, we’ll call him Kevin.) I tell him. That I used to drive for six hours to dance, and to watch him dance. Then, I quietly freak out. What if he’s not very nice? His (then) girlfriend was a customer of mine, she wasn’t ever very nice. Oh god, I’m thinking, this is why they tell you not to meet your idols, because you never know what people are really like. He’s not an idol, he’s just so intimidatingly perfect. Again, I wasn’t flirting, his (then) girlfriend was a customer of mine, and she was so pretty. Me? I’m forgettable, at best, maybe completely ignorable. I’m usually surprised when people remember me. I’m not pretty, not like that. Different league. Fuck, different sport, even. My attraction to him has never been a crush, not lust, not physical. He’s just like, a little sun in any room. So, I’m still freaking out, and wondering where I’m going to find a hole to crawl into in a second floor bar. It seems like forever since the stupid words came out of my stupid mouth. Complete suspended animation. The air has become jello. I might drown. (I don’t people well.) So, after fourteen years (or two seconds) he smiles. At me. And laughs, and hugs me, a real hug, and tells me that that is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to him. From then on, as long as I lived in Atlanta, when we were in the same place, he would smile and wave, occasionally I got a hug, if we were close. Y’all know, I’m completely weird about touching about 90% of the human population, even casually. He seems to fall into the 10% that don’t make me cringe. It turns out, he’s honestly nice. And so fucking smart. I read his facebook arguments, he’s always logical and not condescending. He doesn’t call people names. He’s smart and funny and gorgeous and classy and perfect. He dances like an angel. This is the strangest love letter to someone I’ve never been in love with, or felt that way about, ever. I told you there was more setup.
December 10, 2017. Gary Numan show at The Masquerade (new location.) Nothing makes sense. I’ve been stress crying and puking. I am literally falling apart, holding myself together with my own arms wrapped around me, trying to act okay. Looking for a reason to walk away from the ex. Any reason.
There he is. Kevin. I walk up in front of him and give a silly little wave. He smiles that smile at me, a real smile, and gives me a hug. A real hug. A hug I don’t back out of, which is uncharacteristic. We make small talk, he asks about NC, I point out that he’s tall (in case he’s never noticed, I really don’t people well!) I go to walk away, and get another small hug.
Are we friends? Superficially, sure. We aren’t close. I always see him dancing, in my head, when I hear Cuts You Up or Fade To Grey, I’m not sure why those two songs, specifically. But I will always remember that moment of kindness, that moment that literally held me together when all I wanted to do was fall apart. I thought it couldn’t get worse (it did.) I don’t remember as much of the show as I should. But I will always remember the hug that grounded me. He probably doesn’t even remember that I was there. I have no words for what that hug meant. I actually hug more people now, because I know what that one hug meant for me, in a moment of (hidden) crisis.
Be kind, y’all.

An Extraordinarily Long Post

So. I had a heart attack. February 23, 2018. Most people that I know already know that, it wasn’t a secret. I haven’t really talked about it that much, really, except for a timeline of events right after. I tend to gloss over it, and show one of my exceptionally tiny scars. The one that I can show with my pants on, anyway. Here’s the thing, it terrified me. I’m still terrified.

I never expected anything like that to happen to me. I didn’t know it was happening, when it was happening. I thought I had the flu, honestly. Here’s what happened.

I went to bed early on thursday night, because I was so tired that I couldn’t even think straight. I got up fairly early on friday, and it hurt to take a really deep breath, and the more I tried to breathe very deeply, the more it hurt, my whole chest. I couldn’t stop crying. I mean, I cry quite a bit, but I really couldn’t stop, at all. I called someone to ask to borrow some money to go to Urgent Care, because I don’t have insurance, which hurt me almost as much as the physical pain. People were dying from the flu. Worst flu season in a long time. I kept trying to tell myself just to go back to bed.

