The Dance

How long have we been dancing the dance?  Do you remember?  I think the real dancing started about four years ago.  To be fair and completely honest, the dancing was always there.  It was in the background at times, but it was always there.

You do know the dancing I’m talking about, right?  It’s what has become our traditional relationship dance.  I think we unknowingly started this dance; it wasn’t intentional.  We did what we needed to do to, right?  Is that how you remember the dance starting?  There were times family interfered with our relationship.  We each pacified the other.  I know I felt stuck in the middle and I’m sure you did as well.  Looking back, I wish we would have had the ability to cope with the interference and stop the dancing.  But we danced around the problems, hoping they would just disappear.  While it wasn’t always looming over our shoulders, the dancing was still happening in the background; waiting for a weak moment to speed up the tempo, to make one of us feel weak, vulnerable, unsettled.  We did the best we could, right?

I think there was a time, and it probably was about four years ago, where the dancing pattern we are in now started.  I would talk to you about needing help with decisions, kids, money, day to day stuff.  I would talk, you would listen.  I would get frustrated and stop talking.  You waited me out, at least that’s how I felt/feel.  You waited until I could no longer take the awkward silence, the no talking.  I would break my silence, and everything would eventually go back to our normal dancing.  It’s odd now that I think about it.  I couldn’t stand living in the awkward silence, so I broke.  But there was still silence, just a different kind of silence.  It was the silent song of our dance. Our dancing pattern happened when, like every three or six months?  The dance always started and ended the same way. I feel like I tried over and over again.  Do you feel that way?  Like you tried over and over again?  I guess it doesn’t matter. 

We are still dancing.  Now we dance around each other.  We dance around talking, touching, feeling.  What happens when the dance ends? What happens when one of us stops dancing?  What if it’s you?  What if it’s me?  Does it look different or feel different?

Do we continue to live in the comfortable uncomfortableness that surrounds us daily because living in the comfortable uncomfortableness is easier than moving our lives into the unknown uncomfortableness.  Is that anyway to live?  How do we continue to avoid what is right in front of our faces? 

I feel like you are living in the shadows of the three wise monkeys; see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.  If you turn a blind eye to what is happening to us, you don’t have to worry about anything.  If you refuse to hear what I am saying over and over, you don’t have to worry about anything.  If you refuse to speak to me about what is happening to us, you don’t have to worry about anything. 

But I have a question.

What happens when one of us steps off the dance floor?

Spin cycle

I feel like rambling. My apologies.

So many different things circling in my brain. Kinda feels like a washing machine that is stuck on the spin cycle. I keep trying to break out of the cycle.

First and foremost is a dinner that is planned for tomorrow evening. It is with my sister and two friends. I am beyond fortunate to have these women in my world. It’s a shame my brain always gets in the way. I have given myself the title of “token fat friend” for the group. No one else gave me that, just me. And if anyone who doesn’t know us would see us out and about, they would easily pick me as the one that doesn’t quite fit with the group. Some may think that’s a good thing. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I will give the facts as I see them. Just facts, not my spin on the facts. I will spin those facts a bit later.

Facts: I am the largest of the group, I am probably the loudest of the group, I am the only one in the group with super short hair, I am the only one in the group with tattoos, I am the only one in the group that doesn’t exude confidence, I am the one in the group that will be slumped and slouched, I will eat less than anyone in the group, I am the only one in the group that swears like a sailor, I am the one in the group that looks at life a bit differently and has some very different views and opinions.

