Stressing/coping

I should be frazzled, but strangely, I'm not.

It's been one of those rough WTF kind of weeks.  Alden's last day of school, him getting beat up, and the police department.  Luiz's cousin is visiting tomorrow, Leah and Chris's housewarming party is on Saturday.  The foot still hurts like a motherfucker, the weather is still making me want to curl up and die.  Irv woke me at 6 am, frantic, begging the use of my car, since the tie-rod on his truck broke. The wheel essentially just fell off, as he was pulling out of the driveway.  No car today, no car tomorrow.  Worried about not having a car on Saturday, to drive to Tom's River.  No Irv to go to this party with me (more on that later).

My mother is complicating everything.  In a nutshell, the woman feels that everyone in the world has been put here to serve her in some way.  That, I sit in my house all day, waiting for a phone call, to rush over there, and fulfill some need.  In fact, she said to Alden "what the fuck is she so busy with, all she does is sit at home, on the computer, all day." Because that's what she thinks I do.  When she calls and tells me that all I do is sit on my ass all day, demands to know why I haven't stopped over, when she finds out that I have not been sitting on my ass all day... when she gets just a brief snapshot of the truckload of bullshit going on in my life, she simply slams the phone on me.  So empathetic, and sensitive, she is.  Truly a loving and heartfelt woman, this.  Her slamming the phone is a blessing, though. Means I don't have to deal with her bullshit for awhile.  Hopefully a long while.  Living 10 blocks away is too close sometimes.

This party is another sticking point.  I quickly agreed to going, I love Leah and Chris, and jump at the opportunity to hang out.  Throughout the week, I find out that this isn't some barbecue.  This is a by-invite-only Event. 75+ people, theye're registered somewhere, for gifts. There's going to be a tent, porta-potties, and the event is catered.  Cue social anxiety.  No Irv going?  Amp up social anxiety.  I really want to go, though.  So, I'm feeling anxious too, about the aspect of not going, because of Irv's truck.

I'm cool with Luiz's cousin visiting, been looking forward to meeting her. Mildly freaking out about the house, like I do with any overnight guest, especially one that's not been here before.  It'll be a relaxing evening, once it's here, after all the cooking and cleaning is covered.

I'm managing not to freak out though.  I'm getting through it.  One hastily dashed off note, one "on-the-fly" plan change, one phone slamming, at a time.

Love books, hate itching.

Just started Wolves of The Calla, Dark Tower Book 5, on audiobook.  I listen to audiobooks the way some people watch movies.  I clear a block of time, slap on the headphones, and listen.  I must play a clicky game, to appease my micron length attention span, but otherwise, it's just me and the book.

George Guidall is reading this one, whom I adore. He read the first one, and he read American Gods, and probably some others I like, but after listening to Frank Mueller read, George is taking some getting used to.  Mueller literally created the characters, for me, in some sort of dimensional space, that I can't get just by reading alone. He made Eddie's voice, and the rest, but mostly Eddie's.  I love George, though.  I love audiobooks. Escapism at it's finest.  Can't wait till Luiz listens to GRRM's books with me.  I've been wanting him to read them for years, but I have better luck getting him to listen with me.  We're currently listening to American Gods together.  It's good quality time.


Other than quality audiobook time, I am having a shiteous few days.  My foot is insanely painful. I got bit by a bug last night, and it's turned into this 3" across hard round bruisy spot, with a jet black hard center, that itches, and burns.  Benadryl is helping.  Because my foot hurts, I've been favoring it, and that's making my lower back ache, from the weird walking.  The weather is making my chest cave in.  Grumble, bitch moan. My mother is furious at me for not fawning over my stepdad for Father's Day.  I would rather stick pins in my eyes then "honor" that man for any kind of holiday.  Especially one where he's supposed to be looked at as a good father-figure.  Hah.

Slices of life.

I stepped on a Ninja today, and paid dearly with my heel.

