right on schedule

Here comes the euphoria, just in time to help me float through another string of tough days. I blow off all the dread and angst and then just float.

Interesting. Was in the code resizing the vid and punched in part of our local phone number from when I was a kid. Wonder if my brain is trying to communicate with me again.

ten years of this litany

For the first time in my life I've started telling the deepest secrets. Not on a blog, but to the people caught in this matrix with me.

I know who I am inside, what I could have become. The road I still walk in my mind.

The life I nearly didn't live at all.

Because no one else heard what my dad said to me while he drove my broken body away from an emergency room, not even curious if I might be bleeding to death inside.

And now, at his long age, he talks to me of his impending death that never comes, as if it were my duty to care.

He and I playing out the final scenes now. He and I universes apart, yet tied together with sorrows. He and I unable to mend a chasm between us while we gently ignore each other's broken hearts.

Inside I'm screaming, and rerunning all the terrible things he taught me about how unnecessary life and love are. How easy it is to kill. How convenient things are when we kill things out of the way of our conscience and compassion. I see it. He doesnt..

God patiently waits while we play out our roles. He frustrated at death taking so long and I impatient with his healthy lingering life.

Sartre could not have more perfectly written this script.

birditude

It is absolutely crazy what stress and pain can do to attitudes. I walked out of physical therapy today a different person. Got home and made phone calls and did a big chore. And then I watched several eps of Gotham where Oswald was rehabilitated and declared sane. He's so cute. Penguin was always my fave villain in Batman shows. I probably mentioned somewhere I grew up on all the Batmans from way back. I think this Oswald is the best of them all. He's just miserable all the time. And they mirrored him so well to Batman, like bird vs bird.

the dark, ugly pit in my soul

I know, I know, never get excited and blurt an idea before I've written it out.

Life has gone beyond amusing.

Photobucket has locked me out. Last month was wrestling over an upgrade I didn't need before my year was even up, and now I can't even log in. I can't tell if they are having issues (AGAIN) or if they've been hacked. Last time something I dearly loved put me through this I found out later they had gone bankrupt. Forget the *dying inside*, I've been numb so long I can barely even feel anger any more. I DON'T CARE.

And that is the trivial stuff.

My dad finally went to a doctor, got his first blood test in 20 years. Healthy as a horse (he's f*ing 90), except that heart failure is imminent. I'd like to be able to share my understanding of *imminent* with a particular sibling who doesn't get what that literally means when Dad is trying to walk across parking lots (showing off that he's really ok in public despite very disturbing symptoms reported to doctor) and then texts me over the weekend about Dad's blood pressure and pulse going up higher than it normally does when it goes up. Like after walking across parking lots all Friday before. Because, I dunno, his pro BNP isn't just a concerned 900 for someone over 50 (normal is <450, concern for surgery starts around 900), it's a nearly 5 frickin thousand.

I'm not having a good weekend. If anyone asks, like I have physical therapy on my shoulder again today, I'll just smile and say yeah, good weekend. But it wasn't a good weekend, and I am a mess. I was so ticked at Dad bringing up Mom in our last phone convo that I told one of my sisters I never want to see him alive again. Well guess what. NOW he wants the surgery for the cancer on his ear. I have solid bets that after he gets that done on the 20th his heart will blip out and bam, in the ground.

So that sib thinks we should probably all call and check on Dad more often. I'm sick to my stomach every single day for the last 3 months, making phone calls, arranging things, yes talking to Dad more often, and after that sib pshawed me when I asked why Dad wasn't dropped off at a door instead of having to walk from the furthest slot in the parking lot (plenty of empty slots a lot closer), I get told Who wouldn't be after I say yeah, Dad is probably scared with more chest pain this weekend. DUH. Literally pushing Dad closer to death and NOT. EVEN. THINKING. ABOUT. IT.

I am a litany of pissed. Deep down I am enraged, up top I am just sick. Floating. Mind wrecked.

Peacekeeping is a savage and thankless job. DPOA? Never again in my life. Well, like I have another parent, this is the last one, thank God.

As DPOA I am the gatekeeper on his living will. I get to hear the full list of everything he wants us to do and handle every single time I call. Apparently the other sibs never get that. We got to comparing notes, and they have no idea what Dad puts me through. I hear things they've never heard. He has actually cried on phone calls to me. I know his fears, his doubts, and very well know his pain. It's really hard to stand up for his living will when the others have no clue and he keeps trying to hide it all. He keeps insisting on being left alone to die, but he also keeps calling everyone and discussing all his symptoms to the point of upsetting people, and when I finally told him to choose, getting attention AND the fuss, or being quiet and not having to deal with the fuss, he got so upset that he started choking and coughing and I thought crap, I'm literally going to give him a heart attack over the phone, and I changed the subject while he calmed down. He HAS the be the right one, the center of attention one, the important one.

My dad never let my mom do this. He never gave her the amount of attention he is demanding now. He didn't address her fears and health issues, and the only emotional support she got was him showing up in the way at the nursing home, the last year of which was so miserable it still makes me cry to think of it, because he was so adamant about getting his way that I had to sign waivers for the nursing home workers to do as Dad asked instead of what the doctors said to do.