Those are facts. How my brain spins those facts is where the trouble starts. I have been worried about what I am wearing tomorrow evening for the last two weeks. What will make me appear smaller? What will make me fit in? What will everyone else wear? What if my tattoos are visible? Will everyone be embarrassed to be seen with me? Am I going to get another lecture about tattoos and how they aren’t feminine or whatever? I will do my make-up the best way I can in hopes to not look like a man. Hoping that the makeup will take away from a face that looks like a long horse face (a comment that my mother once made to me, and I can’t ever forget). I will cross my fingers in hopes my rosacea that I have gotten over the last two years will stay away tomorrow evening. If not, my cheeks, nose and forehead will appear blotchy and red, similar to a drunk person. I will sit with my back to the wall, facing out. This is for a multitude of reasons. First, my back fat will not show to those approaching from behind. It also helps when others are approaching the table that I would normally hug, because my seating choice makes it difficult to be hugged. Which means no arms/hands on the back fat, waist fat or hip fat. Of course, I will do my best to keep all fats controlled with spandex. But one can only wear so much spandex. While facing out, I get to watch the faces, stares, and reactions of others. The others in the group will share stories of travel and experiences I will never have. Again, due to seating choice I can observe and listen, waiting for the opportune time to make a smart-ass comment to deflect from what I am really feeling. That feeling would be inadequacy. A feeling I know well. People will also see me from the front, again due to choice seating. If viewed from behind, my super short hair reveals a neck area that has no definition either from the back or side due to a fat neck and double chin. People will be greeted by a smile. A smile that hides all the pain and doubts and insecurities. I will be the funny one, or at least attempt to be. I use humor to deflect from real feelings. Don’t ask me how my marriage is or how my daughter is unless you really want to know. Cause what I would like to tell you, well that shit ain’t pretty and you can’t handle the truth. I will scan the room, searching for those who are judging. I can tell who they are. The sideways glance that lasts a bit too long. Someone thinking or wondering what poor individual gets to wake up next to me in bed. And what the hell might that look like. If I resemble a bull dyke lesbian in full make-up, what must I look like first thing in the morning. Believe me, it’s horrific. And I don’t wear spandex to bed, so imagine that nightmare. People will come to the table we are sitting at because the others at the table are known. I will get introduced as the sister of one of the groups most well-known. I see the fleeting look of surprise, wonder and at times shock and horror cross people’s faces. How can that thing (meaning me) be related to the gorgeous, feminine, posh, woman? It’s at these times I will make it known we are only half-sisters. I got the bad half.

I will, of course, use the correct forks, use table manners that would make Emily Post proud. After all, while I might be a bull dyke lesbian looking thing, I’m not a complete cad. Now, pass the bread and let’s get this party started

A question


I asked you a question a few months ago. A question that was posed to me from an outsider.  The question I asked you was “what does taking care of me look like to you”.  I did not push you to answer. I asked occasionally if you had thought about it or if you had an answer for me.  It took a month for you to answer me and even then, it was because I was seeing the outsider and I don’t think you wanted to look “bad”.  Your answer was, “Difficult to answer, not sure how to answer.  Is it because I never did actually take care of you? Or never really thought about it. To take the time for your wants and needs.  Flowers to brighten your day, a card, a phone message to say I love you.  More decision making on my end to help end your stress.  To have answers for questions (not, I don’t know).” 

What has changed, in your opinion?  I would love to hear that answer from you.  From your lips, not written on a piece of paper or sent in an email or text.  Could you answer?  Would you answer?  

I started therapy, for me.  When I told you that I finally made an appointment you asked me, “Should I be worried?”  I would have to assume if you asked me that question, you were already worried.  Right?  You felt me changing.  You felt the distance that was created between us.  You had to.  People around us saw it and felt it.  Is it easy to ignore that feeling?  I can’t ignore it any longer. 

I fill my days being busy to keep the real from creeping in.  To fill the voids and the gaps with something, anything.  You have to realize that.   You have to see that.  The busier I am the less time for the awkward silence to ooze into all the empty spaces

You will always be a person that will hold a very special place in my heart and in my world. I will always love you, no matter how fucked up that sounds. I don’t want to replace all the memories we have. I want to keep those memories. I want to keep them safe, keep them happy, not destroy them with words of hate and feelings of…discontent, unhappiness, and loneliness.

Our house. Do I love it? Fuck yes, I love it. After almost 20 years, it has become what I had always hoped for. Our kids are comfortable coming and going, even as adults. Our grandkids know where to find their snacks and their favorite toys. That is what rips me apart the most. What about them? I see the way you look at each one of them. Your love shines through your eyes. I worry if we are no longer “us”, your relationship with them will change. That destroys me. But I can’t control that. I can’t control you or your actions.

