April 15th, 2011


a strange place

I just got on e-mail after an absence of a week or more. My brother and his wife had both sent me e-mails. About a week ago my mother's second husband of the last twenty years murdered her and committed suicide. I need to write this down and now I need to get offline and do I don't even know what.

I am sitting here thinking I should turn comments off on this because I don't even know if I would read them but I admit I desperately want to know that people are reading this and to know there is some response out there. That's all.

(no subject)

It only occurred to me later that, given my recent trend of posts, my last one might read like a fragment of craziness from a fracturing brain. But it's not. It really happened. I don't have any details yet. I gave my brother my phone number to call me; I suspect he's been at the funeral this afternoon. His wife said it was planned for today.

I haven't talked to my brother in fifteen years. It was the same with my mom. With my brother though, it had nothing to do with him, just with my defects of character.

I called my doctor--who is actually a nurse, but no less capable for that, and she set me up with a one-off scrip for Ativan. I went and filled it and took two, so while the tone of the last post reflected shock, the tone of this one probably reflects that I'm a sedated robot. I couldn't stop crying and raging. The professional social worker types I reached out to were not so much good at the helping thing and I realized I was just going to be flinging all my rage at them and also the shelter furniture. So the Ativan.

Social worker A wanted me to talk to him and "process" the news. I managed to not explain that his face is apparently incapable of emotional expression and his voice of any emotional inflection. Social worker B told me that since I "no choice" but to stay in the shelter for the moment, I should distract myself.

The idea of drinking crossed my mind but I pushed it out. I just watched two women, who are supposed to be sober as a condition of returning to a recovery housing program, get wasted on booze and crack. Their example is still resonating as a disincentive.

I'll be going back to the shelter shortly. I tried to think of other options, including getting in my car and driving to Virginia to see my brother, but that's just a thought. I don't know what the point would be. I don't know that my appearance in his life would add anything positive. When it comes to family, I'm a loser. Friends and family. In the shelter, the women think I'm an angel. I'm kind to strangers because I can walk away whenever I want. I set the terms. With family, friends, I guess I'm afraid of entanglement, darker emotions, commitment.

Self-analysis for dummies. I'm glad Will's married and has a wife who's obviously capable of giving him emotional support. He was always the normal one. I don't have a good handle yet on the scope of his reaction--I don't even know how close he was or wasn't with my mom.

I never liked David, my mom's second husband. He seemed like a man with a stingy soul. I don't know yet what his motives were.

Just some stream of consciousness before I turn in for the day. And a brief soak in the kind vibes you all send. I need to hold a cat. A dog even. There should be something between a petting zoo and a eherapeautic spa, where you can just walk in off the street and spend 30 minutes playing laser tag with kittens, or catnap next to a big shaggy dog. In the meantime I will make do feeding pigeons. And tomorrow I'll walk down to the water and feed the gulls again. I never knew until my last visit that they could hover in the air in front of you, wings beating aerobically, and catch bread in their mouths just the way a trained seal catches fish. Talented nutty squawking things.