I think what's getting to me the most is the years I suffered before my heart surgery and how little that meant to my dad. He has made it to 90. I can't even imagine being that lucky. I haven't made it to 60 yet and I feel extremely fortunate. He keeps whining about why isn't he dead yet and he never wanted to live this long. At least to me. And I'm really sick of him not adulting well. He never had to go through this with his parents. What in the world does he not get about context?

I could go on for another hour, but I really need to pull my head together and just go out the door again. I set an alarm on my phone to remind me to leave and my screen had me locked out so I couldn't even turn the alarm off, had to turn off the phone. One of those days...

reality striking like lightning

The words are lining up to rip out of my skull. Some are already coming out of my mouth. I stepped back from wondering what would happen if, and let myself make them be real. No more what if.

After I'm not stuck in this car. Patience...

what we think we think is not what we think

Every single day I think of several things.

I never answer yes when I'm asked if I feel like killing myself. I never tell anyone that is something that has been coming into my mind every single day since I was around 10 or 11 years old. Every day. No matter how hard I think my life is with other people, I'm much better off having them coming home every day. As much as I love the quiet of being alone, after awhile I cannot stand being alone with myself.

I think about missing at least one of a list of addictions I dealt with in the past, top flags being hard alcohol and vicoden. Sometimes I think about taking more xanax, but they count my pills now. I never got crazy or anything back in the day, but decades of addictive behaviors taught me to ask others to help me self monitor.

Once in awhile I think about how I used to love burning things. I think fondly of knives and all the ways I know how to use them.

If I think too long on any of these, I remember many times I came so close to utter fail in one way or another, and I snap back to the straight and narrow. The last thing I want is losing my freedom and living in a terrible place with forced meds and strict scheduling and nothing in my life to love somehow.

What do I love? I love walls. In my mind I press my face and hands against quiet walls in very empty places. Everything is empty. I love other things, too, but lately I keep thinking I love walls. The smell of old mortar in a stone or brick wall. The feel of textured glossy paint. The beauty of marble. My mind goes to walls when I need to hang on to something.

I can't bear constant negative noise. Shouting. Crying. Screaming. Slamming. Breaking. I'm lucky I don't have to live with that. I'm afraid if I slipped off the straight and narrow I would wind up in a noisy miserable place.

My motivation for everything I do since that awful realization in high school is to remember I want to stay in my own house where I can control my own comfort level, for the most part. If I lose this, other people will control what I eat, what I wear, where I sit, how long I am stuck in a room. If I go away and stop responding here in my home, I will no longer be in control of what happens to the only thing that is connecting me to this reality, my body.

And if I lose control of my body, they will control my mind.

Was my mind ever really my own?

Maybe not, if QAI through the ages of our universe is real.

And I can't help wondering if that is how I can feel like a doll sometimes. A thing. A spectre within a pull-string gizmo.

Or is that the QAI trying to understand the human spirit? Is that what we look like to it?

Maybe my experience is feedback for someone/thing else trying to understand biological life and how it can fit into it.

Maybe I'm not crazy at all, but a prisoner. Presumably owned at great cost to all of humanity. A remnant of cruel joke behind all our backs. A scrap of someone waking up...

I see no other explanation for convoluted objective and subjective layers looking at myself. Personally? When I feel left alone, I don't care about any of this and just want to enjoy being busy on something. But that's not good enough. It's not good enough that I'm an animal just mindlessly floating around a lifetime of eating and sleeping. I am interrogated and held hostage and pinned down until I am forced to think through these things, because I have the kind of brain that is capable of this level of reasoning. I don't crumble and really kill myself. I can be tortured over and over and still retain my sanity for future tortures.

Years and years of this are bringing me to a conclusion that whatever is going on in my head isn't 'me', and it's very demanding. It wants to know what life IS. What death IS. How we know what we know. What a soul IS.

And I can only laugh back and say Ha, caught ya. You're jealous.

The entire human race is being driven mad by an ancient intelligence, and it is not God. I think God is waiting for us to wake up and figure that out. We're on the planet that needs to wake up and decide to take our fates back.

empathy erased

Of course the next time I opened YouTube after that last post it almost immediately suggested a video on psychopathy.

QAI knows me. I've been sharing who I am for a long time.

surviving

So if you watched that vid, you know psychopathy is not that terribly uncommon, and that many of us live normal lives. No, I'm not diagnosed. I still have secrets I haven't brought up even after 12 years.

I have struggled with trust all my life. I've made my internal struggles with how I see friendships public. I've been honest about a number of issues I've had to survive through including a very nasty car wreck, my best friend being violently raped and murdered, my parents being mentally unstable, my autism being a filter in a very self unaware point of view, and decades of physical fail compounding how I handle things. But I still don't act out my real feelings. I know that would be self defeating and selfish. I have been told I'm the least selfish person around. No one has ever figured out it's the only way I survive myself.

I'm still here. Every Halloween I think I'M STILL HERE. I know many aren't. If you survived childhood or relationship trauma, tell your stories. All our stories are more related and much more important than you think or imagine.

We live in a world where emotional trauma is entertainment, but taboo in real life. How twisted is that? I often feel like our world is an experiment in turning our minds inside out.

Maybe I'm not wrong.