After twenty minutes of failed attempts to convince Given that cuddling under the warm covers was much better than exposing my half-clothed body to the crisp, morning air, I decided to face the day. When nose to nose, sissy-lala Monday should have been man enough to warn that the day would be filled with an unexpected contact, non-stop, disorganized packing and a fear that homework would only be a missed opportunity to succeed. Instead, Given and I ignorantly ran to the kitchen, grabbed our coffees (she's never too young) and sat down to let the caffiene run its course.
Tomorrow I leave the nest once again. You would think they would unravel the twigs of that thing, or at least get a one bedroom cottage after all the times their children have come home for extended "visits". I being the greatest offender. Two and 1/2 years ago I was asked to come home because I was alone, sick, pregnant, and doubted to survive the birth. The Hallmarks that flowed in for that situation was overwhelming. The stay was to only be a couple months, according to one Paula Jo Foster, yet I knew there was no way I could start over in California with a child and no support after just giving birth. So the months continued on, I did my part to cover expenses by acting as their failig memory and they paid for the roof over my head. Every once in a while I dusted as high as the tallest person we know. The situation worked for us. We had a good thing going.
The problem with living in Phelan, with your parents, without a license, and a growing child is that there is no opportunity for progress. Ideas swung back and forth, but nothing surfaced, so we finally came to the decision that it was time to move on; all the way to Hesperia. At least there I could have help with Given, more time for studies, and a much better opportunity to come in contact with those humans I hear so much about. Tomorrow is the day, which meant today was the packing day.
Packing for one woman and one child should be simple enough. Given's belongings took up much of the time, then I realized I could downsize my side by throwing away the jumk I never saw or used. The process, however, took longer than expected because a monkey repeatedly jumped on my broken neck and demanded I twirl in circles, or she would throw poo. Well, we all know who would have to clean that noodle-laden mess up, so I twirled. Then vomited. Though giving away many of Given's baby blankets brought some tear moments (no actual crying, there is no proof), and having my own sadness over leaving the comfort of what had become a daily, geriatric schedule, nothing turned my stomach in to the meat grinder like the email I received.
After months of trying to file for divorce from a man who thought "hide-and-seek" was a real-life, adult game, I received an email with his current address and the willingness to sign, let go, and let God. A, "Woo-Hoo!" shoud follow this moment, yet all I could do was shove my stomach back down from my throat and contemplate how getting what I wanted to could still hurt so much. I have fallen in love once, with my best-friend, and married him (we are talking about my husband, stay with me here). To know that it will be over without a fight is a relief, yet a kick to my self-confidence.
I am the one who got away. I will always be the one who got away, from every body. At least that is what I have told myself enough times to believe. While I think of people from my past, my imagination allows me to know they lay there at night, wondering how they could have missed out on that opportunity to spend eternity with me. This is only a fantasy, however, because committmennt is my kryptonite and fables my xanax. But when it comes to my own husband, I do not want to know that he is so happy with whomever he has moved on to, that any desire to fight for our marriage, or to be a father for that matter, doesn't interest him. Here's the girl-mind part, I don't want to reconcile, I just want to be wanted for reconciliation. I spent the day passing along baby items and packing up clothes, then trying to once again sever the reality that I have a failed marriage, yet wouldn't change it one bit.
Monday, oh Monday, you never warned my eyes would burn, my stomach churn and my mouth become silent by the end of day. You never insisted I eat, and therefore I failed to digest even a burrito, peanut butter, or chocolate chip. My trust in Monday is in limbo, as Tuesday is about to begin, and may prove Monday to be my best friend.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Saturday, October 9, 2010
What I Did On My Sanity Vacation
I do not recall the first days of elementary school when the teacher told the students to write what they did on their summer vacations. But let's face the facts, the last two decades have completely wiped out the memories of my first decade. I can say, however, that from time to time, many of my friends, family, foes and all of those wrapped in one come to wonder, "Where has our Carrie Jo gone? And if this is her replacement, it's defective." The answer is: On vacation. Vacation from balance, common sense, control and hope.
