It was hot enough to run the air conditioner today. And we dyed Easter Eggs, in the part of the house that had no air conditioning. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Do something like cook hard boiled eggs in an already hot kitchen and then dye them. After all, tomorrow’s Easter, and we weren’t planning on celebrating, with my knocked up and due any day now (C’mon baby! I’m ready to meet ya!), we were going to do a small celebration, but now I don’t think we’re going to just have some toys and coloured hard boiled eggs around the table. I’m not that up for any hard boiled eggs. I can’t stand them when I’m not pregnant.
So I’m five days overdue today. I feel as though I am five years overdue. I feel like I have been pregnant forever. Worse, I feel like I am wasting everyone’s time with being pregnant, because nothing is happening.
I picked a bad time to try and blog. Dennis is due for his medication, and we’re going over double the dose, triple to be exact, and he’s just as scared as I am as to what this new dose is going to do. So here goes nothing. Happy Easter, in case I don’t get back to posting until Monday or so.
“People come and people go, moving fast and moving slow. I’m in a crowd, yet I’m all alone,” ~Micky Dolenz
My dreams are vivid. I am told by the first one I gave my heart to is ready to face eternity with me. He died almost twelve years ago. I won’t write out his name; it’s all here, all on my pages, along with the circumstances of his death. It’s a worn-out tragedy that I am not going to contribute to tonight. Tonight, I write about Love surviving death into Eternity.
What do you do if there is more than one soul you loved who has crossed over? Who do you spend Eternity with? So far I have two waiting for me, and a third whom I hope that I don’t have to cross that path for a long, long time.
Even my dreams are confused. In them I reject Dennis after the tragedy, and he walks away, into a fog of unknown, with Chloe, Ashe and James holding his hands. The children do not look back at me. They just follow their father. I know what that dream means; without Dennis, I wouldn’t have the wonderful children that I have to this date. But at the same time, if I had married either of my other two loves, they may be alive today. If I had insisted Peter take me out to eat that night, if I had insisted Paul stay an extra two weeks in Las Vegas with me, one of them would still be alive today. Right? Death and hindsight plays heavily on my thoughts these days. I’m not sure why that is. My declining health? My lack of Risperdal? My constant research into the death of others? There is a reason I am having these dreams.
My last haunting dreams were of Dennis abandoning me. Of me being alone, in strange, dark, cold places and no one was there to help me. Dennis would lead me to these places, and then walk away. I wake up just as I am panicking in the darkness. No one ever rescues me. I am just there. Some times I wander around in the dreams, but the scenery is just all that more unfamiliar.
I have people who tell me that dreams are not prophetic. They tell me that dreams are just made up of the things that one is exposed to during the day, and that anything could cause them. The tragedy is in the news every single day, despite it being over a decade old, so I could be exposed to it unknowingly. I download songs from my past, constantly, so that again could trigger me thinking about my past subconsciously. I have transformed some home videos to DVD through the miracle of my VHS to DVD recorder, and that again, the past may be replaying in my mind subconsciously. I have not studied therapy, psychology and psychiatry enough to fully diagnose myself. I do know that the images scare me. I know that they haunt me. I know that I want the hauntings to end.
Then there’s the part of me who thinks that Love is keeping those memories alive. That when I get too focused on my present life, Love reminds me that there were two men who loved me more than life itself, and that I get to go on and have a full marriage, children, a career, and experiences that they will never have. Love can do strange things to a person, and their memory, and their mind, and their way of thinking. I am sure of that.
Today is my oldest daughter’s Fourteenth Birthday.
Or it would be, if she were alive.
Poetry Rose died of a barbiturate overdose, just a dose and a half of what was prescribed for her, in the wee hours of the morning on May 20, 2009. She was ten years old.
Suffering from multiple tumors that were causing her severe pain, PoRo’s doctor had told her father and I that chemotherapy would just prolong her suffering, and wrote us a prescription for her of high dose barbiturates, a dose so high that I once tried it and found myself sobbing and “out of body” for hours. The doctor informed us that if we tried to pursuit chemotherapy from another physician or cancer treatment center, he would personally report us to child services for child abuse. Our parents also threatened us with a report to child services if we did nothing and just let our daughter die.