Money acquired, i set off to Urgent Care. I filled out the form, and sat down in the lobby. Within five minutes, a nurse came out and knelt down to talk to me. She said that with my symptoms, I needed to go to the Emergency Room. I’m completely alone. Only one person in the world knows that I was going to Urgent Care. I say okay, and get in the car and drive myself to the ER of the small, local hospital. My grandmother is home, alone with my dogs, one in a crate, one she can walk. It’s about 10 in the morning when I get to the ER. I walk in to the nurse at the counter, and fill out the paper. She takes my temperature, and blood pressure, stares into my face for a minute, steps through the swinging doors, and comes back with another nurse, who asks me if I’m okay to walk (uh, yeah, I just walked my ass in here….) and says that she is going to give me an ekg and draw some blood. She gives me the ekg, and I am immediately put in an ER room. No one has really talked to me about anything at this point. A doctor comes in, and tells me that a nurse will be in to do an echocardiogram, so I need to strip to the waist on put on a gown. Sure. Echocardiogram gets done, IV line gets put in. I am somewhere that a nurse can see me at any given moment. The lady in the room next to me is apparently nonverbal, and sounds like she is the beginning of the zombie outbreak. She’s retching and heaving constantly, and I can hear people asking her questions that she clearly can’t answer. I feel so bad for her. The doctor comes back, and says that I am going to be taken to the CT lab for a CT scan (like, WTF else would they be doing in there?) Okay. I’m wheeled around a couple of halls, and into the CT lab, and transferred to the CT bed thingy. I actually stood up and moved myself. The CT technician gets a call, and tells me to hang tight for a minute, she has to step outside. Sure. Like I’m going to argue. Up until this point, I’ve been chatting with everyone, small talk like, being sarcastic and all. I’m chilling, waiting for the CT nurse to come back, and the swinging doors fly open. There are three people standing there in completely different uniforms than anything I’d seen so far, with a huge looking gurney, bed thing. There’s a red headed lady, a tiny, boyish lady, and a dude with glasses and an extremely neat beard. The red headed lady comes in, and hands me a tiny pill to let dissolve in my mouth. She’s super cute. The guy says, “Okay, you might get a pretty severe headache from the nitroglycerin, we’re ready to go now.” I look at his uniform, which clearly says Critical Response Unit. As do both of the ladies’ uniforms. I look at him and say, “Go where?” And for the first time since taking action, I cried.

Keep in mind, at this point in the tale, you actually know more about what is going on, than I did in that moment. No one had said the words heart attack to me. No one had said much of anything to me, about what was going on. Apparently, at that moment, everyone else realized that I had no clue what was happening. The doctor was found, after they transferred me to the big gurney, and gave me another IV port. He told me that I was having a heart attack. Thanks, dude. I figured that out. They are taking me by Critical Care Unit to Rex UNC Hospital in Raleigh, 45 minutes or so away. Okay.

They start wheeling me to the CRU ambulance, the tiny lady is telling me that everything is okay, I have the best crew possible. They are going to take care of me. I’m in the ambulance, seeing my commute to work facing backwards. I pull out my phone to text my Mom. I text her that I’ve had a heart attack. Yes, text. That’s how much I hate talking on the phone, in general. The red head suggests maybe I should call her. So, I do. By now, I have four IV ports in me. One in each hand and each elbow. They have injected me with something that makes me feel kind of warm and fuzzy. I call my Mom. She asks what is happening. I still kind of don’t know, other than that I’m in an ambulance. So, I ask. The red head and the dude start explaining what’s going to happen, and I relay it to Mom. I’m on the way to Rex UNC Raleigh. When I get there, I’m going directly into the cath/stent operating room. There is a doctor waiting for me to get there. I tell Mom I’m fine, and ask her to go to my house after work, because one of my dogs is in his crate, and I don’t want him stuck there, and Gramma can’t open the crate, and can’t walk him, anyway, because he is a bit of a tasmanian devil on a leash. He can’t be loose in the house when I am not here, not because of him, but because of her. She’ll just let him out of the house. If I’m not here, he might not come back. He’s my baby, I never said he was perfect. I learn during the rest of the ride that they were there, because the small hospital is part of the network, but always has CRU from the big one during some of their operations, just in case. If they hadn’t already been there, I might have gotten to ride in a helicopter. Yeah.

I completely flip off somebody who is tailgating the ambulance. I’m still joking around. The guy says I look familiar. We start talking about my favorite gay bar, where he might have seen me at some point. We hit a bump, and the red head ends up partially in my lap. I tell her it’s fine, she can stay if she wants.

The tiny girl is the driver. When we get to the ER driveway, there is a landscaping truck partially blocking it. I hear her yell for someone to move it, and hear a male voice saying to give them a minute. Then she simply says no, and tells the two in the back to hold on. There was no hit, and no rocking, or violence, but she did slide the ambulance across the front of the offending truck. The guy asks if there was contact, the tiny girl says not to worry about it. Apparently a giant heavy duty ambulance can move a parked landscaping truck back a bit, if necessary. They wheel me in to the operating lab. Just, straight in. There are a team of people, standing there waiting for me. I receive the most epic de-pantsing of my life. One moment, I’m wearing my baggy jeans and panties and the hospital robe, the next moment, I’m just wearing a hospital robe, like a magic trick. Ta da!!! I’m transferred to the operating table, and the room goes mostly dark. A very tall man who is all mask and glasses tells me that he is the doctor, they are going in through my wrist. He is on my right side. There is a huge flat screen on my left, almost as long as I am, with numbers and stuff. This mechanized box thing over me moves closer to the doctor. The table raises up, until I’m chest height to Dr Jobe (I find out later that he’s 6’4”.) He tells me that he’s going to insert a stent. I honestly don’t look at the giant screen, I just watch the reflection of it in his glasses as he stares at it. I have no clue what kind of anesthesia, if any I’ve been given. I’m pretty calm. At one point, while getting a stent, it’s possible that you will have a lag between heart beats. This happens. Beep, beep, beep……. Everyone in the room says “you’re okay, it’s okay”.....beep, beep, beep. The box thing over me moves, I guess it is how he sees what he’s doing, from my wrist to my heart. He stands for a moment, watching, his hand touching mine, but not over it, and looks at my face and says that I did so well, he’s going to do it again. So, he puts another stent. That’s two. My heart stops again during placement. I’m a little better prepared this time. They withdraw whatever the fuck alien tentacle is in my arm all of the way to my heart. They slap a bandaid on my wound, and I’m off to cardiac ICU.