I love dramatic sentences.  I was poking around in the pantry looking for pecans for Irv's rum Father's Day cake, and was about to overbalance. I stepped down with my full weight on my left leg, behind me, and stepped hard on the blade of the food processor.  The cut is deep, through the pad of my heel, and over an inch long, curving up around the side of my foot.  It's bad, but not life altering.  I can't put weight on that heel, or else it pops open and bleeds more. The things I hate:  Launching into an asthma attack moments after it happened. Extreme pain caused me to be shocked.  That was scarier and worse than the actual injury, which is just a cut.  The other thing I hate is people making a big fuss.  It's a fucking cut. Yes, it's on my foot, yes I'm diabetic, but I can take care of myself, and it doesn't slow me down.  I hopped up, after the asthma subsided, and the bleeding went away, cleaned it, bandaged it, and went on with my day.  No fuss. I hate the fuss.

I was thinking about friends, the other day.

It's nice to barbecue with friends, and have them cook the steak just like you like it, without really even asking...because that's how they like it.  That's chemistry at work.  People watching with friends, sitting in comfortable silence, that really is comfortable. Speaking in codes only you understand. Whole conversations without saying a word, just some elbow nudges and looks.  Sometimes I feel so hermity and introverted, but sometimes, I really need people.

I've been reveling in friends, and friendships lately.

Habits

This was something of an action packed weekend.  Most of Saturday was spent puttering around the house getting things done.  Not quite hardcore Saturday cleaning, but like checking things off the ole to-do list.  Dishwasher repair man came, lots of laundry, shopping for today, general productivity. Lots of spending time with Alden hashing out, forgiving and discussing Friday's episode.

Last night it was my intention to have a relaxing late dinner, with a little sangria, then get moving around 11, and do some early prep for today's visit.  We were to bring a Greek salad, a key lime pie, cookies, homemade pickles, and DeMarco's pizza bread.  Normally, I am so on top of that shit, I would have had everything done, and ready to whisk off to Toms River.  Last night, I was so burned out from a trying, anxious, horrible week, that I really wanted a relaxing evening under the stars, with one drink.  Not drinking, just a glass of sangria to sip.

Then, at 10 pm, as we were finishing up the beverage, and idly munching on some pretzels, preparing to go back in and start mincing onions, a friend showed up.  Dressed to the nines.  She knows we hit the bar every Saturday and was ready to rock and roll.  She hung out with us, finishing the sangria, and acting kind of antsy.  I really wasn't dressed, but we were like "sigh, hell, let's go." It was close to midnight, and we figured a few beers wouldn't ruin the night.  I still really didn't have a mind to drink.  There were only a few people there, all friends, no strangers, and the moment we walked in, there were shouts, cheers, and the drinks started pouring in, literally.  They bought me a shot. The bartender poured two fingers of Jim Beam.  They bought me a beer. Then fronted me another.  We bought a round.  Another shot.

Fast forward to Last Call, and I was edging from tipsy to drunk.  Then, we resumed sitting outside, and Bill moseyed over after he was done closing up, and sat with us for a while, chatting.  Somehow, I found myself with another drink in hand.  There's always a little rational tiny voice in my head, when I'm drinking.  It only gets obliterated when I move from drunk to fucked up. It coldly says "just one beer...that's all you were gonna have, not shots. what the fuck."  I woke up feeling extremely hung over, and saying the same thing to myself out loud.

I used to be a beer at dinner, once a week maybe, kind of girl.  I'd only really have more, once every few months, and then we'd really deliberately tie one on.  Never thought of myself as a heavy drinker. Now we have the bar, and all the culture that surrounds it.  Good friends there, the happiness of walking into a place and everyone going "YAY YOU FINALLY GOT HERE!!"  It seriously feels good.  It's always awesome to be accepted, loved, part of something.  It's just sometimes difficult, when that all comes with copious whiskey.  Once every few months has evolved into every Saturday night. Nursing a few beers all night evolved into "a shot of Jim for me, and whatever my friend over here wants!".  All this, plus the beer with dinner after a particularly rough weekday.  Sometimes, especially now, with all the current bullshit anxieties with the house...that rough day is two or three.

After mulling all this over, I've decided that it's fine to cut loose once a week.  It's good for Irv, who needs the bar environment, and male friends he can sort of hang with.  It's good for me, both for the tarot business, and just for social reasons. It's nice to have acquaintances.  Good food, great people.  It's decidedly all around a positive environment.  Moderation is it, here. I feel like I want to reign in the hard booze, and go back to nursing the beer.  I've also decided to cut the weekday drinking.  No need. I enjoy the taste of good beers, exploring and discovering new things, but my leisurely sipping at a bomber of stout is a Sunday thing.  Both the Saturday night over-indulgence, and the once a week beer evolving into a 3 nights a week beer, worry me, on different levels.

