Anger. And beneath the Anger

 I'm 11 days post-surgery with a total left-knee replacement.  And one of the many epiphanies I've had today is that I'm bored. I am so tired of feeling like I wish I felt different! I wish I had less pain, I wish I were high as a kite and knocked out on oxy because it hurts less. I wish I could just take enough ibuprofen and tylenol to keep a steady pain relief base, but they make me nauseated and light headed and fuck with my stomach. Oops. I tried to type "mess with my stomach" and look what happened. I think that is because of the underlying rage. Is the rage from the pain or from the pain relief? Or from the cabin fever? Or the frustration that I can't move freely to take care of my little farm the way I want to?! Maybe the rage is a thinly veiled cover for Frustration. On a primal level. I have let out more primal screams today than I have in the entire time I have known what that means or that it has healing qualities. 

As I sit here, thinking about my constant rage against the machine, rage against biology, rage against my genes; I think about how I've always said that I'm not the fuck up. I can admit that I am just a little too honest, and too authentic and too.... well, I don't know, too..... me. But I'm not THE fuck up.

Today I feel my spirit collapse in upon itself and I give in. I am the family fuck up. What do you know? Why fight it? My mom, my sister, and even my beloved father who forever lives on this daddy's girl pedestal, knew I was the fuck up. And what we project onto our kids, they become. So why fight it. I'm tired. I'm 53, almost 54, and I've been pushing back for a lonnnnng fucking time. But today as I weigh the many, many failures in my life, I realize, I AM the fuck up. It's me. Hellooooo! Over here. It's me. I'm the one. 

click for photo credit/article, not my photo.

What's the one thing we want credit for? As women, as humans, as individuals? I mean, I guess I don't actually know what "we" want credit for. But I do know I'm not the only Mom who says, "I am a good Mom" and fight for the "good mom" title and recognition. Today, as a general rule, I care if I am a good human being or not. And I used to think I made a difference. A difference for kids. I taught them and loved them and encouraged them. But a) I don't do that anymore and b) I no longer believe I made a positive impact. So see? I really am just THE fuck up. I want to say my kids are strong, independent human beings because of the great mom I was. But there's a wealth of evidence that in spite of years upon years of crying wolf, I really fucked up motherhood. Maybe that scared little addict who gave her first child up for adoption was right. I come from a long line of fuck ups and am not capable of bucking the system long enough to make a real difference in the lives of the little ones I brought into this world. 

Maybe if the pain (the physical pain) ever recedes far enough and long enough, I'll become a good farmer. Because today, my lack of judgement left me with an unattended terrier, an animal that thrills in the kill, and two less chickens, and one missing duck. One less 'possum in this world, but also fewer of the creatures I was charged with caring for. Sacrificed because of my short-sightedness (and pain). 

For now, I have one more pain-killer in my medications. It will be saved to hopefully help me sleep. I have this day to collapse in upon myself. And to pray that the light of the day tomorrow will bring me hope. And a different perspective. Oh please dear God, let today be the end of giving in to "the fuck up." 

Effing Elephants....

 Self-sabatoge. Something I am quite adept at. After all this time living with me, you'd think I'd either adapt to this, or overcome it. Some days it is more cunning than others. I'll be wandering along in my bubble, my rose-colored bubble, and *BAM!* there it is. Popping my bubble and intruding on my feigned serenity. I'm writing about something I don't want to write about. Because it's big. But then again, that is why I'm writing about it. The damn elephant fills the whole fucking room and I can't figure out how to maneuver around it and keep pretending that the walls won't come crashing down if this bad boy charges. 

Oh hello. I see I am speaking (writing.... whatever) in metaphor and rhetoric again. Well, this flowery crap lives in my head all. the. time. Running dialogue. So.... purging it means sharing with you, my audience, whatever weirdness might present itself. So if you read my flowery ramblings, remember to speed them up to at least twice the normal speed and tell me you're not exhausted afterward. Trying to chase different rabbits down different rabbit holes and ending up at a place where it all makes sense in a realistic amount of time with a veritable amount of sanity. Back to my current dilemma. The one with the self-sabotaging behavior. Yeehaw.... 