Mom is still at work. I’m still completely alone. I told her not to come, and no one else knows where I am at this point. I meet the cardiac ICU nurses. I am told that I have the best male cardiac nurse on the ward. He’s the only male nurse there. He says it’s good that they could go through my wrist, it’s a little easier to heal from. He’s talking to me, asking me how I feel, because I should immediately feel better. I don’t. I actually feel the same. He stops and looks at me. He makes a call. And I’m going back to the cath lab. Honestly, I don’t remember this part as well. But I get a catheterization for a small pulmonary embolism, and a small artery expansion catheter. Back to cardiac ICU. At this time, I’m exhausted. I talk to Mom. I am freaking the fuck out. About money. About how long I will be there. Because of money. I haven’t eaten today, the nurse says I can order something. I don’t. Money. I’m really freaking out about money. I text the special person friend that I had then. I tell him what happened. I make a casual facebook post. I completely break down. It’s about 7pm now. I’m terrified, and crying. My cousin says she is coming by, her boyfriend was on the way to visit someone in the same hospital. She comes up, he is in the car with their daughters, because that is easier. She is supposed to report to Mom as to how I really seem. She’s there for about twenty minutes. My special person friend visits later. He seems completely at a loss. I feel like I have to keep reassuring people. He hangs out for a while, but there really isn’t anything he can do.

So. I’m alone again. Freaking out about money, and not having insurance. I lay there, all night, staring at the tv. I have no idea what was on. Nurses check on me every thirty minutes. I don’t even talk to them most of the time, I just smile. The sun rises, eventually. A nurse helps me out of the bed to pee. I learn that I pee a lot more than the average person, at one time, over the next days. They make me order breakfast, I’m not hungry. Of all the things I can do to keep costs down, food seems my only controllable variable. Mom comes. She hangs out for five hours or so on Saturday. I get moved from ICU to the regular cardiac wing. They threaten to not send me home if I don’t order food and eat when I’m supposed to. I hate hospitals. I don’t even like visiting them. So, I eat. Special person friend visits again. He brings me flowers. He leaves. I stare at the tv for another overnight. Mom comes back Sunday morning. She leaves for a bit to pick up a couple of things. She hangs out until I am released. She watches me tell a cardiologist that I have checked the prices of every drug they are giving me and that there is no way in hell that I can afford one of them. He tells me that there is a new generic. I tell him that the generic is $197 per month instead of the $450 a month for the name brand. We agree on a completely different drug. I am discharged. I go out to eat with Mom. I pick up the one drug that I have to have immediately. We go to hospital number one to get my car, and I drive it home. There is literally no one else to do it.

I get home, and I’m still the caregiver, here. I’m the sane one. I take two weeks off of work. Life goes on.

Now. I wrote all of this out to ask some questions. I am not looking for any flattery, or any pity, or any guilt, I honestly want to know some things. I did start a go fund me. I am beyond appreciative of those that could donate, there, and just through paypal. I didn’t raise enough to do more than one follow up with my cardiologist. I could not do cardio rehab, at all. I simply could not make it work. I have a part time job, as it is, because my grandmother got herself in a fuckton of debt before anyone realized how bad off she was. I’m doing everything I can to stay afloat. I don’t know how to say the next thing that I need to say. So, I guess I’ll just go for it. I know that I am loved. I really, really do. I know things are shitty, everywhere. I started making jewelry again, while I was recuperating, just for something to do with my hands. People told me that I should sell it. Cool. I ripped back BattyCatty from my former partner, which caused me days of crying, even though he said it was okay. It was mine before it was ours. I followed every avenue offered, to seek help. I know that I am a background person in most people’s lives. I’m not loud. I don’t stand out. That’s okay. I’m an observer, by nature. I am also hella supportive. If you are in a band, and you are on my friends list, I have seen them perform (except for one. But I will.) If you are a DJ, I’ve danced while you mixed or spun or whatever. If you are an artist, I have shared your work, or own your work (again, one exception.) If you are a burlesque performer, I’ve probably seen and tipped you many multiples of times. I have been to innumerable benefits for sick people, even those that I don’t know. I support art. I support my friends. When I needed people, and help, I felt almost completely abandoned. Again, I really appreciate those that did give me monetary help. I feel horrible writing this. I started writing a blog again, because I don’t really talk to anyone anymore, and I’m just really afraid that no one will know some of the things in my head. I feel that I must be a horrible person, because me nearly dying didn’t bring anyone together to help. It didn’t even bring visitors. I did have one offer of a visit, I didn’t forget. As at a loss as I was after the big, crushing, split in my life, I now feel completely worthless. I’m pushing the jewelry thing as hard as I can, and there is minimal interest even. I want to grow. I want to do better, to be better. I’m trying really hard. This isn’t a suicidal thing. I’ve recently done something, completely unlike me, that I would really, really like to do again. This is the opposite of me giving up. This is me fighting. Please tell me what I can do to be the kind of person that people want to support. How can I improve my jewelry? How can I market it better? I’m starting with less than nothing, dangling over a giant pit. I am begging for any input. Please.