It was a horrible time for me, for Dennis, for our family.
PoRo mimicked my medication taking. She had watched me take pain medication for a long, long time (since July of 2003), and she was certain if I did it, it had to be right. I was her hero, another mistake she made. In mimicking what I do many times with my invalid pain medications, she took just a half a dose higher than was recommended, and it killed her.
Her death was ruled an accident.
Dennis and I both turned ourselves in to the police after the paramedics took PoRo’s body away. We blamed ourselves, and each other, at the same time. No charges were brought because PoRo had written in her journal hours before taking the fatal dose, that she had saw not only myself take multiple pain medicine pills, but her father usually over medicated, and so did her cousin Jess. We were all fine. She was never aware that medicine could be lethal, and if you died in this world, there’s no reset button, and you don’t get to come back. She thought she had super powers, as she thought the same about me, because she had beaten cancer three years before she died. I still cry for her because she died like an unwanted animal. With the same overdose they get. Except she wasn’t an animal, and she wasn’t unwanted. She was dearly loved and much wanted.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her and the situation, and how tragic it turned out. There are many days that I wonder if there was something I could have done differently, that would make her alive to this day. When she was seven, she had several tumors removed from her breast, and was given a clean bill of health after six months. But the cancer came back. It has a nasty, bad habit of doing that. I was happy when Chloe’s tumors were declared benign. I don’t think I could live through another innocent life being sick, weakened by a disease that is almost always fatal.
Because they were the best of friends on this Earth, in this Life, PoRo and Jess were interred next to one another, so their spirits need not wander too far to be together again.
Every February 25th since her death, I make a birthday cake for dessert at dinner time. I made one this year. As a tributing tradition, we, as a family, all blow out the candles on the cake at the same time. My hope is that she will be remembered because of this tradition.
I’d also like to point out, even though it is irrelevant in this whole thing, that a freak from the far ends of the web harassed me to tears over me taking extra pain medication for my severe pain. They mocked me, telling me that my kids were going to get into my medicine and die from drug overdoses. That person was not right. In both telling me that I was this apathetic bitch who partied down on prescription pain killer, and in accusing me of not caring for my kids. I care for my family. Just because I don’t update my blog every day with how much I love and cherish them doesn’t mean that I do not feel it, that I do not care for them. I don’t know where that person (or her other two personalities are, the ones that pretended to be my friend(s) to get info out of me) is now, but if she does want to come mock me for her being “right” I really don’t care. I don’t have to let her comments through. And I can ban her second set of IPs as well.
Oh, and if he were alive, George Harrison would be 70 today.
During my daily waltzes around the web, I came across this:
There is no fault in being skeptical. If you are skeptical, it’s probably the other person’s fault for either
- Being too vague or flakey in their descriptions, or
- Flat-out lying
I am guilty of the first.
There have been many times that one friend of mine, Scott, has had the courage and the appreciation for me to tell me that I am “too vague” in my Facebook updates. While I could blame that on Facebook’s interface being as intimidating as Twitter’s, or that I have somewhat long nails and type on an iPhone when I update my Facebook statuses, there is no real excuse when I update my blog. Naturally, people don’t frequently visit my blog. What good would it do anyway? I’m just as vague here, mostly because I am trying to protect the identity of my husband and children. See, I’ve been around the block a few times, and this is not my first rodeo. I know the people of the web, and how vicious they truly are. In my thirteen years of having a public website, I have had people call child services on me, simply because I exposed their hoaxes, called out their lies they published on the web, or found the photographs of the people they had ripped off. In other words, I butted my big nose into some lunatic’s fantasy world, and presto. I earned a nemesis for life. They didn’t want me to simply shut down my web page, they wanted me to suffer in the real world.
It wasn’t always like that. When I first had a blog, I wrote about everything and anything in such a candid manner that I never gave it a second thought. People generally ignored me then, too, but I had the energy and the stamina to write in great detail of my life, my trials, my tribulations. It opened my world up to someone who wanted to become me. I have since censored myself. I leave out what I consider important facts from my life, and I stopped posting so many pictures of myself, my husband, my friends, and my children.
