Stick a Fork in Me

I don't think my Zoloft is working. Does anyone know whether it's the kind of drug to which one builds up a tolerance? Granted, there are days when I forget to take it, but more than not, I'm pretty regular with it.

Erica tells me that it's not supposed to cut off all emotions. And if that's true, what exactly is the point?

Of course, it's been a trying few weeks for me. The whole family found the blog (Hi everyone!) and the word from my sister is that I have been anointed with the end-all, be-all punishment of Southerners.

Susan. They all read it. And they are done with you.

My family has always had their ways of being done with someone -- none of which involves direct confrontation (except the year I ruined Christmas -- I'll tell you that one later).

Perhaps the most infamous of the line of the "Done With" in our family was my great Uncle Elzie. As a young boy, Elzie decided to run off to California in search of his dream to be a movie star. Family rumor has it that he actually made it into a couple of films, though I couldn't find him on IMDB. I am, however, pretty sure that this rumor is the only reason the family kept talking about him during holidays after he was done with.

You know, we have a relative that was in the movies

That and as a warning to the youngsters to not betray the family lest you become done with as well.

Uncle Elzie's most vicious crime was that after he left for California he reportedly never returned. Not for Christmas, Easter, Homecoming at the Baptist Church. Nothing. He deserted his Mama and Fitzgerald completely. All because that selfish bastard wanted a life of his own. The only acceptable way you can move away from home in my family is if you return for visits as often as humanly possible. (Because it's always so pleasant when we all get together.) And, more importantly, you should never succeed too much, lest you become uppity or think you're better than everyone else.

Now. My take on Uncle Elzie is this: I don't know him, or his Mama, so I'm not sure what the deal is there. Maybe she sucked. Or, maybe they loved each other and they talked on the phone twice a day and enjoyed their wonderful long-distance relationship. What I do know is that Elzie had a loving wife who visited us once with photos and stories and did her best to get Elzie back into the fold. The family was super nice and sat through the stories and photos and as soon as she left the conversation went straight to how Elzie betrayed everyone.

I secretly envied Uncle Elzie. His story seemed so exotic and exciting. And for me, in a world where the only options I knew I had were to either teach, type or raise babies, Uncle Elzie gave me hope.

Uncle Elzie, if you're out there, know that even though I never met you, I loved you. Thanks for the inspiration.

I made it.

Horoscopes and Blogging

I don't know what it is with this blogging thing. Either I struggle to come up with something to write about, or i don't have enough time to write everything and still keep things current. Now, I know I tell old stories a lot, but that's from years ago. Telling an old story from last week just seems weird to me.

Of course. Now that I write that, the fact that it seems weird to me is weird to me.

Anyway. I have a lot to say lately. Right now I would like to talk about today's horoscope. (This is an example of a story that just wouldn't feel right if I were telling it in, say, July.)


Do you fucking believe that? What kind of bullshit horoscope is that? Smoking Baby has mistaken me for Job (Juh-long O-buh) and is going so far as to poke at me from the Metro's puzzle page. You know how much that puzzle page means to me. Plus, if you're up to date on the blog, you know that I recently broke up with my mother, and I am positive that she was offended. If not by the actual breakup, by the incidents I mentioned during the breakup. At the very least she was offended by my language.

But the thing is:

Well the things are:

1) Sagittarians are infamous for their bluntness. And for saying things with a tone that is frequently misinterpreted. We spend a lot of time either feeling guilty about hurting someone's feelings, apologizing for hurting someone's feelings, or unintentionally hurting someone's feelings. So, in one way this can be seen as the Metro astrologer lady just being lazy. Because, on any given day that I've interacted with other people, there is a 1 in 5 chance that I've offended one of them without meaning to, or even realizing it. Being offended is disappointing. Ergo -- lame ass horoscope.

2) My mother is also a Sagittarian.

Oprah Does It Again

So. I'm in my pit of despair today. Just feeling really shitty and worried and morose and wallowing in it. If I had been at home alone, I swear I would have put on an old Cure album and cried into my pillow. I am completely at a loss with what to do with the current family situation. Again. I swear. If she weren't my mom, I'd be like, "This chick is nothing but drama, and I don't need it." And I'd be out. But she's my mom. And there are different rules for moms. Frustrating.