Current State 7/13/18

It’s Friday the 13th! Thirteen is one of my favorite numbers. Currently doing work stuff, listening to Puscifer in the head phones, thinking about tattoos. My next two tattoos are planned (one is even paid for, I just need some gas money, you know, if you want to donate some gas money, or buy some stuff, that would rock!) Then I want a banner with purple roses that says Deeds Not Words. It is not only one of the most important tenets of my life, it’s a suffragette thing. Then, I think I might actually want a Queen B tattoo, which is a Puscifer thing. I’ve never seriously considered a band tattoo before.

Tonight is a dancing night. Dancing nights make me happy. I’ve been paying a little more attention to my outfits and makeup, lately, just for me. I actually have days when I don’t completely hate my face, lately. I took a bunch of silly filtered selfies the other day, even. I know what I’m wearing tonight. Pretty sure about the makeup, unless I do something completely unlike me and go to Ulta and get something new. I suffer extreme guilt if I buy myself anything like that. I don’t even know if I’m going to see many people that I know tonight. While I am still maintaining conscious, chosen singlehood, there is someone I might not mind running into. I may have a tiny crush, of the basest most physical sort. I may not want to date, but I also am not up for the nunnery.

I’m in a pretty good mood. Life in dementia land will get it’s own post soon, It’s getting harder and harder to navigate.

I have quite a bit of stuff to take pictures of and put up for sale, mostly earrings. I’m having a hard time not becoming totally freaked out by trying to sell the stuff that I make. I’m keeping an eye out for smaller vendor opportunities and finding places that might carry it. Once upon a time, I had a partner in this venture, and he was supposed to do all of the peopley bits. He didn’t really. It was the first really big lie between us. That I know of, anyway. It’s back to being all mine now, so this time, the failure will be all mine, too. (I’m not that upset about it currently, it just causes me some anxiety.

So, yeah. Today, I’m better than most days.

(Music) Dance With Me

What song I consider my “favorite” kind of changes with my mood. Music can drastically change my mood, as well. I keep seeing this meme on facebook that says if you want to know a woman’s mood, don’t ask her how she’s doing, ask her what she’s listening to. Currently, I’m listening to a near constant stream of Mindless Self Indulgence, so I guess I’m feeling juvenile and angry and  frustrated in every way possible? Oh, sounds legit, actually.

So, back on track, (I have ping pong brain a lot of the time,) it is quite rare that Dance With Me by Lords of the New Church is not at the top or in second place. Dance With Me is a perfect fantasy. It is one of my favorite songs to dance to, as well. (My most melodramatic goth dancing is always done to Slice of Life by Bauhaus, however. I need a lot of room for that one.) I even like the Nouvelle Vague cover.

Funny thing, I always dance alone.

Lords of the New Church also taught me to take head injuries seriously.

Dance With Me Lyrics

Let's dance little stranger

Show me secret sins

Love can be like bondage

Seduce me once again

Burning like an angel

Who has heaven in reprieve

Burning like the voodoo man

With devils on his sleeve

Won't you dance with me

In my world of fantasy?

Won't you dance with me?

Ritual fertility.

Like an apparition

You don't seem real at all

Like a premonition

Of curses on my soul

The way I want to love you

Well it could be against the law

I've seen you in a thousand minds

You've made the angels fall

Won't you dance with me

In my world of fantasy?

Won't you dance with me?

Ritual fertility.

Oh come on little stranger

There's only one last dance

Soon the music's over

Let's give it one more chance.

Won't you dance with me

In my world of fantasy?

Won't you dance with me?

Ritual fertility.

Take a chance with me

In my world of fantasy.

Won't you dance with me?

Ritual fertility.