Exhausted by Life

 

Well then. It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything here. I almost forgot I had a 2nd blog that I created when I feel the need to stay on the down-low.

Which I do now.

Where to even start…there’s so much going on and all I really want to do is make a pillow fort to hide in.

I’ll just jump right into it, I suppose.

I’ve decided not to let the scared little 3 year old inside of me take over any longer. I’m facing my soon to be ex husband in court, the day after Mother’s Day, which is two weeks away. I did nothing wrong. He did the cheating and was heavy handed with his subtle abuse our entire 15 years together.

Why should I have to pay extra fines with money that I don’t have? I need to suck it up and just do it. I have a right to defend myself and just in case he thinks he has a right to half of my home, which he does not.

Since my mom is extremely ill, my aunt has offered to go with me for moral support.

I can do this. It’ll be difficult and I really hope that I don’t have a total panic attack or start crying.

Speaking of my mother, I don’t think she’ll make it much longer. She’s so miserable and I absolutely hate it. There isn’t anything that anyone can do. She’s seeing a surgeon this week about possibly getting a colonoscopy bag, if it would help her in any way, but I am doubtful that they’ll want to take a chance on a 74 year old woman with a bad heart and emphysema, who weighs less than 90 pounds.

On the good side (what’s that, Abbey?) of life, my 1 year anniversary with my boyfriend is coming up on June 3rd. It’s been a true life changer for me. I still have trust issues, mainly with being rejected once he finds out how fucked up I am, but I am sorting through all of that a day at a time. He treats me so well, I suppose that I’m still in shock most days.

That’s pretty fucking sad in its own way, isn’t it?

But back to the shitty end of the stick, I hate money. More importantly, I hate that I cannot work and make my own. I mean, I went to the grocery store on Saturday with my boyfriend and I used the zippy cart. Well, due to the continuing cold weather, internal stress and whatnot, it sent me into yet another fibro flare.

As much as I’d love to be healthy enough to work again, it ain’t gonna happen.

I try to keep my head above water, but I’m finding myself constantly sinking. I’ll probably have to sell my car to pay my house taxes.

I think that after my divorce is final, I’ll also be looking into possibly selling my home.

Poor people shouldn’t own a home.

I’m just really exhausted by life.

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How about you?

A Little Story

It’s rare for me nowadays to have much time to myself, but when it does happen, being alone with my own thoughts is either therapeutic or a slowly unfolding disaster, there is no in-between.

So here’s a little story:

At midnight on New Years Eve Day, my home flooded due to the electric company digging directly into a main water pipe. Nice job, guys.

Chaos ensued. My 26-year-old neighbor/son I never knew I wanted was a fucking lifesaver. He held me together, he talked me down, he spent $70 at Wal-Mart to buy a 6 gallon wet vac that didn’t even come close to keeping up with the amount of liquid rushing into my living room. We all finally gave up the fight. I had my 21-year-old daughter take our two dogs up to her room at 3am and I slept on my neighbors couch (ah, because of that fear of mine of being alone).

My boyfriend came over after reading my slew of messages and the photos that I had sent to him. He went to take a gander at my house and then came back over to me. He had tears in his eyes. He was quite sad for ME.

For me. He was crying for me, what the fuck? I am so not used to any man giving much of a shit about anything terrible that happens to me. I hugged him tight, I let him help me. I even somehow managed to stay awake to usher in 2019 with him. He fed me Taco Bell.

I slept 3 hours out of 48. Damn, I was exhausted, but so grateful for all of the help I received cleaning up the carnage.

But alas, I woke up at 4pm New Years Day so depressed and dare I say thinking about suicide again. I am so tired of that fucker, sincerely. I mean, for fuck sake already, give it a rest, brain chemicals.

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My daughter took me out to dinner and insisted that I order an alcoholic beverage.

The utility director came to my house yesterday to personally hand me a check for $5,500.00. I lost my dryer, my dishwasher, all of my living room carpet, a bookcase, a throw-rug, a few blankets and towels.

And to compensate me for what he called an “inconvenience fee.”

More like a 72 hour panic attack, dude.

It’s traumatic watching water (thankfully not sewer water) filling your home and coming at you like a wrecking ball. The money is nice and all (I am still in a bit of shock over having that sort of cash in my checking account) but to be honest, I am not even sure where to start.

A dryer is important. That is first, I don’t want to run out of underwear.

I suck at making decisions, I am also a master at procrastination. I suppose that it’ll all come out in the wash somehow.

God & Company

I believe in God. The Universe. My angels.

I feel my deceased father around me, even 32 years later. I talk to him periodically.

I have faith.

Ain’t no man or men that can change the shape my soul is in. – Avett Brothers

But I still have no idea what the fucking point of all of this is.

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Why does my brain want me to self-destruct? The thoughts that percolate in there are dark sometimes, my virtual friends.

As my mom would say about me, I don’t handle stress well. This is true. What also is true, my entire family knows that I’m a bit off my wheel.

“Crazy Aunt Abbey.”

Yep. And honestly, as much as I hate to admit it, I am.

Might as well own up to that shit, am I right?

I pray to God & Company to assist me in this life, to help me to stick around and not swallow a cocktail of medications or hang myself from a nice oak tree in the park. I really don’t want to go, but fuck my brain when it starts going in that direction.