I encourage questions, though. With the disruption in my path of thinking, I know there are things that I have left out in my writings, and I apologise for that. It wasn’t too long ago that I could write entire research papers without notes or even rough drafts. I sat down, I typed up the finished, polished paper, and I turned it in. Not so any more. I miss what I used to be able to do. I can see the deterioration that has been happening over the past five years, and it really saddens me. I am not the person I used to be, and I have changed forever, not for better. I remember times when I could keep track of my friends’ birthdays, anniversaries, anything, really. Now they fly by and I wonder what the hell happened.
So if there’s any loose ends that I have failed to tie up, please email me, comment, PM me. I promise this was not done intentionally, and while I can’t promise that I will spill more information out in the future, I can promise that if anyone asks, and they ask nicely, I will reveal all that is (generally) needed to know. Just keep in mind that this is my blog, not my children’s, my husband’s, my friends’, my family’s. They don’t have any control over what I write here, but I would like to keep their privacy just that: private.
I want to write more. I want to sit down and just write and write and write. I want to read more books. I want to interact with others more. I feel that I am missing out on the fun things in my life that made my life worth living, simply because I hold back too much. I want to enjoy what little bit of my mind that is left while I can still do it. I know that sounds bleak, but I promise it’s not meant to be! I feel that if I can do amazing things again, I will start to feel better about myself and no longer slash my wrists out of frustration and anger. That I won’t chew up my narcotics and opioids out of despair. That I won’t spend hours sobbing about things that I cannot help nor change.
There was a time when I knew that I was a good person and I truly liked who I was. I’m not sure what happened to change that, possibly my harasser constantly kicking my personality was what lit the fuse (even though at one time that person wanted to be me!), but it has been chipping away at me for so long now that I have gone under with what seems like no point of return. I want to patch things up with Dennis as well. I want to save what is left of our marriage. I don’t really want to leave him, and certainly not for someone else in the same business as him. I don’t want to split up our children, I don’t want to have to move, unless we move as a family. It would be nice to wake up and think “You’re a good person!” again, but I know that I am a long ways away from that. I know that I have to work to get there, and I know that once I do get there, it will be so much more rewarding, so worth it. In the mean time, I must start taking better care of myself physically. I must keep on my medicine. I must keep my doctor appointments. I canceled three of them this past week, and that was wrong. Why did I do it? Sheer fatigue and hopelessness.
It’s a long road ahead. Will you join me? I just can’t make it alone.
So in the last couple of days, I have had a little bit of fun. After the trauma of finding my husband unconscious on the floor one early morning, and he spent some more time in the hospital, this time for an insulin overdose, I surrounded myself with friends and people to build me up, emotionally. One of the places I ended up was at a lifestyles party. A private party. Private as in I can’t disclose the place it was held, and I’m not supposed to name names, but I ended up going with Matt. I got in free because he convinced me to hide my wedding ring. Single women get in free. I spent four of the six hours just in shock of the people there, feeling each other up, having sex in plain view of others. I was the only one there, sitting awkwardly at a table, nursing a glass of ginger ale.
I ended up following Patrick upstairs and we both fell asleep in the hotel room. We were run out at 8am the next day.
Matt wants me to go back this weekend and bring Dennis along. Of course I still have to play the part of the single woman, for some reason. It would be cheaper if we paid as a couple, but this is Matt’s plan, and Matt calls the shots when it comes to public sex in this city.
Speaking of public displays of sexual encounters, Matt is my date for the Sweetheart Dance this year. In just two days we will awkwardly dance to a Buddy Holly song while dressed in 1950′s garb, and wait to hear how we lost at a 1950s dance competition. Again. For the fifth or sixth time. We’ve entered every year since 2008, and we never, ever win. Matt says it’s because I’m “so fat” so I blamed him, saying the judges thought we were both women. This year, I doubt that I can fit into my costume, but I can try, right?
