Posts Tagged ‘Life’
I got the job.
I blew all those associate-degree-ed hard workers out of the water, and I was hired today. I start tomorrow, just doing some little stuff, then I get a three day weekend. I didn’t know it was a three day weekend until I saw where someone was posting about a three day weekend on FB. Hmm. Oh well. To celebrate, Dennis and I went to a movie and then out to dinner. We hired a Japanese baby sitter who’s 15 years old and babbled that she always took such good care of her little brother, and she has a twin sister and so fourth. Again, an over-qualified person needing a job that a well-trained chimp could do. We offered her $60 as an entire price for: Taking out the trash, feeding the kids, cleaning the kids up, putting the kids to bed, cleaning up the kitchen, letting the dogs in and out as needed and checking on the kids periodically during the time they were asleep, as well as nighttime maintenance. Piece of cake, huh? Stay at home mommy stuff, right? She babbled that she could do it, and she had her “elite” 10th grade level science book to read when we left. I gave her our numbers and told her generally when we’d be back (11pm), then we hurried off to our night time adventure.
This is where the day stopped being good.
Dennis hit a huge pothole on the way to the theater. It made my shoulder blades start throbbing. I had my percocet with me, but I didn’t want to ruin the night. I waited. We talked of things that wouldn’t matter to anyone but us all the way to the theater. Glancing over the movies at the front door, I wanted to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – Part 1 or Burlesque, but before I could say anything, Dennis told the cashier “Two adults for True Grit.” I was kind of taken back. I remember watching the original when I was a child, and I strongly disliked it. Part of that was because I was forced to watch it. Just like I was being forced now. I just can’t get into Westerns. It’s not like I haven’t tried, because I have. I even bought The Searchers a few years ago because it was so highly recommended. But I just can’t do it. So tonight, I just smiled and nodded, bought a Coke and some nachos and sat in the cold, dark theater with Dennis, waiting for the movie to begin.
I choked down my nachos and gulped down most of my Coke by the time the previews were over and the opening credits were going through. I was sleepy. I felt bored. Dennis and I were snuggled together in the theater seats If we were younger and I was in better health, this is where we would have had sex. But I’m hurting, he’s getting on up there, and so we just snuggled. Covered with our coats. Only taking our hands out to take sips from our soda cups.
There was a woman, sitting alone, behind us, crunching ice. It just irritated me so badly. Crunchcruchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunch. Fast, slow, she had a never-ending cup of ice, or she was eating one of the chairs behind us. Crunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunch. SlurpsuckBURP. My god. I wanted to move. I noticed people texting. I could actually hear their fingers typing on the little keyboards. Little things were getting to me and annoying me, kind of like when you’re trying to fall asleep, but can’t because there’s always some little annoyance? Yeah. Finally, I whispered to Dennis that I was having pain and if we were going to dinner that night, I needed to take a pill. He shrugged, reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle, took out a pill and gave it to me. In the dim light, I could tell it was one of my percocets. Perfect. I took the pill with some Coke, and I was soon blissfully nodding away to another world.
After what seemed like a few minutes, I was jerked away by my phone going off in the theater. It was only vibrating, but it vibrates loudly against theater seat arms, and I jumped when it happened, knocking the plastic nacho dish over. I didn’t make that much noise, but everyone in the theater, from the text messengers to the ice smacker, turned to give me dirty looks. Assholes. I burrowed under Dennis’ arm and hurried out to the auditorium, and answered the call. It was the babysitter. The TV had stopped working. She said it just winked out. Alright, fine. I was tipsy from the percocet (I get so drunk and dizzy on just one of those, I don’t know why my doctor recommended that I take four at a time!), and told her we’d discuss it when I got home. I heard James and Ashe playing in the background. I checked my watch. It was after eight. I asked her what they were still doing up, and she babbled that she was going to take care of them, and that they were play-fighting over the potty. Again, I told her not to let them do that. Yes, potty is srs biznaz. I hung up and went back in the theater. My seat was cold and my Coke was warm. I knew that neither was the baby sitter’s fault, but I would blame her anyway.
Dinner was a mess. I ordered the chicken. It was so dry and stringy, I almost didn’t want to pay for it! I did, though, but I left a comment with the chef about how crummy it was.