Let me take you back through the past few months, before I explain where I escaped to these past two weeks. My license has been the hold up for so many things in my life. Apparently, the state of California requires you to have a VALID CLD to cruise their sidewalks in a vehicle. Thus, my mission has been to fight for what is rightfully mine, or claim I'm an illegal and get it over with. Needless to say, my tan has failed my plan B and I went hard to work on writing everyone from my local representative, to the governor, and to the White House. Not to mention all in between. As a side note, when writing Jerry Lewis, make sure it's to the congressman; that was a wasted stamp. I heard back from all but the White House, or as I like to call it... nevermind, no need for a knock at my door after posting this. Each person, including the DMV (finally), told me that I had fulfilled all the requirements, but was not going to be able and get my license without the SB38. Hmmm.... wasn't that the whole thing we just went through? Hope lost.
I had a sparkle in my future, though, as my sister and her new husband promised a job awaited me once they returned from their honeymoon. Alas, I would have money to buy new underwear so Given and I could stop alternating with each other. Dreams of a cell phone without a cord attached to the console of a car, cheese made of cheese, and mascara I didn't have to dip in ink toner were all at my reach. I was happy to know that I could tell Given one day, "I bought that shirt for you. Yes, the one you hate. But that doesn't matter, I bought it with my own money." Days after they returned and read my incessant texts, I was informed there was no room in the budget right now. Now I know how Mary and Joseph felt. Hope lost. Not shocked.
No license, no job, no money to put Given in school, and my food stamps had run out. Not being a person who enjoys handouts, but wants to earn her way, I felt I could never stop the failure. Tears flowed, allergies from the ink toner popped up and resentment at the word success flooded my veins. Plus Given wouldn't give me the good pairs that week, so nothing seemed to go my way. The little sanity I work to execute each day walked out the door, and slammed it shut.
Done with being controlled by every one but myself, I grabbed every bottle of medication that holds the puzzle pieces of my mind together, and threw them in the trash. To guarantee I could not retrieve them, I emptied the bottles first. Their pharmaceutical powers held no match against my mental illness, compiled of rage, misperceptions, depression, mania and violence. I wasn't going to be controlled by people or pills. I didn't want to suffer the hold on my life with clairty, but figured doing it through a dark place would at least fill my time better.
My impulsive behavior and lack of mental/verbal filter led me to the computer to tell my tale of Operation Control Take Back. And in true form, the gossip tree, already rooted, sprouted leaves off it's branches and those leaves pulled out their phones and began to dial with giddy that they could be the first to tell my maker. The one with the womb, not the one upstairs. I confessed to my actions, and the source of the alleged strategically place bruise, and faced the disciplinary board. It's amazing how when unmedicated, the disciplinary board sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher. I'm no fool, I already knew that I had to right my wrong and the process had begun before the lecture could make it to my ears.
After many a conversation to my face, and behind my back, the question has come down to why do I act so impulsively and then feel the need to share it with the world. The answer doesn't exist. I am a woman who is mentally ill, and not in the "everyone is mental in one way or another" way. I am happily crazy, but sometimes take a dive in to the deep end of disaster when my mind cannot handle emotions. I share everything because I have nothing to hide. I tell the world my thoughts because they would be selfish to keep to myself. I pour out my anger and joy because they would eat me alive inside if left to fester. I am not a rational person, which I may have a scar or twelve to prove.
I am me. I have anxiety over meals, I pick at my toes, have a sarcastic remark for every word said (great at funerals, by the way), I love with my whole heart, can cut you out without ever looking back, I say what I think, I think about what you say, and I sympathize with every hurt soul that wanders this world. Because of who I am, I live in a mostly lonely world. I am loved from afar, but the true person I am in daily life scares or offends. Just as a person with an obvious physical disability would hope you would ask questions, rather than stare in the distance and make hushed remarks, I would love for the people in my world to know who I really am. It's a lifetime project, because I never know who I am when I wake up each day, but I do know that I love being different, my daughter loves me for who I am and God made absolutely no mistakes when creating me. Except for maybe my feet, but that's between Him and I.