Little One is actually waking up and sleeping peacefully for eight or more hours at a stretch. It’s really calming to have a baby sleep during the day while you’re still pregnant with said baby. We don’t know the gender yet (haven’t asked), but we have a unisex name picked out: Everly. I think it’s really strange that Everly is due on March 25th. My first child was born on February 25th, and Chloe was born on July 25th. The boys were due on October 25th, but because of some scheduling problems, they were born on Halloween. If Everly is born on March 25th, we’re assuming we’re having a girl. It just seems so right, you know? Have all the girls on a 25th. And yet we still forget their birthdays on a regular basis.
There’s the dilemma of a middle name. That will depend 100% on whether Everly is male or female. But we’re still deciding on that, despite the arriving due date.
There’s been some changing brewing in my life. Not necessarily bad changes, but changes none the less.
It started about a week ago when I had a dream about a friend, someone I hadn’t seen in nearly ten years. Oddly enough, I was awakened from that dream to my phone ringing, and it was him. I feel that I have been dreaming of him for months now, the song he sang in my dreams, it was familiar. I ran the melody in my mind across some of Dennis’ recordings, and there has been nothing of the sorts that are familiar. It’s something that I wrote for my friend in my dreams. Freaky, huh? His phone call was simple: He wants to see me at the end of this month and the beginning of next, maybe over Christmas, like we did before. Before I could stop and think about it, I quickly replied, “That part’s over,” as I sat up in the bed. “What part?” he asked. “You know,” I replied. This wasn’t just a teenage fling that kept me busy when I was eighteen and nineteen years old. This was the man who introduced me to the world of heroine. This was the man who refused it himself, but had an endless supply for me. Me and the other woman.
The other woman was his other official girlfriend. We were both racing to get pregnant. Not me so much, since I knew I already was when I started fucking him, but I was more in it to fuck him every day, sometimes multiple times per day, just to keep him too exhausted to screw her when I left. He lived in the sam apartment building my mother and I lived in back in the Louisiana days, and I was still upset over losing Peter. Without a second thought, I started taking guitar lessons from him. His father had been famous in the 1970′s, and I was an eager student. I did what I could to tempt the lesson to be over so I could have that sweet poison and then sex. I wanted both endlessly, but had to stop at nine at night to scurry back to my apartment with my mother, before she got home from work. I never expected him to remember me, but he has. Ten years ago, we met up in his homeland, and yes, screwed again. I didn’t turn down the drugs or the sex, whenever he offers it, even though I know that I no longer need his “love” as a crutch. Needless to say that the other woman got pregnant. I was further along, and told him the baby was his, though I had slept with four other men before him, and knew I was pregnant before I met him.
Weeks went by, and my mother soon found out. I was shipped away to live with my father for the baby’s birth, and lost my friend in the shuffle of the bigger city life. My days were spent grabbing up college credits and fixing computers in a local high school where my father taught during the day, and I soon forgot my friend. When I threw out half of my life two years ago, I chucked the letters and photos I had that been sent from him. He believed the baby I had had was his. He had called me several times when I married Dennis six years ago, and I always was too busy to take the call. The Biz is really a small network, when you think about it, and subtract the fans. When your crack whore gets married to another crack whore, and has a couple of kids, while wanting just one more, word gets around. This man was no exception. He tried to get into our wedding, once with an invitation and once without, and he was refused at the door. Realising what a mistake I had made in inviting him and his wife, I put him on the banned list, that he shared only with Billy, and we had a smooth wedding, living happily ever after.
Only that’s not the way it’s been.
When he called me that sunny Sunday morning, it was to ask not only if I was coming to see him this year, but for his forgiveness. He said he knew what he was doing when he made me into an addict. He said he was lonesome and scared of dying alone, so he reeled in two women to live with him and compete for pregnancy. He asked how his “first born” was. I bluntly told him that she had died some three years ago of cancer, and she wasn’t his daughter. While he had Scandinavian good looks, she was more Greek-ish, with brown hair, brown eyes and olive skin. I often wonder if the wrong twin got me knocked up. Dennis and his brother were famous for that, switching women with each other. I often wonder if my boys will do the same thing when they start dating.