If I ask you the same question today, “what does taking care of me look like to you”, what would your answer be?

What happens if I go away

Who will take care of cleaning?

Who will take care of cooking?

Who will take care of the wash?

Who will take care of paying the bills?

Who will take care of birthdays?

Who will take care of anniversaries?

Who will take care of holidays?

Who will take care of appointments?

Who will take care of ordering food?

Who will take care of getting groceries?

Who will take care of loading the dishwasher?

Who will take care of unloading the dishwasher?

Who will take care of the kids?

Who will take care of the grandkids?

Who will take care of giving support?

Who will take care of giving comfort?

Who will take care of giving love?

The world will continue to spin if I go away

gone

My girl left. She packed her car Sunday and moved back to drippy dick. Back to the place I have been paying rent for. I’m guessing this has been going on for at least a month, if not longer. Did she go to therapy, ever? Will she continue? Will this be the end of her?

She did leave us a litter box full of cat piss and shit. So there’s that.

It has to end

I can’t believe she did it to me again.  I mean, I can.  I suspected as much, or I wouldn’t have taken that drive yesterday.  I had my suspicions; I didn’t want them to be true.  But they are true.  My girl is back with him.  I probably started to get suspicious about a month ago.  I am assuming she went to her therapy as she was supposed to, but I won’t be able to verify that until the health insurance claims start rolling in.  And even then, I don’t know if I will be able to tell how many days she attended.  I figured she was smart enough to not call him from the cell phone I pay for.  I can, and do, check those records on a regular basis.  But there are so many other ways for them to be in contact with each other. 

 

She started to talk about old friends.  Friends that I hadn’t heard about in at least a year or more.  But I am trying to give her the benefit of the doubt.  And I was happy she was hanging out with friends.  She never brought the friends home, her excuse being the state of her room.  Okay, I get that.  But some of her old habits started to surface.  Not calling or texting if she wasn’t coming home for the night.  Not coming home after her therapy sessions were over.  But, again, I wanted to support her.  Make sure she knew how proud I was of her and that I knew she was struggling and hurting. 

 

Her birthday was the end of June.  I made sure everyone knew she needed gift cards.  She has no job, her savings is depleted.  Gift cards for gas, food, etc.  Now I feel like I duped everyone.  Did the gift cards get used on her or did they get used on him?  Is she really that dumb?  Not only that, but I have been paying half of her rent since May because she signed a lease with drippy dick and he threatened to sue her civilly if her half wasn’t paid.  Four months of paying half his rent.  Four months of paying her outrageously high car insurance (because she had so many violations.) Helping her with supplies for her cat, toiletries, the food she likes, a new mattress, new bedding.  Putting things I wanted to do in my house on hold because she moved home and the room I was using as a storage room while renovating another room, she now occupies. 

 

Oh, and I believe it was last week, she told me that one friend she talks about and supposedly was doing things with, had found an apartment with a boyfriend and they needed stuff for the apartment.  When we moved her away from drippy dick, we took the plate set, pots/pans and microwave because I bought them.  I scrubbed everything clean and packed them away in the event she ever needed them again.  She asked if she could give the items to her friend because they were desperate for household items.  Of course, I said yes.  I’m now willing to bet my house that those items are back in the apartment with drippy dick.

 

And I can’t forget that I spent hours filling out her disability paperwork, because it was just so overwhelming for her.  It is currently under medical review.  I also applied for state health insurance for her.  She told me that her therapist told her private insurance does not cover what state (basically welfare) health insurance covers.  And, since I want her to stay in therapy and get all the help possible, I did all the work.  She received her benefit card last week.  She was supposed to take it along to therapy and find out what could be done.  As of Friday, therapy was over for her. 