The elephant is named Debt. More specifically.... property taxes and mechanics liens. I just call it fucked. With a capital FUCK. And it "should" be a relatively easy fix. Except that I have no income right now. Well, I receive child support every 2 weeks, to the tune of $250ish a month. And unemployment is still placing a hold on my account, so after being unemployed for NINE weeks (9 f*cking weeks!), I still haven't received a payment one. So if I were not unemployed, I could probably find some place willing to take a chance on me because the amount I would borrow against the house would/will be the only lien against the house. So.... there is that. Or for the low, low payment of $1400 I can file for bankruptcy. I (only) need $700 to file the bankruptcy. But again, no income. 

Throw in this.... my knees are crippled with arthritis. So bad. And very limiting in the kinds of jobs I can do.  And as I am working on getting a disability judgment, I am supposed to keep making and going to Doctor appointments, and follow doctor's advise in regard to work and movement and taking care of my knees and other ailing areas of my body. Have I said this yet? I'm only 53. I am too young to need knee replacement. 

Oh boy, I digress. again. *sigh*

Let me tell you the story.... 

When I first received a tax statement, it said it was taxes for 2019. I dismissed it thinking that it certainly had to have been paid already by the previous owner, since I just became the home owner in October of 2020. And then when I realized that no, it wasn't a mistake or a fluke, that I really did owe the county nearly $1000 for taxes for 2019. And I was working at a "new" job, not teaching, and it was a steep pay cut from my previous job. But I still had this false sense of balance and hope. I believed I was going to somehow pay that $1000 plus the  current tax of $460+ that would be coming due in December. When we moved in here, it was fall. Fall of 2020. The happy news, I bought this place outright. The current unhappy news. Take those back taxes and no way to pay them and add on a lien that the roofer put on my house. Roofer? What?! Oh yeah, last fall, I get this notification from my home owners insurance that if I want to keep my homeowners insurance I would need to make the following updates to my house. One of those things was to put on a new roof. Anywho.... I'm in trouble.

I knew the money from the sale of my house in Mac was circling the drain rather quickly. But I also knew I needed homeowners insurance. I needed to have a roof installed by December 14, 2020 in order not to lose my homeowners insurance. So I secured a roofing company to do the roof. They couldn't do it by the cutoff date but I hoped that sending a copy of the contract would stave off the threat and I'd keep my insurance. The roof wasn't completed until mid-January. And so throw in my bad financial habits, and overall lack of savviness in regard to money, on top of holidays and home repairs and so on, and a general "head in the clouds" approach to things that overwhelm me ("oh, it will work out. I don't know HOW it will work out, but it will.") Blind faith. Cluelessness. Alternate reality. Whatever you call it, I live here a lot of the time. So excuse me while I stick my head back in the sand, but I have some avoiding to do.

Here I am with a pending sheriff sale to satisfy the mechanic's lien (between $7000-10,000), and the $1000 for property taxes. Sheriff sale is on December 14.  That is a mere 10 days from now. Unless some sort of miracle happens, I might just lose this little farm, my little slice of paradise, that I love with my whole self. It seems surreal. This is my Hippie Chick Farm. My chickens, ducks and geese live here with us and our dogs, cats, and guinea pigs. 

I *think* I could keep the house by filing for bankruptcy. I can do that for $1400. Of which, "only" $700 is needed to start proceedings and stop the sale of my house. And miracles never cease. It could happen. Right? Except that I have no cash. No holdings that I could make into cash. 

I know. I know, know, know, know, know that God will take care of me. Take care of us. He always has. Over. and over. and over. Sometimes that doesn't mean what I think it should. I love this place. I have believed since day one that God showed this place to me. I asked. I got. So I'm furious with myself that I would put myself in danger of losing this place. Foolishness. Stupid. And on and on. The berating goes on and on and on (...and on). But the long and short of it is that The Hippie Chick Farm is only 10 days away from not being mine unless a miracle happens. 

I have been brainstorming miracles. I know God doesn't need my help, but I also know that I can't find the miracle if I don't look. I have plotted and schemed and here are few ways that the miracle could happen: Kansas Department of Labor, Fraud Department, would actually review my unemployment claim (and read the emails from the call center, and the many, many notes in my file about my desperation) and release the fraud hold on my weekly claims. That would be a BIG miracle. Or maybe I could find a friend to lend my the first $700 to start bankruptcy proceedings. Or maybe I could find 7 friends to put $100 toward the lawyer for the bankruptcy. Maybe I could start a fundraising drive. Like a go-fund-me. There are miracles around the corner. I know there are. But you know, Tom Petty imparted a valuable piece of wisdom when he sang "the waiting is the hardest part." Well, the waiting, and not giving up, and still believing that in my desperation, a miracle will commence. But miracles need the window of hope to close or at the very least, grow dim. So I'm thinking that place is near. Because I am starting to live in panic, on high-alert, all the time. 