We chatted for some time, and he left me with that trail that I hate: “Sorry that I ruined your life and made you hate me.” The line was then dead. Um, fuck you? You didn’t ruin my life, I did. I knew what could happen when I took that first hit. I knew I was going to become a slave to the injections of the hot liquid (he had a glass syringe he melted everything in), to the feelings of being incredibly sexy and having a male not only go all the way with me, but want me more than once, and what I assumed was crave me. I didn’t mind the other woman, she was merely a competition. Someone I knew that I could beat because I had the upper hand before the game had already started. He told me that he had every intention of marrying me, but that I slipped away, and he had to marry her because she was pregnant with his child. My turn to snort. “You don’t have to marry someone because you knocked them up,” I replied, already perched at my perpetual place, googling as fast as my fingers could type and my computer process.
One of the plus points of having well-known friends is that there is almost always something about them on the web. Reading through his page, I read that he had several (aka: a dozen or so) kids with the other woman and she had left him. Hmm. Wonder why. When I questioned him about this, he said it was because he wanted to make up for that mistake he made years ago. “She wasn’t a mistake,” I replied. “Oh no, I meant losing you,” he quickly replied. I’m sure that was his original intention.
We talked for a few more minutes, and then Chloe came into the room asking if we could go outside, and I agreed. I told him that I was going to have to go for now, but that I would talk to him again. He mumbled his “you hate me” speech, and that irritated me. I’ve felt that I need to call him or otherwise get in touch with him, if nothing more than to drill it into his head that I am not a hating person. Doesn’t matter what mistakes people have made that have caused me severe life changing events, I can’t hate the person. I can hate the situation, that is fine. People weren’t meant to be hated.
For the past week I’ve wondered if he was suicidal. I made excuses for what went down years ago, and then I metaphorically kicked myself for thinking that way. I thought about bringing this up in group therapy, family therapy, or one-on-one, but I can’t do it. I just can’t vilify someone I once cared about.
Coming home from another Premiere with Dennis, I told him that I was happy that our life turned out the way it has. I don’t know where that came from, but I really meant it. At least we’re not my ex, calling a desperate fling in hopes that someone will still talk to them. Dennis has been severely depressed since before our anniversary. I think my getting upset caused some of that. I apologised for it almost immediately when I went back over my notes from therapy. I can’t vilify Dennis either. He has his moments, but it’s me that chooses to be hurt or to harp on things. Let them go. Just let them go. The words I whisper to myself several times during the day, as I’m scribbling in my notebooks, or when I am conversing with someone whom I have unresolved conflict with. I wonder if they remember the conflict they have with me? I know it’s not so easy to let things such as that go, but I can hope that no one hangs onto things as I do. Perhaps that is why my mind is never clear. I used to celebrate meaningless anniversaries when I was a child and a teenager all the time. They mean nothing to me now, but then they were my entire week.
Watching the celestial sky for the Leonids, I silently hoped that my ex was not suffering, physically or mentally, where ever he was. I hoped that Dennis could kick the depression that he was going through and that he did not dwell on the words that I spoke so carelessly just a month ago. I thought of the offer he had run past me, and I really wished I could go back and agree. I wanted to do this now. I wanted to go out there and face the shore wall, just one more time before it washed away the last places that I thought I’d always be able to see again. I wanted to do that so badly, but I had declined and now someone else has my place on the trip. Dennis is devastated that I am not going, as if those summers were just a waste of time to me then. They were not. They were not meaningless. I remember living out some of my happiest memories there.
When I spoke coming home, Dennis was reading a paper from Geoff. He barely looked at me when I spoke. I was driving. I said I wanted to make it up, and he replied that my place had already been taken. My first thought was to threaten to run off with my ex to some exotic place up north for the winter, but I realised how foolish that would be. Did I really want to be the mother who abandoned her children because their father was driving me up a wall? Did I really want to be the wife that turned her back on her husband and rushed back into the arms of an abusive ex, whose intentions may just to be to get me close and inject me with poison and lies once again? Since when do I run from my problems?
