The Women

It's been an chaotic week, hence why I haven't posted a blog in four days. My mother told me that she wanted to kill herself, my grandmother might have been raped, I got a speeding ticket and my body is trying to come down with a cold, and as usual I have a ton of homework. This drawing is one of my favorite works by my favorite artist, Vincent van Gogh.

Wednesday morning I walked out to the patio to have a cigarette where my parents were already having one. I could see that Carmen was very upset and looked very worn down. She told me she woke up, saw the piles of paperwork that needed to be done, thought of everything else that needed to be done, tired of living in a house that looks the way it is, and felt the only way to escape it all is if she was no longer alive. She couldn't think of any reason why to not take the pills she set out that she knew would kill her. By that time she was crying and I was fighting back tears myself. I've thought in the past of what a relief it will be when she does die, but I didn't want it to happen like this. I know I sound like a horrible daughter, and maybe I am. I feel like I'll never be able to get out from under her until she herself is six feet under. But right then and there, I didn't want her to die, I didn't want her to kill herself. She said she really didn't think I would care if she did. I said things in the past that I know hurt her - some things she was never supposed to hear, like when I told a friend that I didn't think she would live another five years and I told Momma that she was my natural mother and Carmen is just my biological mother. I don't want to believe that this crazy person who never accomplished anything or did anything with her life, except raise me, is my real mother. She's illogical, irrational, and has no common sense. But since I was born, her life was about me and only me. She's done everything she can to give me every opportunity and was always there, usually when I didn't ask her to be, but there were a lot of times I'm glad she was. She kept repeating that she wasn't telling dad and me this to make us feel guilty, that she just needed to talk. I believe her. I felt guilty anyway, because I know I contributed to her depression. When I said those things, I was coming from an angry and resentful place. That's more of an excuse than a reason, isn't it? I told Diego what Carmen said and that I felt guilty for at least some of her depression, and he told me to not feel guilty. It's not my fault. "Your mother is a little nuts."

Wednesday night I studied and finished my assignment for women's studies (wmst), and was so proud of myself. I stayed up until 3 or so. I found it impossible to concentrate. Every time I sat down to read, my mind went in 100 different directions. I actually didn't get all that much studying done for my psychology exam. I thought about telling my wmst professor that I chose to study for that over doing her assignment, but I wanted to do it all, and I didn't want to turn in yet another late assignment. It's not her problem I can't concentrate, or that I had an exam that day. Then I totally misunderstood the article I wrote on and ended up not turning it in anyway. Thursday morning, after almost five hours of sleep, I hurried to my physical therapy appointment, and got a speeding ticket on the way of course. While the officer was writing my ticket, I burst into tears. I was still crying when I got to PT. My therapist, Rick, sat me down and asked me the problem. I told him about Carmen and the speeding ticket (I still haven't told my parents about that). He had me lay down on the table while he gave me a nice massage. I could see snot oozing out of my nose, dripping onto the support bar beneath my face. When he was done, I used the cloth I rest my face on to wipe my nose and the bar, and threw it in the hamper. I went into one of the rooms where I found some tissue to blow my nose. I looked in the mirror and I looked like I've been punched in both eyes, without the bruising. They were totally swollen. He didn't make me do exercises. I just had heat and electrical stimulation on my back. I did some studying on the bus on my way to school. After wmst, Dr. Mower and I walked out together. When I tried to tell her about Carmen, I started crying again, and told her about my speeding ticket, my lack of sleep and the exam I had after her class. She encouraged me to ask my psych teacher if I could take it at a later time. I knew I would do horribly on it, for lack of studying and I was completely exhausted. I didn't want to ask that of my teacher, but I want to get a good grade too. "It's ok to ask for help." She gave me a big hug, giving me strength, and I hugged her back. She has her own devils she's dealing with. My psych teacher told me that I could take the test on Tuesday with no penalty. "We're here to help you, not to beat you up." I wonder if it had anything to do with me crying so hard I could barely talk? I'm grateful that I have the teachers I do.

