Run to your dreaming, when you’re alone. Unplug the tv and turn off your phone.


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I’m running from my dreaming, yet again. It’s 6:50 am, but I’ve been up for more than five hours. I’m just gonna lay this one out and see how it plays. I can’t remember how things stood when last I wrote, but the new deal is that I am making my parents miserable by my presence in their home and the plan all along was that I should be looking for a new place to live. That wasn’t my understanding or the plan that I discussed with my mother. (If I ask my father for advice or to sit in on planning, he says “Oh, that’s your mother’s area” and walks off. Rather quickly, actually.)

My talks with my mother included a number of things: a) I need to establish good credit; to that end I got a secured credit card at my bank this month () b) Apply for school so that I can begin to think about working again, particularly since my social security disability insurance could be pulled next month during the three-year review () c) Work on my sobriety, my weight, my general health () d) Follow the rules of the household and try to keep separate as much as possible. Apparently this is where the breakdown has occurred and there will be no check-off mark, let alone gold star. I feel like I’ve tried very hard to please my parents, to be independent, and to get out of their hair by doing things (library, AA meetings, walks, volunteering at the animal shelter). From my parents’ point of view, they have a moody, solitary, talks-to-herself, coffee-spilling, everything-losing, interrupting, late-night-food-sneaking, early riser living in their basement and shouting out answers to Jeopardy!—and arguing with contestants—where once it was quiet, so very quiet. And orderly. I can dig it.

My parents are technically elderly and both have health problems which are odd and are not being easily managed by their physicians. They have lived alone, like me, for some time. They have their routines, their “shows,” their chairs, their everything. It’s a large part of the reward of working hard, living a long time and having your children become independent and move to their own houses.

Enter the dragon.

<whinge>I had knee surgery on Tuesday, a week ago. I admit I was not the most pleasant person to be around at that time, but the pressures I think my parents put on me to somehow be a different person can sometimes be so overwhelming that I feel literally crushed inside my body. It’s true that I have a perspective problem. But another problem I have is that my parents have convinced me that I have a perspective problem. This definitely works in their favor, you see. They have not considered that they, too, may have a perspective problem. I guess through their various talks with each other or maybe their friends or my siblings, it’s been decided that I also have a persecution complex. To be honest, I cannot even find a reasonable facsimile of a definition of a persecution complex. My parents tell me I am overly sensitive (which was hurtful), defensive (I am at times, what about it?) and “take everything so seriously and personally.” Well, this would be all very fine and good if we were, say, sitting down with a trained professional and the three of us all talking about our feelings and not having two people who have discussed you behind your back now confronting you with all your problems. </whinge>

In all fairness, I would have driven me to the train station after two days. Two strained days. Two strained days of heavy drinking. I have had some experience living with myself, you see.

Yesterday, I packed up and went to house sit for a new acquaintance. It was a perfect set-up. She’s cool and she has a very nice house with just one level so I don’t have to deal with stairs. Her house is centrally located so scoring rides to AA meetings isn’t so difficult, and I could be alone in a tasteful environment to write my Cranky article, make a deep dent in my Fourth Step of the 12 Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, read and study the 37 children’s books I have checked out from the library, have leisurely bowls of soup in the cold evenings, and sleep on her gargantuan and super-soft bed with nobody else around except a rather pleasant white with sort of tannish orange tones cat named Peter. After I dropped off my stuff, I went to an AA meeting at the library and when it was my turn to share, I unleashed more than a bit of hurt, anger, and despair: in other words, I cried and said the word “fucking” several times. After the meeting, several people tried to commiserate with me and they found out what my mother means when she says that I would stiffen as a baby when touched. I wanted to yell at them to get the fuck away from me but that’s sort of frowned-upon post-meeting behavior. So I got a ride back to the house-sit and cried and whinged all the way.

It’s getting late (I’ve been up since 1 am) and I’ll have to shower soon so let me get to the point. I freaked out being alone and had to call for my mommy to come and bring me home. I took some of my pain medication, some melatonin, and my  Yogi™ Bedtime tea and went to sleep around 7 pm. I’m going to make another run at house-sitting today, after my MRT (it stands for Moral Reconation Therapy for the 80th time). My mother has kindly agreed to drive me as my knee is still healing. I’m seeing the doctor tomorrow where I hope he will say “I’ve never before seen anything so remarkable as your recovery!” and “Let’s get you scheduled for another partial knee replacement in the next few weeks! Why not get it over before the new year!”

Then my mom and I might take a look at the stores just in case they have a super cute pair of leggings for me and maybe some gloves. It’s getting cold. Maybe we’ll stop at the DMV and get a new identification card that shows me not so bloated with booze and without the two holes punched into it. I’m counting on getting my Ignition Interlock Device soon and on the road again with Scoobs, my car. My mother will drop me at the house where I am staying and hopefully, I’ll immediately make a nice hot cup of coffee and sit down to write. Peter and I will bond again. I will work out the password for the wireless router.Then Tom might call and offer to give me a ride to an AA meeting and on the way, we can discuss my upcoming house-sitting job at his house on Livingston Bay. It’s in a somewhat rustic state, but it is probably worth a million dollars. If we can come to arrangements which are mutually beneficial, then I will stay there for the three months or so while he is working on a film in Montreal, the city of my friends, The Canadians. I’m hoping they’ll extend a maple leaf to him when he gets there to make him feel welcome.

I like living by the sea.


I’m registering for classes on November 20th. I am trusting in the universe aka my higher power to be sure that financial aid comes through so I can pay tuition. If it doesn’t, then I will have to believe that there is a reason for that too. After first kicking some rocks dangerously close to my car.

And all along, I am going to have doubts, fears, and panic attacks. It’s change, you see, and it’s a bitch. But it sure beats lying next to the toilet on the bathroom floor of your filthy house in the middle of summer when you have promised to help your neighbor build a fence. Change. *shudder*

Nope. Not me. It’s the Dave Matthews Band making their first appearance ever on any of my blogs. I dig this song. Heh. And it’s where I’m at, yo.

Get heavy on with digging your ditch, cause I’m
digging a ditch where madness gives a bit…

I left my insulated overalls in Tiny Town. I’ll have to get on to digging in regular ol’ pants or maybe those cute leggings.


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