When the Crawling Chaos gets here, this party's gonna go insane.

Trying to get back into the blog because my therapist said it might be good for me. So.

The last year+ has been ….. a lot. I don’t even really remember the first few months after Mikey (M.) died. I have never suffered such a loss as this. It’s still devastating. There is a giant hole in my life and my heart. There is no one else in my life who I can tell literally anything and everything. There are thoughts and feelings that I can’t let out because he’s gone. Maybe that’s why my shrink thinks I should start blogging again.

I turned 40 in September, and the day before my birthday, I found out that Ivy had an untreatable tumour in her abdomen. A rapidly growing one, based on its size and the fact that the vet detected no sign of anything off at Ivy’s annual check up in February. They put her on steroids, to make her feel better and just give her more time. I thought “more time” would be more than just a month, but after a few weeks of Ivy getting almost back to her old self, she suddenly deteriorated over the course of a few days and I made the choice to let her go in late October.

It hurt just as much as losing Mikey. My tubby and formerly robust little asshole was suddenly gone.

And then in November democracy in the US went fuckitty-bye, and I’ve just been in kind of a haze since then.

BUT in coming back here, I’m going to try and focus on the good things and the funny things. I’ve got some comics lined up and a few ideas for some more. I’ve also perfected my granny’s traditional English Steak & Ale Pie recipe, so I’ll post that soon as well.

In the meantime I’m going to catch up on the blogs of those of you who are still here.

Keep fighting the good fight, my friends.

The Christmas decorations are still staying up.

I just need to yell into the void

 My best friend in the world, Mikey (known on this blog simply as M.) died yesterday. 

We're not sure yet if it was an accidental overdose or his heart just gave out, or a combo of both. He died in his sleep in the wee hours of Thursday morning. 

I'm still in shock kind of. Like it's hit me, but it also hasn't. My brain cannot accept the fact of a world that does not include Mikey. We were soul mates. We were supposed to grow old together, become those scary old hags in the creepy house at the edge of town with a ton of cats.

But now he's gone. I feel like part of myself is gone as well. He's been my best friend since like 1999. I've told him things about my life that I could never tell anyone else, and vice versa. He was the one person I loved and trusted most in the world. I know I'm lucky to have had a relationship like that; it's not something everyone gets to experience. But this loss is truly shaking me to my core.

So I just needed to vent this somewhere. 

I truly hope anyone of you still reading are doing well, and enjoying the holiday season.

State of the Blog Address .....again

 

It's been over six months since I vanished without explanation. I'll probably do that again in the near future, but for the moment, I have returned. Idk if anyone is still out there reading at this point. It's been that kind of year. 

 

2021 got off to an interesting start. I spent a week in January confined to a psych ward following a suicide attempt, and am still under constant supervision. M has been living with me since they let me out of the Home for the Bewildered and miraculously, I have not attempted to kill him yet.  It has actually been kind of nice having someone staying with me. I'm also on all new medications and am no longer suicidal. My family is monitoring my every move, and you never knew how many good friends you have until you almost died.

Bossman's wild weekends with his various girlfriends finally landed him bedridden with Covid-19. Even if the social worker had not ordered me to ease slowly back into full time employment, I would probably be working part time because there is NOTHIIIIINNNNNGG to do at the office. 

Baby Yoda has somehow amassed nearly 500 followers on Instagram. 

Am I officially an influenzaer now?

This is still a weird time for me. It feels like it will take a long time to feel normal, like a person again. Big Sis#2 still wakes up in the middle of the night screaming because she was the one who found me in a pool of blood in my living room. That's my fault. I did that to her. I traumatized her. I will never not feel horrible about that. I will never not feel horrible about making my mothers and father cry. About giving my siblings the fright of a lifetime. 

My cats are treating me like the worthless minimum wage employee I am (as far as they're concerned) for leaving them alone with M and the combined forces of StepMom and Mum for a week. 

Until next time, when I may or may not explain how a mothertrucking CAT was basically the start and end of the above events. 