A friend of mine, DP, from Fitzgerald was in town recently and she has known my mom for years. I was going through the saga and she said, "You know. I always felt that there was just something not right with her." I've had another old friend tell me the same thing. Honestly, it makes me feel better -- like I'm not crazy. When DP told me what she thought, I started squealing. "Right? Right? It's not just me!"

Now my sister and I are getting a lot closer and of course I am addicted to my niece so I can never get fully away. Though, it just occurred to me that maybe this is what Mom and Amy need. I've always been in the middle of their bullshit one way or another. Either Mom was telling Amy to be more like me, which made Amy hate me. Or, Mom was telling me what a piece of shit Amy was, making me hate Amy. And I am pretty sure that Mom's conversations with Amy were very similar to the ones she had with me. So, Amy has really never had much of a leg to stand on. It's like Mom's been gaslighting her into believing she's incapable of any amount of success or happiness for that matter and Amy has just been beaten into submission. The family was really just the three of us, so it was kind of two to one. Not that I wasn't being duped as well.

Now that I'm out of the picture, they have to deal with each other. Mom is very aware of my stance on all issues at hand, and therefore unless she meets my conditions (a recovery program) she and I have nothing more to say to each other. I still speak with Amy frequently, and do my best to support her. It's nice being on her side. She's nothing like what Mom said.

Sorry. I tend to go on tangents. And that one seemed like a good one -- a breakthrough for me in a way. Thanks for sharing the moment.

Back to Oprah. This is what I wanted to tell you about and it does relate in a way. So, I'm watching Oprah and it's a rerun of the Cris Karr interview -- the woman who did the Crazy, Sexy, Cancer documentary. And Cris is talking about how she's learned to live in the moment and she says, "Isn't worrying praying for what you don't want?"

Smoking Baby Dammit.

I believe all of you have been introduced to my HP (Higher Power), Smoking Baby. He is a miracle worker. I like him because he's sweet and benevolent, but he's got that edge. I'm sure as soon as he's of age, he will get a bad ass tattoo and a motorcycle. He advocates peace and love but isn't opposed to some good old toilet humor.

Erica and I have started using him in conversations where we both feel we need to be heard. No SB in your hand, no words out of your mouth. We used it for the first time last week when we were having an argument and just kept going around and around because we both tend to interrupt as if we already know what the other one is going to say. Very unproductive. I got the SB idea and it worked like a charm. I love SB.

Unfortunately, SB has taken a day off. I just got a call from my sister. This is never good news.Mom, who is not talking to me because she has taken possession over the breakup. You know how in high school you break up with someone and then you find out they're all over the place telling people they broke up with you? Yeah.

Well today, I find out through my sister that today Mom is starting radiation again. There's a what they're referring to as a "spot" on her lung. I'm guessing "spot" is a Southern euphemism for tumor. I don't know. Poor Amy is absolutely tortured right now. She has been trying to move on with her own life, taking care of her daughter and now she's re-immersed in Mom guilt because of her latest illness. I'm trying to help Amy see that Mom's new cancer doesn't get her off the hook for endangering her granddaughter with her pill issues, but it's hard for her. Especially being there in the same town.

Arrgh.

I, of course, am taking it all in stride and counting on my HP SB to take care of everything. Remember, I'm the one going to meetings.

You Can Hear That?

For the past few weeks I've been having an almost daily nightmare about being stuck at my mother's house. The story varies but there are exclusively two plots.

Plot One:
I'm at home for a visit and am frantically trying to leave. The reason why I can't get out is the variable in this plot. Mostly the reason ends up being something to do with my legs not working. This one fucking terrifies me. I'll be running to get out of Fitzgerald and all of a sudden both of my legs will stop working from the knees down. They become so weak that I can't pick myself up to keep going.

It gives me anxiety just writing about it.