 

I couldn’t sleep well Saturday into Sunday.  I just had this feeling…………that feeling of something not being “right” with her. The feeling worked its way into every part of me.  I decided mid-morning on Sunday that I needed to drive by the place drippy dick rents.  I needed to see for myself.  Was her car there, or wasn’t it?  I realize there are many different scenarios that could have happened.  But only one happened.  Her car was there.  AND IT FUCKING KILLED ME.  I took a picture, so I had my proof.  I felt like I was going to throw up.  All the hope I had was gone for my girl. I am still numb.  I still can’t believe it; I don’t want to believe it.  I saw it.  No matter what her excuse is, I saw it.  I am starting to get pissed off and very angry.  

 

Now the question is, what do I do?  She came home Sunday early evening because the family was getting together for my mom’s (her grandmother’s) birthday Sunday evening.  I was cool towards her, but we all know I can act like a Tony award winning actress.  She tried to talk about therapy.  She was very loud, and I think was doing it so everyone could hear her and maybe pity her or something.  I told her to stop talking about it and it could be discussed later.  She left earlier than anyone else with the excuse she was going to her friend’s house.  She never came home last night, never sent a message or called.  As of right now, she still isn’t home.  She is once again treating my home like a Holiday Inn.  She has the bathroom and her room destroyed, again.  

 

It’s time. I know it’s time. It will probably be the single hardest thing I have done as a parent up until this point. I need to kick her out and that’s it. No more bills paid for her. I have to stop. She obviously didn’t hit rock bottom like I thought. I hate to see what rock bottom is for her.

Food, please and thank you

So, it’s 10:00 AM.  I have been at work since about 7:30 AM.  I have checked my email.  Nothing there for me to do.  I put six bottles of water in the conference room refrigerator.  I took two letters to the mailbox and put the flag up.  There have been no phone calls to answer.  I have heard one of the “professionals” in the office being passive aggressive and complaining about the temperature of the office (that person has a thermostat in their office).  I know one female and two males have gone potty.  I have shuffled and reshuffled the same papers around my desk about four times.  I have organized the wheat thins that I am eating into pairs.  I have hated myself 127,568 times for my many faults.  I am currently considering getting more wheat thins to eat, because……………why not.  If I do get more wheat thins, I will be able to hate myself like 54,789 more times before noon.  At noon it’s lunch time.  I have fresh, local black raspberries (my favorite) and vanilla Greek yogurt.  Totally healthy and good for me.  And as I eat that, I will PROMISE myself that this is it.  This is the time I make the change.  The time is now.  Stop procrastinating and making excuses.  How do I know that will happen?  Because it happens every day, at least once a day.  And then the rest of the day I eat my feelings, I eat my mistakes, I eat my unhappiness, I eat my loneliness, I eat my excuses, I eat my fear, I eat my inadequacies.  I eat.  The way I see my current situation, there is no reason not to eat.  I find my comfort eating, I find a long-lost friend eating, I find my emotional support when I eat, I find everything I need when eat.  Food isn’t going to leave me. I can’t disappoint food, I can’t hurt food.  Food gives my fat suit.  I have and will continue to pay dearly for that fat suit.  It will help me shut people out, let people see what they want, let people think what they want.  With my fat suit on, no one is going to get close enough to see the real me, to see the truth no one wants to see.  And, so you are aware, I did not get more wheat thins to eat.  I got goldfish.  I ate them in pairs.  

 

Ramblings

 

Please excuse me, but these are the ramblings of an old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman.

 

I can say those things about myself.  I am old.  I can’t say midlife anymore.  That would mean I have another 50+ years of living.  I’m fairly certain that isn’t the case.  I am fat.  Society and medicine tell me so.  Even when the people who say they love me don’t tell me the truth, I know I am fat.  Yes, I am scatterbrained.  How can’t I be?  Who isn’t these days?  A wannabe loved woman.  That is also me.  This is one of those catch 22’s and probably most of what my ramblings and deep dives will most likely lead back to.