 

Well, we must never feel sorry for ourselves, must we? No matter how bad things get, they can always get worse.

Today, Gyr of House Brooker, First of His Name, Son of a Perverse and Rebellious Woman, was totalled.

(Apparently, stop signs are merely a suggestion.)

I had a 4 minute ride in an ambulance that will probably cost $1,200.00. Nothing broken, but I did something to my left hip that requires an orthopaedist. That will be Monday. Walking, sitting, lying down, bending over, and putting on shoes and trousers, among a number of other things, are incredibly painful at the moment.

As to what the feck I'm going to do with regards to obtaining a new vehicle, jumping off a tall building is at the top of my list.

I had consolidated the remaining money due on Gyr into a loan I already had with the credit union, because I was REEALLLLLYY struggling making the car payment plus the existing loan payment. I'll be lucky if I get $4,000.00 from my insurance for Gyr. I cannot afford the added monthly expense of a car payment, even a used car.

Why can't something go right in my life? Just one thing. One.

Stop the world, I really f****ng want to get off.

We went camping this past weekend--me, Dadum, Stepmom, and both Lil Bros--to Ithaca, NY, to visit some waterfalls, the Mecca of Birdwatching, and watch the Tottenham Hotspur v. Liverpool game live in a pub.

While we had a good time, it felt like one thing after another kept going wrong. On the way up, Dadum's truck's check engine light not only lit up, but started flashing. We made it to the campsite and the 'rents found a mechanic to look at the truck on short notice, so hopefully problem solved.

Then something went wrong with the trailer's electricity. Not a huge issue, since--thank heavens--it didn't get hot enough at night to necessitate air conditioning, and the lights inside worked on their own batteries. But still, Mom and Dad had recently spent a considerable amount of time and money fixing various issues with the camper. There should not have been any electrical issues.

It rained a bit, but thankfully not as much as all of our weather apps had predicted. We saw some pretty waterfalls. 

I was traumatized by this sign at an ice cream stand in the park.

but managed to find comfort by befriending this spider

Dadum and I found a pub to watch the Tottenham v. Liverpool game over a few beers while Mom and both Lil Bros wandered Ithaca. Within the first like thirty seconds of the game, one of the refs made THE MOST RETARDED CALL IN FOOTBALL HISTORY and gave Liverpool a penalty kick for literally no reason at all. 

We lost 2 - nil. But otherwise it was a good game and despite losing, Tottenham had possession of the ball for like 80% of the game. 

On the way back into the campground, we noticed the most fantastic mini golf statue in the history of the multiverse. 

It took every last ounce of our willpower not to steal it.

We celebrated Lil Bro#2's 25th birthday Saturday evening, and sat around drinking and eating and generally being merry, even with the on and off rain. The Bros and I sat around the campfire chatting and laughing after Mom and Dad retired into the camper.

My phone rang. It was Mike the Band leader. I hadn't heard from him and his wife in a while, so I answered. I should have figured that it would be bad news, considering the call came at nearly 10.00 at night, but we'd all had quite a few drinks by that point.

I still wonder if maybe I shouldn't have answered. I mean, I would have found out anyway, but part of me wishes I had ignored the phone call and continued having a laugh with my brothers until we eventually turned in for the night. 

One of my friends (Drummerboy, who some of y'all might remember from when I was sort of dating him) was shot and killed in a diner parking lot on Saturday morning. By his own son. 

No one knows why. The best guess is an argument over money. They hadn't had a good relationship in years, mainly because of the kid and his mother demanding more and more money from Drummerboy even though he didn't have the money to give them. 

My friend's own fecking child MURDERED HIS FATHER over money. 

Friday I have to go to a family friend's wedding (we've all known each other since before any of us kids were born and our parents all worked for the same company in the 1970s). I've been dreading this since we got the invite, because I hate weddings in general (at least the stupid cliche weddings that literally every single couple I know has had over the years). 