One morning after waking up from this dream, I told Erica about it. She said, "Yeah. I hate those dreams." Now, being the center of the universe, I was amazed to find out other people had my dream. I honestly thought it might be due to the fact that I have knee issues because each of my knee caps turn toward the outside of my legs. Or, maybe the fact that when I was younger I was a dancer (which is probably why I have that knee cap issue.)

When Erica said that practically everyone she ever knew had had a dream in which their legs didn't work, I felt like Zorak from Space Ghost Coast to Coast when Space Ghost yelled at him, "Shut up, Loud Eyes!" Zorak, a praying mantis whose eyes click every time he blinks, was stunned.

You can hear that?

Plot Two:I am angrily cleaning the junk out of Mom's house and can't leave until it's done.

Mom, in real life, is an uncontrollable pack rat. She has literally drawers full of mismatched socks. She can't let go of any them ... you know ... in case she ever finds the match. Of course, she never thinks to look in one of the mismatched sock drawers for the match. She's probably got over 500 pair of socks in there -- and counting.

Then there's my niece's old baby clothes. Now, I don't mean just her first dress or her first pair of shoes. I mean every onesie and every t-shirt she ever wore. Mom saves these because baby clothes are expensive and one day she might know someone who needs them. My niece V is almost twelve and I don't believe one stitch of her clothing has left that house.Of course, my sister has had several friends who could have used a nice stock of little girl clothes, and a baby bed and a baby swing and all the other crap rotting away in the back bedroom, but according to Mom, my sister's friends are trash and therefore do not deserve V's twelve-year-old onesies.

In my Plot Two dreams I dump drawer after drawer of socks into huge black garbage bags, but when I get to V's closet, I can't part with anything. Mom claims to have an emotional attachment to each piece of clothing and each toy so although I attempt to get rid of these things, I am overwhelmed with guilt and can never complete the task and therefore will never escape.

You can imagine how rested I've been lately.

Then this morning I remember a session with my therapist when she and I discussed a dream I had the night prior. She told me that in your dreams, every character is a representation of a part of yourself. And I had one of those delicious moments of clarity where I realized I'm the one holding on and in my dreams I'm trying to get myself to let go of the past. And I feel fantastic! All this Power of Now stuff finally makes sense to me and emotionally I feel better than I have in over a month.

And, people, I spent last Friday night in jail in Louisville, Kentucky.

Pretend I'm in Mexico.

Hi people. I fell down again. Honest to Smoking Baby, I fell down. Again.

This is my knee:I was walking home from my Al-Anon meeting and I stepped on one of those plastic folder things you put in a Trapper Keeper. It was just like the skating incident but slalom. A nice boy poked his head out of the bodega door to ask, "Lady. Are you okay?" (Fucker. It was like when I went back to Italy and the waiter called me Signora instead of Signorina.) The three kids behind me giggled for about three blocks. Not the point of the story. Just thought you'd like to know.

So. I get home tonight (with my broken head, ass and knee, in order of altitude) and I'm in a pensive mood. A and V left today after a four day visit. We spent almost the entire time not speaking about Mom, except for E's occasional slip up about something crazy Mom did or how we had a wacko family or something. Something about V makes you forget that she's a kid. She's acts as if she's much more mature emotionally than she is and you start to talk around her as if she's an adult. Then there are times when you're talking to her about how crazy things have been lately and she'll break your heart with, "Oh, I'm so used to it by now. I've seen it all."

Sorry. Is that too sullen a thought? I had a friend tell me recently that my blog was too heavy for him. (But without the hip verbiage.) I can't help it. And I don't think of my stories as sullen or morose. It's just what's going on.

Anyway, I came home tonight after my meeting and I asked E for a night alone. I assured her that it was only because I just needed to process some stuff on my own and I took off. (It's my first time ever asking for some space in the five years we've been together. I am learning so much!)

"Pretend I'm in Mexico. I'll see you later."
"Okay! I'll watch the L Word."

I do have to admit, I was disappointed in her lack of disapointment.

Anyway. I grabbed a bottle of wine, my laptop and I headed for the loft. I'm at the end of this seven-engine train of family shit and I'm tired. I have gotten through the intervention and the sister visit. I just left an eye opening Al-Anon meeting and I wanna just be alone. With all of you.

