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do not pass go, do not collect $200.00

so, this is my mom's house. more accurately, a for sale sign, in front of my mom's house. see that door there in the background? I feel like if I sit there long enough, and stare long enough, or if I look away and look back right at the right moment, that I'll see there standing there in the windowpanes. my grandmother would watch as we drove away, and we'd always beep as we went down the road... and of late, my mom had started to watch us - or at least me, but us I'm sure - drive away too.

as I say this, there is much beeping on the road down below our apartment windows.

it's empty. emptying out. just big things like a table and a couch and a piano, and three big oak hutches that make up an entertainment center. think of the house where your parents live now, or the last time they moved... only now, instead of rearranging or packing or wistfully poring over old photo albums from the back of a cabinet, make it feel like it all got ripped away and that you're kind of in a shrine. only it's not good sometimes.

I tried to stay there for a while, on the couch, it was silent, and good for a minute, and then suddenly I had to run out. the couch where I've napped and stayed and cried and loved and talked from, across the room where both my parents have sat. since they set up the living room like that, it had stayed that way forever (since). all of a sudden it's all uncomfortable and different and scary. she's gone, it's an empty house, already like it's someone else's because it's just not hers anymore.

a confession of sorts, I have decided to go back on wellbutrin. I've been off it for a couple of months now (3? 4?) and I just need to rule out whether or not it's going to help. I know, I know, this is going to take time and it's going to be hard and I can't go looking for it to be all better. I know all of that, and I'm stating it as such because so many people are so quick to tell me that as an alcoholic, I will be prone to look for a quick fix. fine. I don't want to not feel anything or not go through whatever the hell it is I need to be going through - it's just that I want to come out the other side of it without putting a shotgun in my mouth. which, I'm not going to go like, do, or anything, but I've sat here on this futon (that hurts my back) in between screaming, yowling fights with raf and heaving, debilitating sobs and think about it sometimes. not about killing myself, but about how I used to think about how when people tried to kill themselves, that it was so sad, and that if they jsut would have hung on and waited it out, that how they felt would have changed at some point, because it always does. and how they could have looked back and been like, damn. good thing I didn't kill myself. and now, I understand how it's not like that at all.

I'm so sad. all the time. and when I'm not sad, I'm so fucking angry I can't even see straight. at everyone. about everything. I've got a fuse shorter than my pinky-toe nail and believe me, it's an itty bitty little nail. finances are straightening out, mostly because of the house, and as all the debt is suddenly about to loom to a close, I realize how little I really need. stuff-wise. money-wise. it's all bills bills bills all the time, and in another six weeks or so it will just be the apartment and the car. and like, groceries and stuff. amazing. so an end to that is a relief, but it's like the last get out of jail free card, like, ever. like like like. who gives a fuck.

the movie of the last week in hospice in my head is starting to, very rarely and with much mental force, starting to be replaced with better images. like someone said with my dad, eventually, the death won't be the thing you remember all the time. you won't forget, they said, but it won't be the automatic thought. I had this dream, a few days before she died, and she was holding me, in a hug, with my head on her chest (more of the expanse under her neck than her actual chest, like, the bone part, which was always kind of tan and warm) and she had on one of those soft nightshirt things she always wore, just so, so familiar and right, and she was holding me in the spot I always was, and she was just like, I have to go soon, you know that, right baby? and I was all, it's okay mom, I love you, and it wasn't sad at all, and it's just a couple of fractured moments, like when you wake up and then fall back asleep for a little while and everything is brief and vivid and you wake up like, wow, I just had these weird dreams... it was like that. only I woke up, and I could feel her, the softness of the shirt and the warmth of her skin and the breastbone and the way she would just hug me like that, holding me for a second, to this day. I always got into the hospital bed with her, always. and I kind of couldn't at hospice, so I pulled the recliner chair up close to it and it made it like I was there in the bed, kind of.

part of me is like, feeling all of this is healthy, and it is, this is the right part. the coping part. not the part where I want to break up with raf and jump out the window, that's not the okay part, and it's hard because I don't want to pull away from the part where things just take their course... but it's just horrible. I do okay for a few days and then I can't really leave the house much, if I have even close to nothing to do I come home and just lay down. domestic stuff is easy, like cooking mostly, but everything else is like this chore that I can't bear to handle.

I'm writing all the time, in my head mostly.

there's some stuff that's good that I'll go dig up. stay tuned, I guess.


postcards from the edge

I can't remember the last time I was up at 3:30a