No words.

I am so incredibly furious right now.  I'm still shaking, in fact. I happen to be right here at my machine, so I write.

Alden just lied to me, right to my face.  He had a lousy day at school, where he got picked on, and bullied.  We talked for two hours, about it, I gave up most of my afternoon to sit here and counsel him through more of the school bullshit.  He cried, I got misty.

The tears are flowing right now, in fact, but different ones. Angry, hurt ones.  The ones earlier were empathy.

I hate being linked to people, I hate caring about people so much that I literally feel their pain and cry when they hurt.  I hurt when he's hurt, so profoundly, it's like living through it all over again.

So, back to now.

We talked.  He cheered up, a little, he went outside to play.  He came in from outside in high spirits, and wanting to go play with his friend Matt.  I was about to set him free, when I realized he had chores to do, and he still hadn't journaled.  Journaling is something we agreed upon, to help him get his mind together, and maybe sort out his personal issues, feelings, and just overall improve upon his writing skills.  He agreed to do it voluntarily, and I agreed to not -actually- reading it, just checking it briefly for length-neatness.

He's been screwing off, about it for the past month.  His writing skills, and somehow his communication skills have been dropping off, as a result.  I see real improvements when he sticks to journaling, and the opposite, when he doesn't.

I reminded him that he's not going out till he gives me a few pages.  A few, not the usual one, but a few to catch it up, since he's been neglecting it. I figured, no better time than now to sort out his school issues.

We were sitting here, I was going through my iTunes making a bluesy relaxing mix, chatting with him idly about songs, as he (I thought) was writing.  After about a half hour, he declared that he was done.

He showed me 3 pages, with the date 6-11 on them, ending with a half-page titled "Bernard" which seemed to be about today, but the pages before that, he sort of flipped past real fast, shielding the book with his body.  I grabbed the book out of his hand, and said, "what are you showing me? Let me look closer, I promise I won't read it."

He'd erased the dates on the past two pages, from a few days ago, and put today's date on them, in order to pass them off.  He only wrote one poorly slapped together half page.

Yeah, I fucking slapped him.  I went into a blind fucking rage.  Not because of the writing, never that.  The lie.  The easiness, and pettiness of the lie.  After all we talked about today. After all the lying he's done in the past, just when I've begun to let my guard down, and start trusting him again, now this, this shit again.  He gets away with a lot of shit, around me. He knows I'm easy going. Hell, I even defend him against Irv much of the time.  I never get angry.

I never hit him, not even when he was a baby. Nothing makes me lose my shit faster than being lied to.  He stole my laptop and hid it, running, under his blankets recently.  It was scorching hot when he retrieved it for me...but he was honest, and I addressed it, and let it go.  This?  For this, I suppose we're both lucky I got a hold of myself, because sitting here right now, I can still envision myself kicking his ass all over the room, swinging, hitting, shoving, whatever.  Doing damage.  A real honest-to-god blind demonic rage, where all I want to do is hurt, hurt this...thing that lies to my face.  I want to send him away, I want to get rid of this thing that hurts me, that can lie so easily, this...person that does the one thing that I abhor, and so easily.

This is my boy, my child, my only blood relative.  My essence, a small part of me. He is my heart.  The absolute light of my life, the person's company that I long for when I wish most people would leave me alone. This boy that I love so much, that when he gets picked on in school, I shed real tears for, that I give the most of myself to....I have never had such love and hate for one person in my whole life. Never as much love, and at times like this, never as much hate.

I'm sitting her crying my eyes out.  I am so incredibly angry, and hurt. It's almost too big for me to address, too big for me.  Writing isn't even helping me, at this juncture.  My hands are cold, my face and chest are hot.  I can't stop these tears from spilling down my face, and soaking the neck of my shirt. My guts, my insides, maybe my fucking womb...hurts. My insides are churning and twisting, like a fist is grabbing and pulling me apart inside.  I want to go lay down and put my face in a pillow, like a child, and just sob.