 

Feels like so many things are just floating around “out there”.  My girl is in therapy.  At least I think she is.  She started May 18th.  It is from 8:30 AM to 3:30 PM, five days a week.  As far as I know she has gone every day.  No real way for me to check since she is over 18 and an “adult”.  The last three weekends she has basically been gone from the house starting Friday evening through late Sunday night.  I don’t like it.  She tells me she is with a friend and ends up spending the weekend.  Is she?  I don’t know.  Is she with drippy dick?  I don’t know.  Someone suggested putting a tracking device on her car.  I honestly did think about that.  But, I need to do my best to trust her until she gives me a reason not to trust her, right?  If, in the near future, I need to make a decision to kick her out of the house or cut her off, or whatever – it will be because she messed up.  I will not spy and/or trick her.  Don’t get me wrong.  I want to spy, I just feel like I can’t right now. I need to let her go and do her thing, whatever that is.  

 

A very dear friend recently lost her mother (as did my husband).  I haven’t talked to or seen my mom since Mother’s Day.  It’s such a messed-up relationship.  She won’t break down and call me, that would mean she is giving in.  And honestly, if/when I call her at this point I will be subjected to guilt.  I carry more than enough guilt around.  But, what if something happens to her and I haven’t talked to her in over a month?  The guilt would be tenfold and would stay with me forever.  I can’t understand why she doesn’t see or refuses to see that I do all I can for my family.  I work to continue to support my kids and grandkids in things they may need.  If I didn’t spend money on kids and grandkids, maybe I could stop working – at least fulltime.  She stopped working by now.  She stayed home.  I’m not 20 anymore.  I do get tired, I do have aches and pains, things aren’t always as easy as they used to be.  I would like her to understand that.  I have tried to tell her.  She says I’m just making excuses.  She actually sees her great-grandchildren, my grandchildren, more than me.  But she still plays the victim.  No one calls her, no one stops to see her, etc.  I want to be more sympathetic.  I just can’t be at this point.  As the saying goes, “too much water under the bridge”.  I shouldn’t live in the past, but the past made into this old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman.

 

I found another arthritis lump on one of the knuckles of my right middle finger.  I found one about 6 months ago on my right pointer finger.  My hands now look like my great-grandmothers did.  At least what I remember her hands looking like when I was 15 and she was 76.  I don’t like it.  My face is getting droopy.  My neck is gross and hanging, along with every other body part a woman doesn’t want to have hanging.  I feel completely unattractive and gross.  That’s the plain and simple of it.  I like one thing.  I like my eyelashes, and those are fake.

 

Do you ever tire of people saying they wouldn’t know what to they would do without you, that they couldn’t live without you?  I do.  If you feel that way about me, let me ask you a question.  What are you doing with me?  What are you doing with me in YOUR life?  Where do I fit?  Are you more afraid that I would leave and you would have to figure out that I actually did a hell of a lot for you?  Are you afraid to lose the comfort and convenience of me being around?  Is that fair?  I am a comfort and convenience for some of the most important people in my life.  At least I feel that way.  Old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman will always be here.  She always comes back, no matter what.  You don’t have to reciprocate, you don’t have to show love, you don’t have to talk to her, you don’t have to respect her.  Because the old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman isn’t worthy of more or better.  The old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman is reliable, convenient, easy, a doormat for everyone to wipe their dirt on and move on.  What happens when the doormat is taken away?  What do you do with your dirt?  Think about it.  The old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman wants just that.  I wannabe loved for me.  Just me.  Not because I have become a comfort and a convenience to have around.  Show me that love, tell me about that love, tell me why I should stay, don’t make me feel like a doormat or an afterthought.

 

The old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman says, “tag, you’re it.”

My Girl – Another Chapter

I apologize I’m advance. I try to read and re-read to catch errors. For some reason this one was too hard to re-read.

It’s been a little over a week since the last major upheaval with my girl. I still don’t think I am fully comprehending what happened. What I saw, what I heard, what I had to do.

She went back to him after the last incident. You know, the one where he drug her with his car and beat her again. She signed a six-month lease with him for a shit hole apartment in an old house. First floor was my girl and drippy dick, second floor an old lady and the third floor was drippy’s uncle (shocking) and miscellaneous other derelicts. 


The last week of April I could tell she was struggling. The messages and texts she was sending were…..too happy. I wasn’tsure if she was trying to convince me or herself that she was happy.  Throughout that week she messaged that she was going to stop at some point during the week and also over the weekend.  She didn’t come during the week.  