Drummerboy's funeral is Friday at 11.00 AM. I had already planned to leave work early for the stupid wedding, so now Bossman and Bosslady are giving me a hard time about taking a full day off. Mumsy and I had originally planned to stay in a hotel after the wedding with Lil Sis, because it's kind of far from home. I told Mumsy that I will probably be ditching the wedding as soon as is socially acceptable so I can drive home.

Apparently this is incredibly selfish of me. 

So on Friday I'll be attending the fecking wedding after attending my friend's funeral, and I know I'm going to get a ration of shit if I don't act all happy and sociable at said wedding. The only reason I will resist getting blackout drunk is that I already desperately want to go home.

'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

I'm calling major bullsh*t on that notion. 

Next Sunday will mark eleven years since the love of my life committed suicide. Every year, I think maybe I can get through this without a total meltdown, but I'm already starting to unravel. I guess there is no expiration date for grief. 

I started dating someone about a month ago. I guess it's official now, as we spend pretty much every weekend together and he usually stays over one or two nights during the week.

But it has occurred to me--as it has with literally every romantic relationship I have ever attempted to maintain after Brad--that I'm not sure how much I really like this guy. 

Would I feel upset if I found out that he was seeing other women when he isn't with me? I don't think so. Would I feel guilty if I ended up cheating on him? I don't think so. 

This is why all of my romantic relationships over the last eleven years have fizzled out within less than a few weeks. Because I just don't care. I used to try very hard to care, but I gave up on that a long time ago. 

I actually thought I cared about this one in the beginning, but the more time goes by, the more I think it would be better if maybe I just cut him loose now before it's too late. Which makes me wonder, can I ever love anyone again? Do I keep trying to make relationships work just to avoid being alone forever?

And when my emotional meltdown reaches its peak next weekend, do I tell the new guy why? Do I tell him that if Brad had never died, there is a 99% chance the two of us would probably be married, maybe even with children by now? 

I try not to think of that alternate reality because no good will ever come of dwelling on such things. Brad is dead, and he is not coming back. Even typing that sentence makes it feel like my heart is being shredded to pieces with a blunt serrated knife. 

Turning my life into a shrine for my dead soulmate will never lead to anything good. The major depression I have suffered over the last decade just makes me want to pack it in and join him. I know I should probably talk to a professional about this, but at the moment, I can't talk about it without dissolving into a sobbing soggy mess. 

As far as telling the new boy about any of this, I have no idea what to do. But maybe it would be better to wait until after the anniversary of Brad's death has passed before I decide to end this relationship. 

I just don't know what to do. Sorry for the depressing post, but I needed to tell someone. 

IT'S AALIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVVVVVVEE!!!!!!

Hey y'aaallllll. It's been a while.

Most of this is going to be me rambling diary-like about the last few months because I really just need to write it down. Feel free to skip that part. 

BUT FIRST

For all of the lads reading this, I have some bUrNiNg questions. 

This is not me trying to question your manhood or anything, it's just genuine curiosity. I know I will never be able to afford to go back to school, but that doesn't mean I can't read and study on my own. Since devouring every last scrap of information I could find on behavioural psychology, I've gotten pretty good at observing and analysing people's behaviour.

Which was when I noticed some behaviour patterns that seemed exclusive to men. I find these behaviours incredibly odd, but I am not a man. I can't see the reason behind it, so I MUST HAVE ANSWERS. 

Four specific behaviours have left me baffled:

1. Backing into parking spaces. Family, friends, acquaintances, neighbours--all y'all dudes are CONSTANTLY making 50 point turns to back into parking spaces. WHY?!? Is it so you can pull forward out of the parking space? It takes like two seconds to back out of a parking space. What in bloody blazes are you doing?!? EXPLAIN.


2. Standing next to the car in states where you can't pump your own gas. I live right by the border of New Jersey, so I frequently have to stop for petrol in New Jersey. Idk how many other states do this, but in NJ a gas station attendant pumps your petrol for you. Like you're not allowed to do it yourself. 

But for some reason, soooooooooo many MEN get out of their cars and stand beside it while the car fills up. 

WHY. Is it, like, not manly enough if you don't actively participate in pumping your own petrol? Is it a control thing because someone else is doing something to your car?? I DON'T UNDERSTAND.