So now we come to yesterday, my deceased grandmother's birthday. Carmen gets a call early in the morning from one of the nurses where my gramma stays. She said Gramma said she was raped the night before. Wow! I had a doctor's appointment and I woke up with a sore throat (coincidentally one had nothing to do with the other), so I stayed home. I don't want to make my grandmother sick after she's been raped, especially since she's prone to pneumonia. Would that be double matricide? Driving my mother to suicide and killing her mother with a sore throat? My mother and I share the same doctor, so I tell her about mom's depression. She told me to call her psychiatrist and psychologist. Dr. Mower encouraged me to do the same. I get there a little late because I forgot to give myself time to take the back route. I'm on foot. The sidewalks are all torn up on the main street. It takes me 15 minutes instead of under 10. I'm so glad my doctor is so close. Because I'm late, my doctor sees another patient first. I end up waiting over an hour in the exam room. I wear a mask in case I have something contagious. Rachel is pregnant and I would feel horrible if I gave her anything. My back really hurts and I'm so tired I decide to dim the lights and lay down on the table. She walks in and says, "My chart says you're here for a follow up on your depression, but you're wearing a mask and laying on the table." My depression seems to be under control. This week was especially hard, so I feel run down, but not particularly sad or in despair.

I walk home, and feel totally exhausted. Dee calls, Carmen's best friend, probably wanting to know why Gramma is in the hospital, but I don't feel like talking to her. I decide to go to bed and wake up around 4. I eat a whole pint of tomato bisque with two breadsticks from Olive Garden. I keep telling myself I need to start on homework, but I'm just too tired. I go back to my room around 7 and check facebook. I hear my parents come in around 8, but I don't go out at first. I don't want to know. I eventually go to the living room and ask mom what happened. She said there was no bruising or signs of rape, but Gramma said he didn't actually penetrate her, that he laid on top of her and fondled her breasts and genitals. We don't know whether to believe it or not. We don't think she's lying, but she's talked stories before, like she and a Seahawks football player were lovers, and she and one of the male aides (who's younger than me) were going to get married. She fully believed in them. We don't know if they were dreams or what. But what if this did happen? Who would do this? Why didn't the aides see someone? Why didn't Gramma call for someone? The whole thing is very disturbing. Life is very disturbing.

"I didn't want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didn't know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I'd cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full." ~Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Is it my mother's fault?

I wonder how much our genes determines our character and behavior and how much our environment does. How do I know how much of my habits and beliefs are genetically inherited from my parents and how much because I learned from them? Would I be who I am if I were raised by someone else? There are so many characteristics I see of theirs that I possess, and many I hope I never do. I have a tendency to be lazy, irresponsible, and procrastinate. That sounds like both of them. My mother received a notice from her home insurance that they will no longer insure the house because of some rather minor faults. Faults I don't think is reasonable to cease insurance, but they are an insurance company. She submitted a claim to replace part of an outside wall thats frame was rotted because of an old leak. Of course they denied it because it was "pre-existing" before she bought the house from my grandmother (sound familiar?). The inspector felt that he needed to relay that the paint was peeling on the outside, the gutters needed cleaning and probably replacing, and there was moss on the roof, thus they stopped coverage. I think to stop coverage over those small issues is unwarranted. My parents are trying to take care of those problems now, and have finished 1 1/2.

That's a picture Gramma and me. One of my favorite pictures. I really used to be thin! I was probably about a size 4. Now I can't fit into a 14. Getting old sucks.