You know. I'm writing down all of this stuff you're reading, and I recognize that when I post here, I'm not making a journal entry. I truly know that I'm writing for an audience (of millions), but there's still this sense of anonymity that comes from the fact that instead of speaking, I am typing. And it is more anonymous than physically writing because you hit save or send and it's over. There's nothing tangible left over to prove it ever happened. And there's something about that that allows me to write freely about things I would usually never broadcast. Especially considering the fact that there are already members of my family reading on a regular basis, and as soon as that Oprah deal comes through (Oprah, can you hear me? Oprah, can you feel me in the night?), Mom will find out (if not earlier) and there's a part of me that is terrified of that. But there's also a part of me that feels that, as Dr. Drew said on Celebrity Rehab, "You are only as sick as your secrets." And, my people, I am tired of being sick. When I was in Georgia for the latest drama, I opened to my Mom up about things I've never confronted her on ... and in front of her brother.
It rocked.

Mom later told me, "I remember what you said in the hospital. I can't believe you would talk to me like that. And in front of B. I am so embarassed." I, enlightened Princess that I am, replied, "I am sorry that I hurt your feelings, but that doesn't mean what I said wasn't true."

Right on, Princess.

People, I am taking care of myself these days. And, to be honest, it's a fucking chore. Not only do I have a lot of family baggage to deal with, I am unpracticed at self-love ... however. Watch out! I'm on a crash-course and it's only a matter of time before I'm writing (and performing) cheers for myself.

So, thanks for reading. And, to those friends of mine who are only finding out what's happening to me through the blog although you've called and written, I'm sorry. I'm a little overwhelmed right now but am working it out. I'll holla at ya when I'll be more fun to talk to. (Or when I get the cheers ready ... Guh-oooohhh PRINCESS!)

Patient #4606 aka Patient #7928

I realize that for the benefit of her experience, I should probably be addressing this question to Martha Stewart. But you know how I feel about Oprah - all knowing talk show Queen that she is -- and I don't want to chance hurting her feelings by asking Martha a question to which she, omnipotent Oprah, would know the answer to.


So, O, what is the proper etiquette for thanking intervention participants? Do I send thank you cards? Flowers? Wine and Xanax?

Turns out Mom is deeply, clinically depressed as verified by the finest General Practitioner in all of Fitzgerald, Georgia. (How long have I been telling you people this? Why won't anyone listen to me?) To combat her depression, Mom started using too much of her prescription medication. Now, let's run down the litany of complaints and concerns I have had about Mommy since I started posting about her on this blog.

Delirium, falling, constant fear of dying, constant self-diagnoses of a variety of very scary cancers, losing ridiculous amounts of weight, breaking multiple bones in a very short time (who besides a nine year old boy does this?), not knowing what day it is, atrial fibrulation and her insane tolerance for pain pills.

What else can I say besides, "Duh"?

When I got the call from A, my sister, about Mom's recent fall and busted head/staples incident, I declared that I would no longer be party to the lies and secrets our family has treasured for so long. I called both of my uncles, told them everything then I went directly to one of Mom's multiple doctors with detailed information on what Mom was taking and in what quantities. Together, we all talked her into checking herself into a psychiatric hospital for a few days.

She has since been released and is doing well. She has a degree of clarity for the first time in many, many years and she gained the ability to empathise with crack heads and cutters. She understands that she is not a bad person, she has an illness and we're on the Road to Recovery.

My family and friends pulled together for me in ways I couldn't believe. Although I have no cell service in Ben Hill and the surrounding counties in South Georgia, when I got back to AT&T country, I had over fifteen messages of love and encouragement. I also received multiple emails, text messages and one honest-to-god handwritten letter in the mail. I also got the funniest invitation to a Super Bowl party ever from a friend who didn't know what was happening, but who helped me feel better anyway.

I'm back in Brooklyn but am taking a few days to decompress so that I can remember what my real life is like. My people, I have eaten more McDonald's food in the past week and a half than I have in the past five years and I was forced to shop at Wal-Mart repeatedly because, in the country, there are no other options.