3. Leaving your bloody bollocky pickup truck running while you go pick up your take out food. And leaving it running for like 50 years because you're chatting with the other regulars. This is particularly annoying in the spring and autumn when I like to have my windows open, only to end up getting a living room full of diesel exhaust and a constant dvnfbfbnmgdfbhghgbhmgfbgbmgbhmfgbhmfgmfbfmjmnRUMBLERUMBLERUMBLE outside. 

Why can't you just shut the car off? Do you want your grandkids to die because you don't feel like giving 2 sh*ts about the environment? EXPLAIN PLS.


4. Spitting. Ive known some women who do this as well, but it's definitely more common in men--constant hacking and spitting IN PUBLIC. (One of the breeders downstairs for example, hocks up some nastiness and spits it out LIKE EVER FOUR SECONDS. RIGHT OUTSIDE MY BEDROOM WINDOW. EVERY MORNING.) Like seriously, don't any of y'all know it's impolite to spit IN FRONT OF A LADY?? It's also super duper disgusting and it makes me nauseous.  Please stop, for the love of Cthulhu, PLEASE STOP.




Your responses will be much appreciated. 

*     *     *

So yeah it's been a while. Things aren't really any better. My New Year's Resolution is to do everything possible to sabotage and eventually destroy my physical health. I went on the Pill and then deliberately increased my cigarette intake. I don't really eat. Most weekends, I just sleep. I probably drink too much.

Lil Bro#2 moved to Brooklyn a while back. I felt horrible for hoping he hated it so he would come back.

He loves it. I don't think he's coming back.

M. finally got out of the toxic household that wasted like 8 years of his life and almost led him to a total breakdown

and moved to Florida. To stay with his father for a while.

I AM SO HAPPY about this--M. needed to get away; I was so so afraid for him the last few months he was here--but it's also a knife to the gut every time I realize he's not here anymore. I've also been trying to help his mother out with her legal issues. Basically, once she was forced out of her house (foreclosure), she was entitled to an increase in alimony from her douchebag pedophile ex-husband so she could pay rent. 

Even though this was written into a LEGALLY BINDING AGREEMENT, he refuses to start the alimony increase until he gets a court order. So I filed a motion to get the increase, and naturally--because let's be honest when it comes to me I will get the shortest and shittiest end of the stick every time, no matter what the situation--our motion got assigned to the most incompetent POS judge in the whole state of New Jersey. Like this judge sucks so bad that she got fired from the Civil Division

...and for some reason was deemed competent enough for the family division. Go figure.

They've been giving me the run around for a month--not returning my calls, straight up lying to me, and now--for the second time--have postponed the motion. So M.'s mother is basically living in poverty and losing a different utility a week because she can't pay her bills. 

In other news....

My meds have been more or less tripled since I last posted. Increases in everything--the antidepressants, the mood stabilizers, sedatives, et. cetera. I have never taken the mood stabilizers, so I now have about 9,000 mg of quetiapine stashed away. I don't think I'll ever actually do it, but I take comfort in knowing I have the option. 

Also I now have an iron-clad 20-page living will that basically forbids any EMT's from performing any and all lifesaving nonsense if they arrive and find me unresponsive/dead, and forbids anyone at the hospital from attempting to resuscitate me. It's handy working for estate lawyers sometimes.

It's not that I really want to kill myself, I just want to die. I'm done. So completely and totally done with life. I don't even bother praying anymore. Pretty sure I've just been talking to myself the whole time anyway. 

My entire left hand has gone numb/pins and needlesy, progressively getting worse over the last two weeks (started with just the index finger). I'm hoping it's a clot or a stroke, but no way in hell am I that lucky. Probably just carpal tunnel or something. 


If you made it this far, I'm sorry if I made you depressed or unhappy in any way. Go make yourself a nice cup of tea (or a stiff drink) and pretend you never read any of this.

Medicine, let us in, this remedy's not kickin' in

I am still here. Not gonna lie--things kind of suck.