However, I also blame my mother for all of the decay the house fell into. My grandfather died 19 years ago, this month actually...in the middle of my Halloween party...I regress. My grandmother didn't have a clue as to how to take care of a house or finances. She could clean a house, and cook in it, and read in it (always was a big reader), but knew nothing of making claims to the insurance companies, knowing when things needed to be replaced, how dangerous some faulty wiring can be. I wouldn't say the wiring is faulty, but it is over 50 years old. According to Carmen, she didn't even know how to pay bills. My mother never owned a house before, but she was really the only one around to help Gramma. There had to be things that she knew needed fixing, but she was always too busy (I admit I probably had a lot to do with that) and didn't want to deal with it and never got around to it until it became her house. Not wanting to deal with things is another fault of mine that I also find in both of my parents. My grandmother needs to be held accountable too: she could have taken initiative and made some calls, but she was already over 70 when Grampa died and I don't think was ever one to really take care of herself. Even with the rotted framing, Carmen swears she didn't think it was that bad, but it didn't surprise me at all. The paint inside the room, my room, my grandmother's former room, was bubbling out and created a large crack. I knew that something was very wrong and told my (at the time) fiance's mother about it, who's quite savvy when it comes to these things. The first words out of her mouth were, "Call the insurance company." My grandparents used Safeco (who's my mother's insurance until 11/26) for years and never filed a claim. I told Carmen the next day, and do you think she did a damn thing about it? That's a rhetorical question. That was five years ago! Maybe six. There's a good possibility that Safeco would've paid since Gramma owned the house for 35 years! The gutters were originally made of wood, so of course over the years they completely rotted. My dad replaced some of them, but there's still a lot that needs to be done. The oven is probably as old as the house. I'm afraid to turn that thing on. We have no dishwasher. There's not even a hook-up for the dishwasher because the house was built in the mid-fifties. These are all things that should be obvious to anyone, even Sarah Palin, that need to be taken care of. Perhaps not to a 70+ (who's now 90) year old, old-school grandma that never had to deal wtih anything like that and didn't know any better, but Carmen should've been a little wiser.

That damn crap coconut rum she bought gave me a headache, and I only had one drink. But maybe it's not that. It feels like someone took a dowel, poked it in my forehead, a little right of center, and it's going out the back of my skull.

I took a Vicodin and hope that will help. My back also gave me grief all day, so hopefully the Vicodin will help that as well. Enough complaining. It's not good for anything, except to vent some steam once in a while.

Maybe I'm being too harsh on her. Of course she was very upset when she read the letter and called her insurance agent, who can't find another company to cover her because of course they all know that Safeco cut her off. At first I said nothing and kept my eyes glued to Chris Matthews, solely and silently blaming her for her own misfortune. I eventually felt a little bad and told her that I was sorry Safeco did that to her. And I am. But she still shares some of the responsibilities in my eyes. I vowed to myself a while ago that I will always take care of my property, whether it's real estate, or a car, or a pet (tho I don't really consider pets as property, but you get the gist), and to not have it if I can't afford it. A mistake I made myself that cost me dearly, and a mistake both of my parents, and my grandmother made. Now we have an old house almost in disrepair (from my pov), three people who don't have jobs (although my seizures required me to quit my job and I go to school full time now), way too much stuff, and seven cats. Aye, aye, aye.

As closing comments, I want to express my congratulations to Obama, happy birthday to Bo, and my cat, Ligeia.

"Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced." ~James Baldwin

Poe

Today is Edgar Allan Poe's deathday. He died 160 years ago on this day. Doesn't seem like he lived so long ago. I visited my grandmother, Gramma, today after class. I was on my way to my favorite Thai restaurant to pick up dinner, and decided to swing by and visit for a while. I picked her up a decaf mocha and yogurt parfait from Starbucks. She introduced mochas to me when I was 12. She looked good and was fully alert. I know I need to spend as much time with her as I can, before it's too late. She has four children, but only one comes to see her. Two are in Cali and the youngest, Damien I like to call him, is hopefully burning somewhere in the core of hell, but he's probably right here in Seattle. She actually had five children, but my mom's older brother died five years ago, three years after his son committed suicide. I miss both of them, especially Curt, my cousin. We'd instant message every single night for two to four hours, sometimes more. We talked about everything, from poetry to perfume. He wrote poetry. I have some of his poems tucked away in a folder.

