Tag: personal

Much earlier this evening, I went into Pet Smart. First I opted not to get a shopping cart. Then I was briefly distracted by Parakeets. When I finally got to the cat section, I knew exactly what I needed to get but still had to give a good prolonged stare down every aisle. Finally, I picked up a huge bag of cat litter and another huge bag of cat food. Because I had decided I didn’t need a shopping cart, I struggled with them piled up in my arms all the way to registers. I waited in line behind people with small items in their hands who just stared at me. A register opened and I threw my shit on the counter and rifled through my purse looking for my debit card but instead pulling out an empty Gatorade bottle, a piece of an old cookie, notes from my therapist and a Death Grips CD case I accidentally klepto’d out of my friends car. I was rapid fire apologizing as I did this. At the last moment, I realized my debit card was in my wallet the whole time. The cashier actually laughed. I turned, said to her “I live like this everyday”, paid for my stuff, piled the bags up in my arms again and stumbled right out the door and through the parking lot.

I am so stressed out I could scream. Fucking scream. Except then I would have to deal with my neighbors and I deal with them enough. My mom has me taking care of the cats because her boyfriend hates them but she stretched the original weekend I was supposed to have them into a week. I love my boys but my apartment is the smallest place they’ve ever lived and no matter how much toys or attention I give them they seem to be going a little stir crazy in here. 

On top of this, I go over to my dad’s today and pretty much every item I’ve ever touched in the house is in a black plastic trash bag (or a box) with an overly detailed note describing its exact contents in my dad’s girlfriend’s handwriting. My dad claims he did this but I know its not his handwriting. Regardless of who is responsible, I have extreme anxiety about other people touching or going through my personal items.  I’m pretty shocked I didn’t have a panic attack upon seeing it. I was extremely edgy though. Then I was forced to take every single thing to my already cramped apartment. I have so much stuff piled up in my living room that I can’t sit on my couch or get to my bookshelves or walk around without tripping over something. This is a fucking nightmare for my ADD. Looking at it now, I kind of want to cry. And for the next week, I am working extra single day until I go on a trip to India. I don’t have time to sit there and go through half of this shit and even if I throw over half of it out, I have no idea where to keep the rest.  I also don’t understand why his house needed to be purged of any possible sign of my presence for a temporary living situation that is only going to exist until February, maybe even shorter if the situation with my neighbors gets anymore dangerous. Like why do I need to have every single childhood stuffed animal here? Why couldn’t I keep some of my winter clothes in my old closet during the summer when my new place has extremely limited closet space? It makes no practical sense. My room at my dad’s place is stripped so dry, it’s like no one ever lived there. They took every single picture off the wall. It’s literally just a bare mattress and a dresser. It couldn’t even function as a guest bedroom in the state that its in. And to top it all off, my dad’s girlfriend has been in the process of moving to a new house for the past 5 years. I’m not joking. I was pretty much moved into my new place in one day and it’s still not good enough. Fuck everything.

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Pussy wet from sensory deprivation.

Drinking white wine out of a tea mug alone.

Eating dollar store brand froot loop knock offs out of the box.

Tired as hell.

My life is a romantic comedy scene right now.

Cut to b-roll of toenails painted red for lust .

Cut to b-roll of my pink kleenex box on my nightstand.

Cut to close-up of my weary pensive gaze.

Having been suicidal in the past, it’s crazy for me to think that there are people out there who played their part in saving in my life and probably have no fucking idea, probably never will. I’m grateful for the people I meet and precious, brief moments where lives flicker and intersect. Whatever will be will be. It’s worth it.

I am glad that all these predators are finally being exposed and reckoned with but to be completely honest, every time a new allegation surfaces, I have an impulse to block out the information. I don’t want to hear or see anything. I don’t want to participate in the dialogue that I, on a rational unemotional level, would say is extremely important.

It’s not that find it all to be oh so shocking. I, like most women, have long understood and accepted as fact that sexual abuse is a plague over our entire society, endemic in various microsms within it. I, like far too many women, have personally experienced the effects of this plague. I’m not shocked in the slightest. In fact, I’m weary and I have long been weary. But why should I feel weary now?

In the current scenario, most of the public outrage has not been misplaced as it has been the past. You think I’d feel a sense of relief, but I don’t. All this news coming out feels like one overwhelming tidal wave after the next, dredging up my past traumas. I’m just angry and still so fucking angry and for as much I seethe, I don’t know if I have the capacity to contain any more rage.