I am used to those thoughts, that I am weak and not worth much to anyone. It’s true that under stress, I crack like an old coffee mug. I’ve always been rather Eeyore-like, I hide it behind my sense of humor. I am not the only person who does that, it’s a survival tactic. It’s always worked for me, everybody loves a clown.

A sad clown, a fake-ass funny, happy fucking clown.

I pray with tearful eyes, please God, help me stay strong.

Help me stay alive.

Into The Air

Life makes you calloused, even when you’d much rather remain soft.

Drama follows me everywhere, although I loathe the hell out of it. I think it likes me more because of that fact. If I had my wish, I’d be sitting on a fluffy cloud eating Oreo’s and watching documentaries all day.

But no.

I never thought that I’d ever have to call Google and report that someone stole close to $700 from me so that they could interact with sexy young girls on an app based from out of Taipei, Hong Kong.

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If it wasn’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.

“Can I have my money back or did it just shoot into the air, never to be seen again?”

A joke, it didn’t garner much of a laugh.

We Must Confront Our Bullshit

It’s been over a year now since it’s been just my daughter and our two dogs living under one roof together. I fought for almost two months to get my cheater husband to move out. He didn’t want to leave (nowhere to go, he said) and holy fuck, it was such an awkward and extremely stressful time in my life.

Actually, he was the bringer of stress and chaos, drama and bullshit, for many years. I put up with all of it because of 3 main reasons:

  1. He was the love of my life, wasn’t he?
  2. I’d invested so many years of my life to the relationship.
  3. I became complacent.

The level of stress in my life has gone down considerably since he’s been gone. That isn’t to say that I don’t continue to have stress, because that’s just a part of life.

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Ah, knowing when to stay or go. It’s different for everyone, I’d reckon.

I wish that I had kicked his ass out long before I did, but there’s no such thing as a time machine. If so, I’d have one in my bedroom.

He left behind tons of memories (good and awful) and I’m still in the process of sifting through them, one by one. Some people tell me to just forget about him, but I know that if I don’t allow myself to deal with these thoughts and emotions, I will never heal.

Um, I want to heal.

I will not do what I did the first time around when I left my daughters father and then proceeded to hit the floor running. That was part of the recipe for my 2011 mental breakdown.

We must confront our bullshit or else we’ll continue to step in it.

Abbey  11/29/18

Blogophobia

Anonymity is pretty fucking neat.

Well, a few of you know who I really am. If you’d do me a solid and keep that knowledge to yourself, I’d be forever grateful.

But if you have no idea who I really am behind this crazed drawing of a woman handling sharp scissors, I’m a seasoned blogger with 6 years of experience. (Hire me for your next event!)

I recently decided to start over fresh as a completely different persona. But I’m still me.

Mind boggling, isn’t it?

When you have family and friends reading your writing…well, it makes it awkward sometimes. Like for example, how could I share that my Aunt Edna smells like fish-heads?

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This clothespin fucking hurts.

I don’t have an Aunt Edna, but if I did, I’d have to keep that nugget all to myself, which would be a damned shame.

To get right to the truth of it, my cheating ex-husband played a large part in building my old blog and I started to become sickened by it. (As my name here suggests, I am not normal.)

I’d develop a panic attack when I went to start writing something. Not fun, not good and the more I thought about it, I realized that I had a legit phobia going the fuck on here.

Blogophobia, I suppose.

But now being anonymous, it gives me the freedom to write about whatever the hell I want to without any filters. Now I see why there are so many bloggers who decide to go incognito.

Until next time, remember, don’t be an asshole.

Abbey  11/25/18

Spirit in the Sky

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You look like you just found out that Santa isn’t real, the old lady said to me from her plush, queen-sized bed.

I was only supposed to be cooking meals, helping her eat and take her medicine, not give her a sponge bath and transfer her to a toilet-chair. I didn’t have the training to be a home health aide, the job I applied for was a helper/companion.

I had been mislead and lied to. I would report the agency the next day.

I will never forget this woman, who was 93, quite frail and basically dying. Her rich son was across the country doing his thing, while she festered away with inadequate caregivers.

Imagine her anger, the fear that she must have had. She had nothing good to say about him, complaining to me while I did my best to wash her rail-thin body.

Afterward, I took her vein-ridden hand and sincerely apologized for my lack of knowledge.

It isn’t your fault, at least you care, she said. Most of these girls who come into my home are rude and treat me like dirt.

She looked away and I saw tears in her milky blue eyes.


It’s official now, my entire family is aware that my mom is not getting any better, but instead worse. My guess is that this is her last holiday season.

I’m in auto-bot mode, just doing what I can to make her life more bearable. I’ll worry about myself afterwards.


I don’t believe in Santa.

If I was able to see that 93-year-old woman again, I’d tell her that grief is the consequence of love and that the people in our lives are not infallible. We trust the wrong individuals, relationships can be broken in just 2 seconds and in the end, the only person we truly have in this lifetime is ourselves.

I would also tell her what a complete piece of shit her son is for leaving her alone with strangers like he did while she lay dying in her condo.

I’d also thank her for the experience, because I would never fucking do that to my mom. I’ll be there with her until she leaves this place for the spirit in the sky.

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