I was still spitting out pieces of chicken when we got home to the mess that our babysitter left us. Oh. Lord. James was running around the living room. Ashe’s butt was all shit where she didn’t empty the potty (OMG! POOP! NO ONE SAID THERE’D BE POOP!) and he and his brother kept pooping in it. Chloe hadn’t had a bath, brushed her teeth or done her homework, and it was almost 11pm. She didn’t have time to do any of those things now. I sent her directly to bed, washed up Ashe, and wrangled James, tossing kids in bed, dumping poopy potties, and then I had to bag the trash and take it out. All while our babysitter is telling me she doesn’t know what’s wrong with the TV. Girl, the TV is the least of your problems. Dennis had the right idea, though, he just got undressed and went to bed. After getting the kids in bed, I docked the babysitter $5. She got so mad! I didn’t care. She was lucky I paid her at all, and I told her so. “What the hell did you do all night? Break our TV?” “You don’t understand what it’s like to take care of kids!” That statement right there made me usher her to the door. She was babbling about threatening to sue me for that remaining $5 and how she was never babysitting for me again, and she was going to tell all her babysitting friends…Good. From now on I’m going to only rely on adults to care for the kids. Clearly, teenagers can’t do the job.
Before sitting down to post this novel, I brushed my teeth, and there were still bits of that chicken in my mouth. I was so dehydrated, I had to rapid infuse, by drinking SmartWater, of course! I feel better, but I’m insanely tired. G’Night everyone! See you tomorrow!
I’m hung over from last night, but at least I’m here and I’m getting ready for my doctor appointment, pray for me.
I went to a job interview today. The University that I graduated from last year wanted to hire me full time because the Grimaldo twins had passed their classes with flying colours, and I was offered a position as assistant professor. Someone who does the grunt work for the actual professors. Mostly, I’d be helping the rather slow students understand the assignments, working with professors to grade exams and papers, posting grades, things of that nature. It was cold today. We got snow last night. Dennis took me to the University, and told me he would be returning in two hours, so I’d better be ready. He was in a bad mood. I don’t know why. He parked so damned close to the curb and in the shadows. There was a glare of ice on the ground. I nearly did the spits getting out of the car. Grumbling, I slipped and slid to the building, not even looking back.
Once inside, I took off my coat. Bad idea. I’d forgotten about the track marks on my arms that were now infected wounds. I looked as though I had been bitten by a rather large vampire. Of course I’d chosen to wear short sleeves. There was nothing I could do to cover up the wounds. I sighed, signed in at the University front desk and made my way to the second floor where the interview was going to be held. I was sweating. My resume was going to be ruined because I had chosen to print it at home. I sat down in the small waiting area. Doc. Bishop called me in. We made small talk as he went over my resume. I noticed that he looked at my arms. He said that I was more than qualified for the job, why did I want it? I made a joke that I was going to a free clinic for the time being and couldn’t afford good health care, and I desperately needed the money. He raised an eyebrow. I’m sure he knew that I was smacking and just needed the money to support my habit.
After what seemed like an eternity, he smiled and said I was the most qualified that had come in today and if no one else could beat my resume, I was hired. As if anyone more qualified than I would even waste their time as a University Assistant Professor. Most people with my degree level were working in pharmacies or high-tech labs curing cancer and the common cold. Me? I was stooping. I smiled back, we shook hands, and I left his office.
Wandering the halls of my old University, it seemed like an eternity since I had been there the first time. I remembered I had been in that same office for my interview to get in the University as a student. I was seven months pregnant with two very jittery babies. It was a hot August day and I remembered running from one building to another with Chris. Arms linked, we ran the entire length of the court yard, and then I vomited when we got to the door. I just puked my brains out. We weren’t expecting to be at interviews that day, and we weren’t dressed for it. We looked like hobos. Torn jeans. Hole-infested t-shirts. I think Chris’ shirt said SCISSOR SISTERS on it. We were caught off guard, told that it was the last day of interviews. Chris hurried in the building and came back with bottled water and a sandwich for me from the vending machines. I sipped water and ate part of the sandwich. I remember he told me there was no time for chewing, we had to get inside and in line for an interview before five that evening. Some how we made it. We were accepted. We had done it.
That seemed like a lifetime ago. Was it really just a little over three years ago?
The thoughts of Chris made me smile. Since I was on the second story of the building, I searched for his name amongst the thousands that had graduated. When Chris died, he was immediately put his name on The Wall, his name painted with a platinum coloured paint. I found his name. I traced the letters with my fingers. I remembered being there when his name was engraved in The Wall. I remember standing there, tears streaming down my face. I had been there when Chris died. I had gone through the files at my last job and read his obituary. I had insisted on being there when he was autopsied. I had gone to his funeral. But seeing his name on The Wall of Ghosts somehow made it all final. Chris was gone. My best friend had died.
“Did you know him?”