The desire to flee is very strong. Pack up the cats and some belongings, get in the car, drive far far away

and never come back

Have you ever wondered why so many crazy people refuse to take their medication?

I have arrived at a dilemma faced by countless writers and artists before me.

I think my medication is causing the writers block.

It set in for the long haul around the same time I started taking antidepressants. And the writing died entirely when they upped my dose. I've also lost the desire to go out and take photos. Now I'm having a harder and harder time coming up with new ideas to illustrate as well.

Never in my life was there a time when I did not have stories bouncing around in my head 24/7. I'm not sure when they stopped, but they have most definitely stopped. Nothing. I used to wonder what normal people thought about all day if their heads weren't constantly occupied with coming up with new fiction stories. Now I want to know how normal people survive this deafening silence.

So what to do? Stop the meds and risk sinking back into suicidal depression and anorexia? I've still got one foot in that particular grave, so I'm kind of nervous as to what will happen if I go off the antidepressants.

At the same time, life is empty and pointless without all the art I used to love creating. Sure the illustrations have sustained me a little, but it's not the same as when I was writing. I feel like a hollow shell of a person. Should I sacrifice a mentally unstable life for a totally lifeless medicated one?

I just don't know. Thoughts? Suggestions? Here's some ridiculous mushrooms:

My drive to work this morning:

That haze is not fog, it is actually so much snow I could barely see the car in front of me.

Yes, I was using my phone whilst driving. But I am always sure to make certain there are no cars beside or behind me so that if I should hit a deer, I won't ruin anyone else's day.*

I do not understand the weather.

My new license plates finally arrived.

I'll let y'all work that one out yourselves.


The Simple Cat has discovered that heat comes out of the vent above the stove when the oven is on.

It is now her favourite sleeping spot. 

^I posted that picture in a facebook group (of which I am no longer a member) for crazy cat ladies and was more or less crucified for it. It's so upsetting!! How could I do that to my cat?!?! 

Yes, I am that freaking stupid that I would allow my cat to get burned. 

I f**king hate everyone seriously


This coming Sunday is Ugly Sweater Day at church. I have sacrificed my own sweater, which is the ugliest sweater in creation, for Lil Bro#2 to wear. 

He has actually been wearing it out in public and it is now his favourite article of clothing.

Earlier this week, Lil Bro#2 reviewed Fatal Attraction.

Christmas is rapidly approaching and I don't even care. I decorated Mum's house and put up her tree, threw some fairy lights around the apartment, and decorated the office, but I'm just not feeling it.

The office dog even got decorated.

Listen to this band, they are phenomenal:



































*At this point, I am fairly certain that I am unkillable. After 3 attempts, one unintentional overdose, thousands of accumulated prayers for death, and countless accidents that would have given the Lord ample opportunity to kill me, I somehow remain alive. 

Being part of a family means committing forgery for the ones you love.

 Emails and facebook messages with regard to my wellbeing are starting to pile up, so I figured I'd try to post something....

I had a nice week away in the beginning of the month staying with Tempest, who is beyond lovely. We did one of those Escape the Room things (twice--success in the art gallery heist, near success at the bank robbery), and wore period costumes on both Halloween and two days later for trivia night at the local brewery.

We ended up skipping trivia and playing Nintendo instead. We all mostly failed at Super Mario on NES, and then we broke Mortal Kombat on the Sega Genesis. 

I made friends with Tempest's cat, Pippin.

 I love him. He cuddled with me nearly every night I was there. (Presumably because the Simple Cat has trained me to keep up the petting and scratching even after I've fallen asleep.)

We also did lots of walking at various parks, as I successfully got Tempest into geocaching. I got super excited at one park when we saw a red squirrel,

  

and then we found a praying mantis.

 I moved him from the danger of the parking lot to the safety of the trees. Hopefully he did not wander back into the parking lot.

I made some clay thingies

Simple Cat/Ivy and Harley

self portrait

but they are nowhere hear as amazing as Tempest's creations.