I mean, I can't eat an elephant. I know the story.... to eat an elephant, you just have to take one bite at a time. Maybe this is the first bite. Being so desperate that my desperation outweighs my humiliation and shame at thinking about exposing my inadequacies for the whole world to see. 

I am truly tired of eating humble pie, it leaves a putrid after taste. And I am not excited about tackling, or eating an elephant. And for certain, not this particular Effing Elephant. 

"The Hippie Chick Farm"

 

What is a Black-hole-Soul anyway?

I was what you might call....hard to handle. A handful and then some. I have a lot of "punny" descriptions. I took a self-help/self-improvement class once and this phrase has stuck with me: "She's fun to date, but hell to live with." Well, I was certainly the bestower of living hell on my family and I was not one iota willing to share in any sort of responsibility in the matter. 

I often wonder if this is a product of a black-hole-soul. I've known for eons already that my soul is a black hole. Suck-you-dry-and-leave-you-wounded-and-begging-for-a-reprieve kind of hole. The one that can never be filled. No amount of love, pets, alcohol, drugs, hate, adrenaline, sex, or thrill-seeking can fill it. Nothing. Every single thing leaves that Black hole unfulfilled and begging for more. Eventually, it also does this for the family, friends, support circles, and even acquaintances of the one who possesses the black hole in their soul. Because no matter how much one gives, the BhS (Black-hole-Soul) is never renewed or refreshed. And everyone knows that one can't pour from an empty vessel. So those in relationship to the BhS are drained, waiting for their giving to produce fruit and be returned. But it never, ever happens. And everyone in the wake of this tornado is damaged and broken. Not "just" the owner the BhS. 

This is me. Owner and operator of a BhS.

So having been born at the tail end of the 60's, raised in the 70's (and 80's), I was full of the whole F.U. culture that women's liberation was rolling out. (Please don't insert politics here, there are whole other stories we can debate conservatism or liberalism in). As I type this, I have Joan Jett on replay in my head.... "I don't give a damn about my bad reputation...." complete with guitar riff and even a little head banging action. Yep. As a teen, I carried this around like a badge, just daring someone, anyone, to fuck with me. Do not step on my toes, I will fuck you up and I will not care where the carnage lands. Your reputation. My reputation. Your nose, my toes. Your house, my family. Carnage. Destruction. Because if you somehow manage to offend me.... you know, maybe you look at me wrong, or you got out of bed today..... then my black hole is raging and that in turn angers me. With that insatiable anger that rolls out like desire but with a side of deadly destruction. 

I have a friend that talks about how he may not love himself today, but he no longer loathes himself. Ahhh. My brain lights up at this. Self-loathing. Loathing. Black and vile hatred spilling out of the BhS. I can relate. Occasionally today I can relate with the learning to love myself piece, but in all reality, my brain perks up at the phrase "self-loathing." Because hatred is just too benign of a word to describe what the BhS does to me, makes of me, creates in me. 

As a person who possesses a BhS, hatred of my own self is such a roiling, billowing cauldron of hot and stinking shit that it has no choice but to spill out. It stinks up every corner of your BhS life. My addiction to pain, to adrenaline, to anything that might make that BhS less formidable and more tolerable somehow, is real. Overwhelming. In my life today, I have stopped trying to either soothe my Soul or kill myself, taking as many down with me as possible, in the form of drugs or alcohol. But make no mistake, the residual affects of the BhS are still present. Strong. It lurks in self-destructive relationships, in brazen thrill-seeking, in larger-than-life self-pity and one-up-man-ship, self-sabotage, and just general irresponsible behavior. 

It's not something I've never worked to improve, but it IS at the very core the cunning, baffling, and powerful part of my addictive nature. The yin and the yang of my desire to protect my Soul from hurt and danger and hardship and the precise inability to recognize anything that is good for my Soul because of that damn blackhole. 

When I see other people's BhS spilling their stink onto me and my life, I am appalled when it is pointed out to me that I am not so different from them, that I have wreaked untold amounts of havoc on every life I touch. 