I am tired, I feel fat and greasy and I feel I should be wearing a hairshirt airbrushed with the phrase, "I am a loser who supported Wal-Mart."

Until I get the call from Oprah, I'd like some feedback on what you think I should do regarding the thank you notes. I checked someecards.com and they had nothing.

Mom Strikes again

So I sit down to write and I forget. I had a specific topic in mind and I forgot. Within 35 seconds. I sat. I opened my file. All the while I knew what I wanted to write about. The email opens and I type, "So I sit down to write".

And thanks to $150 per session therapy, I know that what I'm doing is called avoidance. What I'm going through is apparently too much for me and I can't mentally handle it.

It's obviously, about my mother.And as I write more comes back. Like the part about how when I talked to my sister I was discussing how I thought Mom had actually started this whole thing with a Google on what breast cancer metastasizes to. She found pancreas. Then she found the symptoms of pancreatic cancer. Then she imitated those symptoms and took herself in for testing.

She starves herself so that she has the "losing weight" symptom.

She hurts her back lifting a concrete birdbath, but makes sure everyone knows that back pain is a symptom of pancreatic cancer.

She called me to say that she was having a PET scan to look for pancreatic or liver cancer and that she called only because I requested to be informed of all health-related occurrences.

"I hate to ruin your day, but you said you wanted to know."

I thanked her for keeping me in the loop and asked when she'd get results.

"December 10."

"Okay. Call me when you find out."

So, at 8 PM on December 10, I call her to find out what's going on since I haven't heard from her all day.
Mom's not there. She's at work.
My sister A is picking up pizza.
V - who answered the phone - is on IM with her friend.

I ask V to have A call when she gets home.
An hour passes. (My hometown is 1 mile square in area.) So, I call back.
V answers again.
Me: Did you forget to tell A?
Her: No. She's getting out of the shower.

I end up on the phone with A and find out that they got the results in the morning and that everything was fine.

I got off the phone and drank until I threw up.

Ho, Bitch, Slut

I talked to V, my niece, the other day. We talked after I had a phone conversation with my mom. Mom gave me the update on how she had gotten her shutters installed on the house for $10 a window. He did 3 windows which equaled 3 hours of work. Mom had to force this poor guy to take a $20 tip. Imagine the life situation that would make you feel $10/hour for manual labor was sufficient. Anyway. She went on to explain how she had been Googling to determine whether the pain in her back was from trying to lift the 150 lb. birdbath in my grandmother's backyard or from a pancreatic tumor.

[Side Note: This past week Mom asked me what I wanted for my birthday and I told her then asked what she wanted. (I'm 12/9 and she's 12/11.) She said, not sarcastically, "I want to live." People. If there ain't drama, it ain't my mama.]

So, as we're getting off the phone Mom says, "Oh yeah. Some of V's friends called her a slut and a ho and a bitch. What do you think I should do?"
Me: Stay out of it, Mom.
Mom (to V in the background): She told me to stay out of it.
V (from the background): Uh!

I asked to speak with V and asked her why the girls were calling her a bitch. She didn't know. So, I asked if she thought it might be because she was being a bitch.

No. Of course not.

So, I proceed to talk to her about how girls can say mean things and that I was sorry her feelings were hurt and I encouraged her to realize that if these girls were the kind of girls who talked shit behind their friend's back (in G language, of course) that these were not the girls she wanted to be friends with in the first place.

And then. I swear to God. I hear myself ...
quoting Erykah Badu.

Yep.I used the Apple Tree reference.

See I picks my friends like I pick my fruit
My ganny told me that when I was only a youth
I dont walk around trying to be what Im not
I dont waste my time trying to get what you got
I work at pleasin me
Cause I cant please you and thats why I do what I do
My soul flies free like a willow tree
Doo wee doo wee doo wee

I explained the apple analogy. "If you were at Super Wal-Mart picking out an apple, you wouldn't pick the rotten apple. You'd pick the good apple. Right? So why would you pick the rotten girl to be friends with?"

V said, "Huh?"

I said, "Just try to ignore them, honey."