On Sunday, May 1st, I was outside painting a piece of furniture. My other half was doing miscellaneous yard work. My phone rang, it was her. As usual the feeling of “what now” mixed with fear and angst shot through me.  I answered to hear my girl and drippy screaming at each other.  I had to scream at the top of my lungs to get her attention and get her to hear me.  She was pleading and begging me to come get her out.  He was yelling at her; she was yelling at him.  She found messages he sent to other girls, again.  That started the fight, but it always turns into much more.  She was completely out of control.  He kept threatening to call the cops because she was using “his phone”, the phone he got for her when he put her on his plan.  She was screaming at him to stop touching her stuff.  I asked her if she thought he would talk to me.  She asked him and I heard his response “of course I will talk to your mom”.  I can still hear his smug ass voice.  I said, “Hello, drippy dick (but actually used his name).  We are coming to get “my girl” and all her things.  This situation needs to end for your well-being and her well-being.”  He stopped me from continuing.  Drippy said to me, “please don’t pretend to care about my well-being, that is just disrespectful.”  I said, “Oh, I forgot you are all about respect.”  I couldn’t help it.  I asked if they could please stay away from each other until we get there.  He assured me that they wouldand hung up.

She called me back.  She was hysterical; dry heaving, crying, screaming.  I told her to stay on the phone with me.  We were getting ready to leave.  Just as a side note, it’s about a 35–40-minute drive to get to her.  I kept telling her to go to her car and get away from him.  Just sit in her car and ignore him.  She said she would.  I still heard them yelling and screaming.  

We are in the car headed to her. She is still on the phone, I have her on Bluetooth. She tells me she called the police.  I was actually shocked.  She was in her car waiting.  She was crying, wailing in emotional and physical pain.  Repeating over and over that she didn’t want to be alive, she can’t do this anymore.  This was the FIRST TIME my other half has had the experience of hearing her like this.  It’s not a fun thing to experience.  But part of me was glad, if I’m being honest. He needed to hear what I have heard for the last four years.  

She told us the cops were there.  I told her to stay in her car until they come and talk to her.  She is still hysterical.  I hear her talking to the cop.  She has her edge of ghetto girl in her voice and words.  I hate it.  The cop is trying to calm her.  It’s not helping.  There are two cops.  They go to talk to drippy.  She is screaming at drippy.  So much is being said and yelled it’s hard to hear everything.  At one point is sounded like drippy told the cops he didn’t want her there, and she quickly yelled back that she is on the lease and has every right to be there.  Good for her.  She was still yelling at drippy to stop touching her things and yelling at the cops to get him to stop.  I understood her side.  She wasn’t allowed to go into the apartment to keep things civil, but he could start removing her things.  

One cop stayed with her, one with.  I asked her if I could talk to the cop, he agreed.  I explained we were on our way and that I didn’t feel she would be safe if they left.  He asked when we would get there, at that point it was another 20 minutes.  I hear my girl yelling about one of drippy’s relatives now being there.  It was the uncle that lives on the third floor.  The yelling and screaming continue until we get there.  She was continually saying she wanted to die, she wanted to go to the hospital, she’snot going to make it, she can’t do it anymore.  Drippy was playing the victim card with the cops that were there, she felt completely defeated.  

We finally get there after what seemed like hours.  She was in the apartment getting things, there was a copy inside and one outside.  We talked to the cop outside, he was very nice and obviously saw through Drippy’s attempt to be the victim.  My girl had her car packed full, and there was more of her stuff in the yard.  We started loading up, the cop helped us.  While loading up Drippy’s mom showed up.  Just as cynical and condescending as her son.  She made sure the cop heard that she was at church and her son was just blowing up her phone and she had to leave church early.  I can only assume it is a church that allows illegal drug use, carrying weapons illegally and beating women.  We introduced ourselves, this is the first time we met or talked.  She went into the apartment to console her son.

