I’m Done

I’m done.  Totally over it.  I’m done with politics, St. Francis, Facebook, all social media…I’m sick and tired of bullshit.  And it’s me I’m sick and tired of.

You take PTSD, DID, and bipolar type I, put em together and what do you get?  Someone whose behavior mimics Borderline Personality Disorder.  But my Axis II is always deferred.  When your one abusers middle name is Chester- and my last name is an alcohol?  God shore has a great sense of humour.

I’ve also come to the conclusion that people hate living in reality.  They like fantasy.  They don’t want to live in the cold and ugly and mean truth.  Brutal honesty is for cromags, tact is in…

My God, I have been through so fucking much. I swear, people keep telling me to do more, be more.  I’m lucky I’m not fucking nonverbal okay, assholes?  I’ll probably never get married and I’m totally okay with that.  I don’t know why, but I’m okay with that.  They can come and go as they and I please.  I just know Dave made me a woman, he taught me  better way of life.  He’s teaching me how to live and how to, as someone I adore greatly said, “Find what makes me happy.”  Another person I admire greatly had a meme up, with Buddha’s picture and a caption that read:  Suffering comes from giving too many fucks. Attachment is the root of all suffering. Yupo.

I’m frustrated.  I see people who were pretty fucked up a few years ago, healing and ,moving on, and I’m like, WTF, over?  And my mom doesn’t want to come over to my place because I am a cluster/clutter fuck.  Well, I got a fucking bachelor’s and half a MSW.  I’d say for someone who was fucking put through hell and splintered into 79-82 or however many little pieces of a whole, that’s pretty fucking good.  Sorry you don’t understand me, just like I don’t understand you, but I’m a loyal fucking person.  I don’t turn on a dime, unless shit happens.

I’m over all of it.  Just am.  Sick of it all.  Great band, by the way.  At least their name is great.  I’m uber frustrated.  I’m in a great deal of pain.  My knee is all fuct up.  I have-my fucking cartilage in my right knee is flaking off.  And floating around my knee.  No matter what, I’m gonna have to have surgery.

I also started asanas in yoga.  Held plank for not a consecutive, but total five minutes. Oh Dear Ganesh, am I sore!!!  I wail like a yenta, but with Hinduism.  No wonder people don’t get me, I’m a blend.   Herbie said, “31 flavors of fucked up.”  I like to think, 31 flavors of collaborated bullshit.  But, Let’s try being nicer to me, shall we?  How about, 31 flavors of awesome sauce?  I like that.  31 levels of awesomenessoisty.  I make the fuck up out of word, so let’s go.

Yesterday my bed was vibrating and shaking and my alarm clock was on iPod and making AM radio noises.  I smudged, white candles, gave it back, all that shit.  Banish x53, so mote it be.  I hereby banish hate, fear and loathing from myself, a process which has already begun, let it continue on, until the burning of the sun.  So mote it be.  ABOVE ALL-KEN-HARM NONE!!!!

Oh dear Lord.  There’s that 31 flavors of blended awesome sauce.  Jesus H.  OoP!  There’s another flavor!

Okay.  I need to clean.  And banish.  I have Feng Shui smudge I’m going to get busy with. Usually about this time, I’m fading, but now, I am coming alive.  I swear, I got 13 fucking hours of sleep last night.  Slept right through an obligation.  Damn.  But, I feel better,  With Grief it is either feast or famine.  Fall makes me happy.  Going up north to see the colors change, would be awesome.  Maybe I’ll scoot out after the 8th, and go to some places I have never been before.  That would be wicked cool.  Sleep in cheap motels, yeah…  I’m digging it.  I likey.

I’m over it all.  Just over it all.  Not going drink, not going to do drugs, not gonna any of that shit.  Just need to free my soul.  Re-new, re-member, re-knew again.

And…scene.

“Someone in Heaven”-The Reverend Horton Heat

Well, I made it to the spa.  I have no more lifetime Medicare, Free Standing Psych Hospital days left over.  So, not only will I never go back inpatient to Forest View (since 8/16/08), I get to go to Kalamazoo to Bronson.  So, that was sad.  But, now that I can no longer go there, God invented Facebook…Hypothetically.

Well, I have a new part.  New to me.  His name is Jaz, and he is 32.  Protector, as that is all I am left with.  He likes to fight with me around one pm for dominance.  So, I look like I’m ODing.  Slurring, slitty eyes, the whole thing.  But Jaz holds the things the cult- The Brides of Satan- told me.

I was flooded with memories while I was in there from Saturday to Sunday.

Remember “Eddie Hamilton?”  Well, after the High Priestess has told everybody what to do and how to do it, she leaned into me, holding my right hand with her left and said to me, “I can make you run this town, Suzy.  You can own this town; call the shots. Would you like that?” I must’ve said “yes” or something because here’s this guy hanging with this four foot nothing woman with filed, stained teeth hissing dominance in my ear…What would you do?  Easy to say…

So High Priestess (HP), tells me to tongue the dead guy- she graciously and ever so thoughtfully lifted me up to help me kiss, “Eddie”.  Then she gave me a sacrificial Chris knife and told me to cut around his dick, and suck the blood out of his dick, while she diddled herself on the floor.  Charming.

Next.  The dude with the dark hair in the Blue Velvet robe, who wanted to tear me apart sexually and physically-he was arrested around Beltane in 1978 for procuring two skulls and various body parts for the holiday celebration.  He got life.  Be damned if I can think of his name.  He was tall and thick.  Thick, black curly hair.  Black, Brown, greyish eyes.  But he was the leader.  He tried to tear me apart a couple of times.  They had to pull him off me a couple of times.  That was the most I ever feared for my life.  Ever.

But, cults, regardless brainwash you.  My brainwash was: if you do not join us, you must kill yourself (A reason I was hospitalized at age 40- had to go), or we will find you and kill you.  I’m putting myself at a risk by writing this blog.  But, dammit, the truth must be told.

I was seriously considering ending it.  I was truly on the fence.  Truly.  It was bad.  But, August 15, 2008, at the spa, I celebrated 7 years far away from a drink.  Miracle.

It’s 3:50 am.  My fucking cat would not let me sleep.  She slept on every available part of my face she could.  I think all my neighbors went out to the bar- 2;23, 3:00 am I’m woken up.  I live above the garage.  So the garage doors I hear.  Every.  Single.  Fucking.  Time.

I start Partial Hospital today.  I have more memories.  They’re in my journal.  I’ll look for em, today…