Every day I seem to realize something more about myself, even if it seems perfectly obvious but never thought about it before. I started acting kind of crazy after the first time Queen broke up with me. I lived with them for a while, and felt happy and safe. Then when I had to move back home, that security was stripped away. I'm also positive I suffered a traumatic brain injury (tbi) from my accident, because I'm not the same person I used to be. I would fly off the handle at things that shouldn't seem like that big of a deal. I'm much more irritable and short-tempered. I can also be obsessive-compulsive about some things. These are all symptoms of people who've suffered from tbi's. Unfortunately, Queen and Diego would see the worst side of me, but that was also my most vulnerable side. I was always very emotionally even - no real highs and lows, even during my period. Then I became this other person I don't like. I want to get back to who I was, but don't want to depend on drugs to do it. However, if that's what I need to do, then I'll do it. Hopefully, it won't be a lifelong requirement.

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow-

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand-

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep- while I weep!

O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

~Edgar Allan Poe

Sittin' Up In My Room

I sit and watch my disheveled room, wondering if I should try to do something about it or try to get more sleep before I have to get up...again. I need to go to the herb store to get Melatonin. I hope that will help, rather than taking seroquel, which still hasn't apparently been approved by DSHS anyway. That drug scares me. My doctor said it can cause involuntary movement. I'm very interested in trying alternative "medicine", such as hypnosis, acupuncture, massage therapy, yoga, meditation...I don't think I can be still enough to meditate, at least mentally. I've even heard that shock therapy can alleviate depression (no, I wasn't reading a 1950's article), so I'd even be willing to give that a try, as long as it's just a few sessions and not a long-term process. I imagine that would damage the brain, tho I know Rachel wouldn't put me in any kind of danger. Speaking of which, I haven't even started her baby blanket and she's due in two months. It may seem like quite a while yet, but I'm about a quarter of the way done with the one I'm working on now, and I've worked on it for six months! It's more difficult with my shoulder problems, but still. I promised Kimi I'd have it done for Paige by the time it got cold. Maybe I'll work on that now, since I woke up about 2 and haven't felt like sleeping yet. I'm determined to get it done though, even if I give it to Paige as a high school graduation present. I often wonder when I look around me, regardless of my surroundings, if it's all real, or, referring to my "random question" on my profile, if all we see or seem is but a dream, maybe even within a dream? When I think of the 100 year question and what anything anyone does or says, everything seems so insignificant. To answer the 100 year question, I believe my education is important. That is something I will have for the rest of my life that no one can take away from me, and something for me to pass on to my grandchildren to hopefully pass on to theirs (assuming that someday I'll have grandchildren). Not literally my education of course, since the only tangible thing would be my brain, and that would be gross, but to pass on that their grandma and great-great grandma was the first person on her mother's side to go to a university. I guess I feel that's important because of what my great grandmother, Emma Amanda, means to me though she died years before I was born. I always heard great things about her and she seemed larger than life. She had an immaculate garden, she was a fabulous cook, she crocheted, knitted, painted, and made pottery. My great grandpa, Otto, built a little shed for her in the backyard that housed a pottery wheel and a kiln. She was truly an artist. She made sachets out of lavender my grandmother still has (the picture was taken in Sequim, but not by me). She canned everything and filled her pantry throughout the summer in preparation for winter. Of course in those days, everyone did that. I did help my parents make pickles this year. I want to be much more like Gramma Emma. I'm guessing that she would be around 115 if she were still alive. But I also want to serve other people in my life. However, not necessarily that my whole life be one of service, but I want to help people who need it. I do volunteer for Equal Rights Washington (tho I havent much since I started school), I called today about volunteering for Volunteer Chore Services, which you are assigned an elderly person who still lives in their house but has trouble doing all their chores. If they can't keep up their house then it will probably be taken away from them. I found out about it through my psych class, where I have to do some type of volunteer service to fill a requirement and the students have to pick from a list. This is something I really want to do anyway. I would like to spend more time at Richmond Beach Rehab, where my grandma is, to one, see my grandma more often, and two, to spend a little more time with the other people there. Some of them hardly ever or never have visitors. My parents and I want to spend Thanksgiving at a food bank or soup kitchen this year; somewhere where they serve dinner to the poor and homeless. We can always record the football games ( ; A life of service and art sounds like a good life to me.

"Principles for the Development of a Complete Mind: Study the science of art. Study the art of science. Develop your senses - especially learn how to see. Realise that everything connects to everything else." Leonardo DaVinci