I returned from my road trip on Saturday, Vienn Peridot in tow. Peri made friends with both cats immediately. I was amazed, as Simple Cat NEVER comes out of hiding when new people come over. Ivy loved Peri, and she spent most of Monday evening and Tuesday looking for her after she left.

I took Peri to Smokey's for dinner for her birthday. On Sunday we wandered the farmer's market with Lil Bro2 (and of course visited the Pesto Man), went to A.C. Moore and Michaels to spend far too much money on art supplies,* and then headed over to Dadum's for dinner, as Stepmom had cooked a nice chicken and rice dish in honor of the foreign visitor. After dinner, we all watched Babe and I totally forgot that Elrond did the voice of the sheepdog.

The following Tuesday night, we as a nation somehow elected Donald Trump as the next president. I did not get to vote, as Bossman made me stay at the office until after 6.00 PM, and then I had to go get groceries and petrol and visit the bank, and after sitting in like 2 hours of traffic on the way home, I was so aggravated and tired I really didn't feel like waiting around in the cold when it was so late I might not even have made it to the front of the line at the voting place (which would have been another 45 minutes in the car from my house).

Honestly though I had no idea who I planned on voting for. I had actually considered just flipping a coin because I don't even give a f**k anymore. I've had enough of the lesser-of-two-evils elections. I've lost all patience with the circus that is the United States government.

Last Friday, I made an appearance at my friend's daughter's 13th birthday party. Emma (the daughter) is a treasure., and possibly the only real fan of my books. I made her a art for her birfday.

I think it might be the best mushroom cottage yet.

I also hauled ass outta there after only an hour because small house filled with a large group of squealing shrieking 12 and 13 year old girls = HARD NO.

In other news..........

The week-long road trip was a wonderful distraction, but once I settled back into normal life, all the ick came right back. Emotional turmoil, extreme depression, general despair and hopelessness. The Doc has upped my meds, but I know that more antidepressants and mood stabilizers and sedatives will not fix the real problem. I do not know how to fix the real problem, so I've fallen back on unhealthy coping mechanisms.

I do not eat anything more than the cream in my coffee and a spoonful of peanut butter or a leftover piece of chicken, except for when I have to eat in front of people. This has actually been a pattern for some time, though I have not blogged about it because I had done so well with recovery and to slip back into the eating disorder seems like such a colossal failure I couldn't bring myself to admit it.

It came to a head a few days ago, when one of my friends posted an old photo on facebook, and then sent me a recent one of us hanging out.

I hate photos of me. I hate my reflection. I tend to avoid mirrors except when doing my makeup, so seeing photos of me is generally never a pleasant experience, but I can ignore them, brush it off, and move on.

Except the other day, when I saw M's recent photo of us, I kind of lost it. I feel huge. Unbearably huge.

Last night, I had an extremely vivid dream in which I got struck by lightning and died. It wasn't a quick death, but I was unbothered by the pain and the shock and instead my thoughts were more like FINALLY. When I woke up, I was so disappointed it took me like ten minutes to drag myself out of bed.

It's like Hyperbole and a Half put it in her post about depression--I don't necessarily want to kill myself, I just don't want to be alive anymore. If I didn't have the cats, things might be different, but for the moment I cannot bring myself to abandon them.

*Everyone is getting art for Christmas now because I'm poor.

giorni dispari

Ruby's recent posts have had me thinking a lot about my horseback riding days. Today, I found out that one of my favourite horses from my riding school--Queenie--has ridden on to the great pasture in the sky. She was quite old, 30-something, but the news still made me sad.

Queenie was an average-size horse, all chestnut brown. She was the most uncomfortable horse I have ever ridden, but she was also lovely as far as temperament. Most of the time, I felt like all I had to do was think about what I wanted her to do next and she did it perfectly.

I miss riding, but unfortunately it is an extremely expensive hobby. I started riding at age 2 with Anorexic Auntie, and started lessons at age 3. Once upon a time, I had wild aspirations of riding for Ireland in the Olympics (I really wanted the green riding jacket), but that died away as I headed into my teens and got bored of riding round in circles jumping over sticks. I really wanted to ride into battle, or failing that, learn how to joust.