The question made me jump. “Sorry. I thought you heard me say hello.” A guy about my age stood there in the hall. “He was my best friend,” I replied with a smile. “Oh.” We chatted for a few moments. The man was waiting for his interview time. I was waiting for my ride home from my interview. He was applying for the same job, but he barely had an associate’s degree in teaching. I felt guilty. He was supporting his two older brothers, a niece and his mother who was dying of heart failure, and there I was, with the PhD, and had already blown him out of the water. I didn’t say anything about the interview. I wished him good luck, glanced down at my watch and said it was getting late and I had another appointment. He wished me well, and said he hoped to not miss the 3pm bus back to the main terminal to get on a third bus home. I cringed at that. Selfish, selfish me. I secretly wished someone with a PhD and a clean background would come in and blow me out of the water. But that isn’t going to happen. Someone slap me. Hard.
It’s snowing out. The first big snowstorm of the year/season. I’m sitting by a drafty window, watching the snow falling from the main window outside. It’s so quiet and peaceful outside. Chloe is perched next to me, sleeping. Dennis questioned my arm last night, but I didn’t tell him where the holes came from, initially. “Well, it’s like this, you and your brother just throw needles, uncapped, in the trash, and when I bag the trash, I get hurt.” He believed me. It begins. The lying. The excuses. What’s next? I start selling my Christmas jewelry? I wasn’t asked for payment yesterday, because I was friends with the guy. But eventually, he will demand for some cash.
This morning, I was having horrible double vision. Dizziness. I was walking into walls, doors, bedframes, kids playing clamly on the floor. Tears came to my eyes when Chloe picked up a pretend syringe and had her doll inject it into herself. She saw that? She saw that. Where the hell was she? She was supposed to be in bed, asleep. I waited until the kids were in bed. I waited until the last minute. I waited until I was sure Dennis was busy with his band, then I sent the text message. I sent that I had supplies, I just needed something strong. He showed up decked out in scarves and a newsboy’s hat, complete with a white, stained pea coat and fingerless gloves. I invited him in. I knew that was a bad choice when I did it because carriers always scope out your place when you invite them in, to see what you’ve got. To see if you can pawn shit to pay your bill.
I finally told him that I didn’t have the gumption to inject myself. Then I didn’t have the needles. He said he had some, and pulled out these bent, grimy syringes. Suddenly, I remembered where there were some, and pulled out the first insulin needle out of the trash. “You’re gonna need something bigger than that,” he said. “Inject me twice,” I replied. So he did. Twice. From the same needle. The same hot needle. Hot from the melting of the heroin. Hot from the liquid that flowed into me. My eyes were closing before He even got the second needle pulled out. I don’t remember much of what happened after that. I’m hoping he let himself out and that was that.
I slept all day today. I am going to sleep more tonight. I can’t get enough sleep.
Tonight was good. We lounged in bed, snacking on grilled cheese sandwiches and talking of things we hadn’t mentioned in months. I can talk to him again. He can talk to me. We talk. We communicate. We can ask each other questions, answer the questions and know that the truth is being told. There is a beauty in this type of love. I call it love anyway. It could be anything, but I call it love. I want more of it. I crave it. I want to lay there in his arms forever, but I know we can’t. Snacking on the grilled cheese sandwiches, some cheese dribbled onto my chin. He caught it with one finger and licked it off. I will admit that I was aroused. I wanted to make the night perfect, but it was already perfect. We were together, and that’s all that mattered. Two hearts who needed one another.
Therapy has helped. Learning to communicate has helped. Knowing that we can trust one another has helped. Snuggling and eating grilled cheese sandwiches while watching the stars on a clear night has helped. Knowing that he doesn’t think any less of me because I am crippled for life helps. My world has been turned back right side up. And for that, I am grateful.
Dennis and I had our therapy today. Nothing of interest, but we are making progress. We do more things for each other, and that was the point of getting help. We didn’t realise what an impact that simply doing things for one another could accomplish, emotionally.
I took some more pain medication today. My neck hurt, and I’ve been having pains in my leg since yesterday morning. I don’t know what that’s all about, but I can’t go to the doctor until I get the bill paid down some.
School started for the spring semester for Chloe and DW. Chloe didn’t want to go. She actually begged me to let her drop out now. I asked her why she didn’t want to go to school, and she told me that she just doesn’t like being away from me and her daddy so long. Poor girl. I don’t know what to do for her. She has attachment issues, I know.
I also know that I shouldn’t say bad things about my mother on the internet. She can’t see what I write here, and I know deep down that it’s wrong. She can’t defend herself. She doesn’t even know that I wrote that entry yesterday. I wish I could have a good relationship with my mother. We have that deeply rooted same problem: We were results of affairs that never should have happened. I do still believe that my life would have been better if I had been raised by the transvestite that my mother was friends with and left me with thirty years ago. I believe my life would have been better. My mother’s life would have been better. The trans’ life would have been better because she really wanted me. *sigh* There’s nothing that can be done now.