Drippy tried numerous times to get me or my other half to engage with him.  We both refused and ignored him.  At one point my girl wanted me to come onto a porch area, which leads into the kitchen of the apartment.  There are a few steps up into the kitchen and a man door at the top of the steps.  I was standing on the top step, refused to go inside.  But I could hear her and would know if anything was happening.  Drippy walked by, noticed me and used his foot to slam the door on my face.  He made comments to my other half, all to antagonize him into a verbal or better yet a physical confrontation.  

We have basically everything in the cars.  The cat was the last thing.  My girl was maybe a 7 out of 10 in the hysterics.  My people are in the yard area, his people are in the porch area.  Cops are basically in the middle.  Conversations are being had about Drippy not being allowed at our home.  He wanted the same for my girl, but whoopsie! She’s on the lease fuckhead.  She can come anytime she wants.  I loved hearing the cop tell him that.  Drippy feels he is very smart in regards to civil and criminal laws.  Drippy didn’t like it.  So, he says to the cop that he would like to discuss a matter in private with him, because he wants my girl arrested for Domestic Violence because he has a scratch on his hand from her.  And BOOM.  She is set off.  So I said, if that’s the case then my girl will press charges for Domestic Violence as well.  That is when Drippy’s mom stepped in and told Drippy they will discuss it and if he feels strongly about it, he can contact the cop later.  But my girl is completely out of control at this point.  She is now screaming and yelling about $500 worth of dab shit that she just bought for him, and she wants it back, it’s in his car.  He refuses to go in his car – for obvious reasons.  She refuses to leave; I can’t do anything with her.  I can’t get through to her at all.  

At this point I have no choice but to manhandle her.  I basically have her in a bear hug, walking her out of the yard and to the car.  She broke free a few times, throwing things, yelling and screaming.  Drippy keeps asking about his phone.  She wipes the phone, restoring it to factory and I hand it to the cop to make sure it is returned to Drippy.  She still will not leave willingly.  Still screaming it’s not fair he gets to play the victim after all he has put her through.  I have her wrapped tight in my arms.  I tell my other half to open the passenger door and then start my car.  I get her into the seat, he has to get her the rest of the way in and shut the door.  I am in the driver seat and as soon as her door shuts, I put it in drive and fly out of the alley.  She is thrashing, pounding on the dash, the windows, throwing her body front and back.  I was terrified she was going to jump out of my car.  Oh, I should add that my other half drove her car.

I try extremely hard not to cry in front of her.  I couldn’t hold it back.  I was so done.  I reached my limit.  Nothing I said was right, so I just had to stop talking.  She eventually held my hand.  Slowly began to calm down.  I think her body was just done; her mind was done.  She was completely spent.  She has no more fight in her.  

I call her one brother on the way home.  He can relate well to her.  He tells her he will be at home when we get there and will stay as long as she needs him.  I also call a friend who is an officer and ask him to come to the house and talk to her about the domestic violence side of things.  He agrees to.

We get home.  No one really knows what to do or how to act.  We talk to her about going to the hospital to commit herself.  She just isn’t sure that’s what she wants.  Yes, we can commit her.  She will answer all the questions correctly and be released in about two hours.  And I take a chance of ruining her being safe with us at home.  

It’s eventually decided she will stay home.  She wants to be in her bed, in a safe place, with her cat.  I take Monday off to be home with her.  We talk quite a bit.  With her beside me I set her up for an outpatient day hospital program.  She agreed to this.  Five days a week, 7 hours a day.  She is scheduled for in-take on Monday, May 9th.  We have to help her make it 7 days.  

Throughout the day on Monday, I get her a new phone number.  I call the landlord for the lease; I have to leave a message.  I get no call back.  

Tuesday, I have to go to work, pulling out of the driveway is the hardest thing ever.  But she promises me she will not hurt herself.  Oh, shit.  I should mention that while my girl and drippy were fighting, before anyone got there, she was cutting herself with a scissors.  He actually told the officers that he “eventually” took it from her for her own safety.  E-V-E-N-T-U-A-L-L-Y.  