Horses are the most likely reason for the vertigo, according to my old doctor. Riding that much for that many years, you lose count of how many times you fall off or get thrown off. I had one horse (ironically, named Mephistopheles) who threw me into a triple bar and then five minutes later hurled me off his back with such force that I was knocked out cold upon landing. This is the reason we make sure to wear the funny-looking helmets. This is also the reason Mumsy would not stay and watch my lessons.

By the end of high school I had given up lessons and instead rode for free, exercising the privately-owned horses whose owners didn't have time to ride every day. The retired racehorses were the best. They were completely mental and wouldn't listen to any commands at all, but boy could they move.

We used to have two retired racehorses at my late stepfather's farm. "Un-rideable," I was told. (Guess who frequently got in trouble for riding them?)

I have a soft spot for wild/insane horses. Perhaps because I understand their frustration.

Locked in a cage and left with a mind that remembers a time when they would have run free in open wilderness--a thing they never actually experienced and never will.

So here's to Queenie, who finally gets to run free.

to everything there is a season

Y'all are amazing. Really truly. 

I'm not going to shoot myself, I promise. If I did, my mother would throw my cats into the first kill-shleter she could find, and I cannot live (or die) knowing that would happen to Harleyquinn and Poison Ivy. They're my babies and I live for them. 

Stepmom is coming with me on Sunday to check out the apartment again. She's one of the fussiest people I know when it comes to living spaces, so I figure I will get the most critical unbiased opinion from her. Despite many issues I have had with Stepmom in the past, she has been one of my biggest sources of support in recent months, so I trust her opinion. 

The commute time from this apartment to work does not bother me in the slightest. Driving is one of my favourite things ever. And I did the hour+ commute for a year when I lived in the last apartment. It never bothered me. On the contrary, I actually enjoyed the long drive. It's a scenic drive, and I get at least two hours a day to blast my music. 

I can keep up a search for a job nearer the apartment and if I find a good one, I'll take it. To be honest, I'd rather drive an hour+ both ways to my job than continue living in Bergen County. I'd rather live closer to my closest family and friends than live closer to my job. 

I just worry about making the wrong decision. My life has been one wrong decision after another. I don't want to add to the pile. 

So for now I'm just trying to breathe. To not sink into despair. 

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under Heaven. 

This is me just thinking out loud.

...so feel free to skip it. 


I saw the apartment yesterday, instead of Sunday, because I wanted to see how long it would take me to get there if I left straight from work. I hit more than the usual traffic, and got there in about an hour and 20 minutes. 

I drove back to the office afterwards, to test the distance going a slightly different route. An hour and eight minutes. 

I am totally ok with that, but I have to factor in the 120 miles of driving every day, at least as far as fuel costs (I'm estimating $90 per month, a 'month' being 4 weeks) and car maintenance, which will need to be done more often than it is now. 

I really liked the apartment. A little small, but then again the lady living in it now has so much stuff everywhere it probably looked smaller than it is. Her son just moved in with her and so she is moving into the larger apartment next to it, because she does not want to leave the building. She's been there for 3 years. 

The landlord was really nice. He said he's the type who fixes problems immediately, and the tenant in the apartment I looked at confirmed this to be true. (And I'm also going to presume it is because she wants to keep living in the building.)

I am in love with the location of the apartment. It is 20 minutes from everything, surrounded by rolling green hills and farmland. Like holy crap is that drive gorgeous. 

So factoring in rent, utilities (heat and elec. on the same bill, the tenant and landlord both said separately that it averaged out at $90/month, which means I will probably end up with a lower bill, but I used $90 for my spreadsheet anyway), travelling costs, and all my other expenses (cat food, car insurance, cell phone, internet, music lessons, hair bleaching, car payment, loan payment, psychiatrist, and crazy pills), I'll be left with about $170 per week for food and other household stuffs. 

I can do that. It won't be easy, and I'll probably have to cut back on a lot of luxuries, but I can do it. 