The BhS story is never-ending, but because this kind of honesty is exhausting, not to mention stinky, I am drawing this post to a close. I didn't tell you all this so you can send me hug emojis and emoticons and ask me if I am alright. I wrote this out for the sake of 1) purging it, and 2) trying to sum up unexplainable behaviors that accompany the life of this woman with a BhS. 

Uninvited Rage

What happened? Why are you stuck? These are questions asked by my therapist. We were talking about how, for awhile, I wrote every day. Every. single. day. And now I don't. I just quit.

Well, I am in the anger stage of grief. And I don't want to be. I don't want to be angry. at Dad for leaving me, but I am. I don't want to feel hatred and rage toward the brain surgeon who cut him open and let his brain bleed and not recover. But I am. I don't want to be angry at Dad for getting on that 4-wheeler and wrecking and laying facedown in the dirt, inhaling that damn dirt that grew that fatal bacteria that invaded our lives and took over and ruled over us. BUT I AM. Angry. Rage-filled. Bitter. Hateful. Full of bubbling, brewing, festering, infectious RAGE that at any moment could spill over and cover my entire world with a bitter plethora of colorful expletives and the stench of toxic emotion. I am so fucking angry.

I have been aware of this. But I don't want it. I have viewed it as something to ride out. like a storm. But it's not something I will ride out by ignoring it, by just knowing that it is there, and yet pretending to be capable of living a life of of peace, a life of honesty.

I am going to have to embrace it and let it overcome me. Consume me. I will need to let go of control and become submerged in it. Or at least in sort form of it. I will have to accept it and surrender to it. And let it wash over me.

I guess I am scared of that. First of all, I don't want this. I don't want to be consumed by anger and rage that I logically don't believe. It's not Dad's fault. It's not the surgeon's fault, no, wait, that one I don't fully believe. In this regard, I push down my feelings because my family is of a pacifist background and will never sue this man for malpractice. But I don't know that this wasn't some sort of carelessness by an overly-confident (cocky would even by an appropriate adjective) surgeon. But I have tried not to be angry about this because I see no resolve and that is even more frustrating. But I see where all this pretending has gotten me. Festering. Smelly. Infected. Toxic. Stuck.

But to go on, I don't WANT to be mad at my Dad. But he is the one who got on that 4 wheeler that day. He is the one who left me to face the rest of my family without him. He is the one who... oh hell, he fought so FUCKING hard to stay here, even when he was in so much pain and decay, see... I just can't blame him. I can't let that anger just live. Because he didn't want to go. He fought like a Son-of-a-bitch to stay. He loved life. He loved us. He wanted to be around for a much longer time.

I want to end this with that sweet summary of how I've faced this, walked through it, and now I get to experience that gratitude and know acceptance. But no. I'm not there. I am still angry, bitter, broken, and full of rage.

I don't know much, but I am willing to learn

My least favorite thing in the world. Feeling the feelings. Walking through my pain. But I have spent so much of my life both practicing and condemning avoidance. At the same time. I talk about my family of origin and how it was never okay to talk about.... well, anything really. I stew and fume and just keep it there to be my only source of angst whenever I wish. But I have also fostered it in my own life. I avoid the things I don't want to talk about, the subjects I wish NOT to tackle. But the truth is, the healing comes in the feeling and talking and walking. Walking the pain all the way to the end of the path. In that process is the pathway to peace. The victory of contentment. And I realize that being reasonably content is far more achievable than the ever-fleeting happiness. Happiness is temporary. But true peace, true contentedness, comes from a place of working through things and realizing that life isn't always rainbows and unicorns. And when that fleeting moment of happiness dissipates, content and peace will still remain. As long as I remain willing. Willing to walk through feelings, good or bad. Pain. Willing to learn a new way of thinking. The Bible talks about faith the size of a mustard seed. I think that applies to willingness too. If I have just a sliver of willingness, just a grain, on those dark days, it will be enough. Enough to pull me through and change me. To pull me through and open my heart and my mind to whatever God has for me. I try to remember this. Because I know my mind is a dangerous playground and a ticking timebomb. I know that if am not careful, I can be swallowed up by half-truths, by insane narratives in my head, by insecurities and fears. I know it can happen. I know I have to keep that doorway of willingness unlocked, even though some days the only thing keeping it from latching is a tiny grain of mustard seed.