After the Premiere, Dennis said we had to take one of his friends home. I was glad for that, since most of his friends and I do not get along. He handed me a paper bag of my medicine that we had picked up from the pharmacy before the Premiere, and gave me a long, tight hug. It felt as though the hug was fueled by despair, sadness. I started to ask what that was for, when he pulled away and said, “Please don’t be fucked up on those pills when I get back. Please?” He wasn’t asking me. He wasn’t telling me. He was begging me. I gently pulled away and walked into the house. I’m sure he watched me go. Dumping the medicine bottles out on my desk, I saw what was in the mix. My old poisons. I put them on the shelf with my other medicines.
It was after nine at night before Dennis came home. I heard him walk down the hall and check the bedrooms, when I was sitting in the living room; he had walked right past me. Upon finding me, he just stared for a few seconds. “All the pills are in their bottles. I didn’t take any,” I said. He immediately smiled and once again, I got that long hug. This time, though, it seemed that the hug was fueled by something different. Relief, happiness. Love, perhaps.
The days are slower here. This nights are long and cold. The breeze off the lake chills our bedroom night after night. While it’s cold enough to make us pull the quilt up to our shoulders, it’s not cold enough to see our breath. Billy insists the windows be left open at night. I feel fortunate that there is a screen and lock on every window.
I came down with a nasty, sticky rash last night. It was pretty painful, not quite shingles, but just as painful, and Dennis had to smear some paste on it to soothe the skin and calm the rash. I was a little embarrassed that he had to do that. I guess it’s good that my family puts up with my needs rather than shove me in a nursing home because I have become a nuisance to them. I’m still not sure what to do when Dennis goes back out on the road. He tells me that he won’t go unless he is sure that I can take care of myself, and “taking care of” myself doesn’t mean swallowing a handful of pills.
I light of the past few days, I’ve been treating my friends, online and off, a little better. I even let our labrador crowd me off the pillows at the head of the bed last night because she was there first. I have this weird belief that if I am kind and nice to others, kindness and niceness will be reflected back on me. Maybe if I spout that at the shrink’s office on Friday they will lock me up and throw away the key. I hope not. My goal is to get better, but without a-typical anti-psychotic medication. I will admit that the medicine I take at night to sleep better, sometimes causes auditory and visual hallucinations. Sometimes I feel that people are talking to me while I am in bed, asleep. I sometimes answer them aloud. It’s scary.
Tomorrow afternoon, we’re going to leave here to the NYC Ground Zero Patriot Day. James is supposed to meet us at the airport, and I’m really looking forward to that. Not celebrating the memories of people who died in that horrible tragedy, but I’m looking forward to seeing James again, get a change of scenery, and possibly give in to getting a place in the city. Hey, it couldn’t be any more dangerous than where I already live. Could it?
Hope everyone has had a good week, and that you get a free moment to remember the victims of eleven years ago on Tuesday. James said this is the first time that September Eleventh has fallen on a Tuesday since the actual tragedy. I’m not sure if it is or not, but never forget. I knew Paul James Battaglia, age 22, who was in the trade tower when the attacks occurred. Just two months prior to the attacks, he had invited us to his to his office on the 100th floor of the World Trade center, we had lunch at Windows on the World, and we climb to the Observation Deck of the South Tower. I remember that erie statement that I said while looking down at the city below … “Imagine if you had to jump from this building..?” James, Paul, Dennis and a few others from our little group laughed. Who would have thought that sixty-eight days later, that prophecy would somewhat come true? I remember very clearly that day that Paul said that no matter what, he would never jump from that tower. Perhaps he didn’t or couldn’t. I will never know.
Another prophecy-like came true in December that year. I remember glancing up at the dark, smokey sky, around 10pm one night, and remarked, “It looks like it’s about to start snowing any minute…” Right then, big floppy snowflakes began to fall to the Earth from the dark, starless sky. Dennis remarked to that: “You keep making these predictions, and they’re gonna burn you at the stake!” I found that fairly amusing. Has that ever happened to anyone else? Have you ever made a last-minute prediction that came true? Have you ever witnessed someone else do so? Leave a comment and tell me all about it!
G’Night all you happy people!