Last night and this morning, I was ganged up on. That’s one of the things I can’t stand: Getting ganged up on. In real life, of course. On the web it’s just amusing and it ends when I turn off the computer or surf to something else, like my DVD collection I’m working on. But last night was horrible. First off, I was told by my specialist that there’s nothing that can be done for my back. The x-rays and MRIs show how bad it is, and the doctor told me that there’s no surgery or methods that will help me. I am going to have this pain for the rest of my life. This pain that keeps me from grocery shopping, going to the mall, anything that requires standing for more than a few minutes. All my (asshole!) doctor will prescribe is….nothing. He tells me to take baby aspirin. That is not going to help with the pain. Nerve pain, sciatica, broken bones, ruptured discs, that’s all shit that is extremely painful. That’s all shit that one needs hard-core pain management for. Morphine. Vicodin. Oxy. The second bad part? I was ganged up on by the people who claim they care about me. When it happens in the real world, I’m basically chased from room to room and reminded of whatever my abuser wants me to be reminded of.
Last night I was called a “pussy” and a “coward” this morning because I don’t believe I should have to live with this pain. And I don’t believe I should. That doesn’t mean I’m suicidal. It means I want better pain management. If they’re not going to do anything for it, physically, then I want something to ease the pain. I don’t think that’s unreasonable at all. I don’t think that’s ridiculous or insane. But my mother sure does! She is pissed off at me for spending money on these specialists and finding out what, exactly, is wrong with me. Why, what a selfish, ungrateful little slut I am! That money could go to her! Those drinks at the bar aren’t free you know! And the men she picks up there every night, why, some of them steal her purse and money after the sex! Then today she goes on a tirade of how I am a coward because I don’t want to live with this pain. Again, she wants copious amounts of money, and we just don’t have it to donate. I have explained this to her, but she doesn’t care. I am so selfish, you know!
When that tirade was over, she went on another claiming she wished she’d never had kids, and how her first born has never been this way with her. Yeah, that would be because he was taken away from her because she was such a stellar mother. I envy him. He never had to go through this abuse. I retorted that I wished she had left me with the transvestite who was raising me. Granted I didn’t have my hearing, but I would rather have grown up deaf than go through the torture I went through.
Of course she brings up things that I did when I was 5 years old. Why, if I hadn’t played on that Slip ‘n’ Slide, my back out be just fine! I guess that car that hit me in 2003 and caused my right leg to go numb had absolutely nothing to contribute to my pain, huh? It was just one hell of a coincidence that my searing pain started the summer night that I was hit by that car. And OH MY GOD, I was such a selfish, greedy little slut back then! I would see Barbie commercials and want the dolls!! I wanted a shampoo that de-tangled my hair because her raking a brush over my cheeks and ears every morning before school was unbearable after a while. I still have scars on my ears from that. She’d rake that brush over my skin until I bled. Then there was the actual tangles. She’d jerk and pull at my hair until I was crying and screaming. Then she’d pull out the scissors and chop off the tangle. But I’m selfish because I wanted a shampoo or conditioner that would solve that problem.
When I try to clear up the misconceptions in her mind, she accuses me of fighting with her, and unless the next words out of my mouth are, “How much do you need?” I’m not to talk to her anymore.
The absolute worst part of this is that Dennis somewhat sided in with her. When I went to him in tears today, asking why he let her in, he said she was my mother and I needed to learn to get along with her. I need to do many things, but I will never get along with my mother. It’s painfully clear that she does not love me. It’s clear that she will never love me. She loves money and sex with random men, even though she is married.
In a way, I’m glad this happens to me and not someone else. I don’t think this ordeal has made me any stronger. I have holed up in my bedroom all damned day. I have been crying. The people who truly love me keep asking me why I am crying. I didn’t realise my cam was on while I was writing this. Writing this all out has made me cry, realising that I have failed in making up with my mother. I am going to be recluse for a few days. I may never really recover. I would if I didn’t have to deal with her anymore. If she didn’t have a key to this place. If I were allowed to change the locks or move far, far away from all the drama, the bullshit. I’d love to go to the west coast or even the southern east coast. I’d love to leave the drama behind. I’d give anything to live a different life.
I haven’t eaten today. But that’s okay. I’m thinking of curling up with Chloe and reading to her or have her read to me. She really loves reading to me. It’s one of my favourite pastimes.