Let me take you back through the past few months, before I explain where I escaped to these past two weeks. My license has been the hold up for so many things in my life. Apparently, the state of California requires you to have a VALID CLD to cruise their sidewalks in a vehicle. Thus, my mission has been to fight for what is rightfully mine, or claim I'm an illegal and get it over with. Needless to say, my tan has failed my plan B and I went hard to work on writing everyone from my local representative, to the governor, and to the White House. Not to mention all in between. As a side note, when writing Jerry Lewis, make sure it's to the congressman; that was a wasted stamp. I heard back from all but the White House, or as I like to call it... nevermind, no need for a knock at my door after posting this. Each person, including the DMV (finally), told me that I had fulfilled all the requirements, but was not going to be able and get my license without the SB38. Hmmm.... wasn't that the whole thing we just went through? Hope lost.
I had a sparkle in my future, though, as my sister and her new husband promised a job awaited me once they returned from their honeymoon. Alas, I would have money to buy new underwear so Given and I could stop alternating with each other. Dreams of a cell phone without a cord attached to the console of a car, cheese made of cheese, and mascara I didn't have to dip in ink toner were all at my reach. I was happy to know that I could tell Given one day, "I bought that shirt for you. Yes, the one you hate. But that doesn't matter, I bought it with my own money." Days after they returned and read my incessant texts, I was informed there was no room in the budget right now. Now I know how Mary and Joseph felt. Hope lost. Not shocked.
No license, no job, no money to put Given in school, and my food stamps had run out. Not being a person who enjoys handouts, but wants to earn her way, I felt I could never stop the failure. Tears flowed, allergies from the ink toner popped up and resentment at the word success flooded my veins. Plus Given wouldn't give me the good pairs that week, so nothing seemed to go my way. The little sanity I work to execute each day walked out the door, and slammed it shut.
Done with being controlled by every one but myself, I grabbed every bottle of medication that holds the puzzle pieces of my mind together, and threw them in the trash. To guarantee I could not retrieve them, I emptied the bottles first. Their pharmaceutical powers held no match against my mental illness, compiled of rage, misperceptions, depression, mania and violence. I wasn't going to be controlled by people or pills. I didn't want to suffer the hold on my life with clairty, but figured doing it through a dark place would at least fill my time better.
My impulsive behavior and lack of mental/verbal filter led me to the computer to tell my tale of Operation Control Take Back. And in true form, the gossip tree, already rooted, sprouted leaves off it's branches and those leaves pulled out their phones and began to dial with giddy that they could be the first to tell my maker. The one with the womb, not the one upstairs. I confessed to my actions, and the source of the alleged strategically place bruise, and faced the disciplinary board. It's amazing how when unmedicated, the disciplinary board sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher. I'm no fool, I already knew that I had to right my wrong and the process had begun before the lecture could make it to my ears.
After many a conversation to my face, and behind my back, the question has come down to why do I act so impulsively and then feel the need to share it with the world. The answer doesn't exist. I am a woman who is mentally ill, and not in the "everyone is mental in one way or another" way. I am happily crazy, but sometimes take a dive in to the deep end of disaster when my mind cannot handle emotions. I share everything because I have nothing to hide. I tell the world my thoughts because they would be selfish to keep to myself. I pour out my anger and joy because they would eat me alive inside if left to fester. I am not a rational person, which I may have a scar or twelve to prove.
I am me. I have anxiety over meals, I pick at my toes, have a sarcastic remark for every word said (great at funerals, by the way), I love with my whole heart, can cut you out without ever looking back, I say what I think, I think about what you say, and I sympathize with every hurt soul that wanders this world. Because of who I am, I live in a mostly lonely world. I am loved from afar, but the true person I am in daily life scares or offends. Just as a person with an obvious physical disability would hope you would ask questions, rather than stare in the distance and make hushed remarks, I would love for the people in my world to know who I really am. It's a lifetime project, because I never know who I am when I wake up each day, but I do know that I love being different, my daughter loves me for who I am and God made absolutely no mistakes when creating me. Except for maybe my feet, but that's between Him and I.
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