Anyway, I end up talking to the landlord, she is fine with releasing Hannah from the lease if Drippy agrees to sign a new lease in his name only.  She said she would talk to him.  My girl sends me a text, she forgot a motorcycle jacket and a picture of her cat that she took, edited and spent quite a bit of time on.  I get Drippy’s mom’s number from my girl and text her asking if I send a box with a prepaid label, would she send the items.  She said she would need to check with her son.  Before she responds about the items, she asks me if I am going to pay the rest of the lease or pay for the phone that he bought for her on installments.  WHAT? We had a back-and-forth text conversation for a bit.  Nothing was resolved.  

Called the landlord back on Tuesday. She answered.  Explained the situation.  She said she would talk to Drippy and see if he would be willing to sign a new lease in just his name.  This will shock you; he did not agree to this.  And he let the landlordknow if my girl didn’t pay her part, he would sue her civilly.  I fully believe that he would do this.  The last thing she needs is to be served with paperwork from him.  So, I am paying her half of the rent for the next three months.  Sent Drippy’s mom a text advising her, along with a picture of the letter and check I sent to the landlord.  Apparently, that isn’t enough for them.  Now Drippy also wants me to pay or the phone that HE bought, that is in HIS name and doesn’t have my girls name anywhere on the paperwork.  It just never ends.

I’m backtracking here a bit.  The evening of May 8th, my girl gets a call from the therapy group she is going into treatment with.  They are short staffed and cancelled her in-take for Monday, May 9th.  I did confirm this.  The next available in-take date being May 20th.  Awesome.  She got yet another call last week to cancel the May 20th appointment, again due to being short staffed. She actually stood up for herself and said no, she needs this, needs to get it started.  She had to settle for an in-take via zoom on May 18th.  My fingers are crossed this pans out and she follows through with it.  

I have no way of knowing if she is contacting him.  I check phone records and don’t see any of his numbers. But there are so many other ways.  I know that.  I ask her almost daily if she has talked to him, she says no.  There are days she wants to.  I can imagine after almost 5 years it would be difficult.  

I now have to figure out how to get my girl on disability.  I can’tkeep paying for everything.  Her car insurance is $280 a month, plus the rental payments, plus gas (which she needs to drive to her therapy and doctor appointments) and then there will be all the co-pays for the actual treatment and medication.  I have heard attempting to get disability take months, if not years.  I am still paying off her last commitment. And of all times, I decide to take a new job, and a 15k yearly pay cut.  

Anybody have any advice? I did contact a lawyer and got some basic information.  She has to apply, she will be rejected, she will have to appeal, will be rejected and then we have to get a lawyer.  We are now working on getting all her medical records to send along with the disability claim. This is not an easy task.

None of this is easy.

Okay

I’m confused.  I’m torn.  I’m trying.  I’m failing.

My girl moved out (again), yesterday.  She was home for 6 days.  She caused disruption, angst, turmoil, and a flood of emotions I can’t begin to describe.  I say she caused it.  That makes me feel guilty.  Did she cause it or did her disorder cause it?  Or is it both? How do I separate that?  How do I separate her from her disorder?  Can I separate it?  As much as I tell her that she can’t let her disorder define her; I feel like that is what I am doing.  

When I think of my girl, the first thing I think of, and feel is chaos.  I no longer think of my little pink princess.  I hate that.  

How do I know when I have done enough for her?  I don’t think I have.  Should I be making appointments for her to psychiatrists and therapists? Should I be picking her up, taking her to appointments, watching her walk inside, waiting in the parking lot until she is finished and then take her back to him?  Should I take her to another state?  Will distance help?  Should I stop working to care for her?  How far do I go?  How much is enough?

I feel myself breaking a bit more each day.  I get annoyed at things I wouldn’t have a year ago.  I don’t like it.  I drink too much, and I eat too much.  Why am I so weak?  Why can’t I get a grip and control both?  I need to feel in control of something.  With everything else that is happening around me, why do I sabotage myself by doing things that I know are not healthy for me?  Yes, the drinking makes me forget for a bit; makes me fake happy, makes it easier to pretend I’m okay.  The food is my comfort, as fucked up as that is.  

I’m not okay.  

I AM NOT OKAY, but my girl is worse.