But I'm not sure if I should. 

I've been getting a pretty strong message from above that I should stay put. It's frustrating. It's infuriating. It's killing me slowly, but I'm still trying to listen. God's not subtle when I try to ignore Him. Seriously. Mold, bugs, pestilence, car-totaling accident, major hassles where there should have been none. 

But how the heck do I know when I should stop staying put? The last apartment I looked at was easy--the landlord decided to accept another tenant. And I had prayed that if that apartment was not the right choice, then please Lord don't give me a choice and let them give the apartment to someone else. 

With this apartment, I'm pretty sure I'll get it if I call the landlord back and say I want it. 

I don't know. What I do know is that I have been unraveling--slowly at first and now faster. I'm drinking too much. I'm crying myself to sleep most nights. I'm not really eating anything unless I have to (i.e., in front of people). I'm self-harming again, and far too often. Each week life gets harder and I get worse, and most days I have to really struggle to find a reason to get out of bed in the morning. I hate living here with my mother and I don't know how much longer I can take it before I put a bullet in my head. 

But I don't know if this is the time to leave, or if this is the home I should be moving into. 

Clutch it like a cornerstone, otherwise it all comes down.

I did not get the apartment. I'm seeing another one this Sunday in Unionville, which is one of my dream spots, so I'm going to presume I won't get this one either.

In other news, I have quit quitting smoking.

To quote Bridget Jones's father, I take great comfort in the fact that they might kill me before things actually get worse.

However

now that they want me singing regularly at church, I'm thinking about quitting smoking again.

Mumsy was out last night, so I took the opportunity to practice Sunday's songs (mostly because they're all permanently stuck in my head now). After nearly an hour of belting out Christian songs, I discovered that Mumsy had left all of the windows open. My neighbours have been thoroughly evangelized.

I've been in a weird mood this week. 

Art production has slowed, but still plodding along. I have a list of everyone who has requested art, so I shan't forget any of you.

In general I think I'm just..... tired.

An update later this weekend maybe. Now I have to go help Bossman load several hundred thousand dollars worth of [probably stolen] artwork into a Russian mobster's car.

Set me up and watch me unwind.

I felt like I had something to say earlier, but it seems to have escaped me. Therefore this post is going to be a sort of stream-of-consciousness ramble.

Right at this moment (15.15 on Tuesday afternoon), my biggest dilemma is currently whether or not to have another cup of coffee.

I think I will. Hold on while I go next door and steal the kettle....

.........

Why does the second cup of coffee of the day never taste as good as the first?

I need the coffee to resist the little box of horrors we received from the office supply people today.

So I had a lovely weekend upstate with Lil Bro#2. We didn't do much--some antique shopping, finding places to eat (there is very little up there in the way of culinary experiences), and walking around Letchworth State Park. Check out the photos, that place is amazing.

The white & red house at the end of the photo album is apparently haunted, so let me know if you spot any ghosts hanging about.

  

When I returned to the office yesterday (after taking only one day off), I had to sort my way through this:

I also had a surprise waiting for me from one of our nicer clients ("Broken Lots of Mirrors" category)

This thing is the size of a football. And in total contains about 4,000 calories of Brazilian chocolate.

  

I've had a very small piece so far, but in all honesty I'm still feeling kind of struggly with food. Some family members and friends have made comments about weight loss, and over the weekend Dadum and Stepmom kept trying to make me eat without commenting on the fact that I don't eat.

I don't know. It's not about losing weight. It's about dealing with stress, I guess. I try to eat, but most of the time I just ..............can't. Coffee with cream for breakfast. Maybe a second coffee for lunch. Some grilled chicken and a beer for dinner. That's usually it on weekdays.

I am now on so much medication you can hear my purse rattling from like 100 yards away.

Antidepressants, mood stabilizers, sedatives, tummy pills. If you're crazy and you know it, shake your meds.

 In other more positive news, Westley & the Witches has been reviewed by the lovely Janie Junebug.

And Elk's little book of illustrations also has its first review from Holly Hearts Art.

I think that's all I've got.