Ok. I freely admit that I have avoided the various David Bowie tributes like the plague. How can they pay tribute to a man who, in my mind, is still alive? It’s offensive!
Then we have the Trump inauguration. Which means his run fir POTUS wasn’t some huge, unfunny joke.
And then my Nikita dies. The kitten that I got to keep me company when a cruel judge gave my son’s abisive dad 2 weeks in July and 2 weeks in August — which was used the first year to “fatten” our son up and given up the 2nd year. Either way, as I cried myself to sleep, worrying abput the various abuses my son’s sad and girlfriend at the time were doing, it was my autumn colored Nikita (Russian female of Nicholas, my son’s name) who dried my tears on her fur and lulled me to sleep with her purring.
Ema was there, too, my tuxedo girl, 2 years older but dyong of thyroid cancer 15 says after Nikita.
And that’s how I spent my first 2 months of the year: inauguration; crying and carrying my dead cat down tbe hallway to the trash conpactor because I had nowhere to bury her; and repeating the event 15 days later with Ema.
It’s not gotten any easier to write / type fast on a phone. And I’m trying to get out my autobiography: the drugs, the Pro Dom, the years I spent trying to get my dad to love me.
We had two cats die within sixteen days of one another. Nikita in January, Ema in February.
Our therapist went on permanent maternity leave and suddenly the replacement therapist couldn’t fit us in her schedule. So why did she say that she could see us? I was going Thursday morning and my son Friday after school. First new therapist switched my son to Wednesday, his only early day off but with getting up at 6am, school, therapy, getting home at 7pm, homework just didn’t fit — which I’d said would happen. My Thursday mornings became Monday mornings, but Monday is just a bad day because I know that my weekends with my son are limited and a strong depression hits me Monday. Was that the last weekend before my son decides I’m not cool, or that his friends are cooler?
So we stopped going.
I’ve been reading books about drugs (“Fall to Pieces”, by Mary Forsberg Weiland; “Not Dead & Not for Sale”, by Scott Weiland) and the time that I was using and… I know that I would never use while my son is living at home; honestly, I probably never will have my goddess heroin in me again — but if I had to state that, it would be harder to shut that voice off. That, “Once is ok” voice. So I tell myself that I’ll be able to in a decade, in 8 years…
I’d love to find a visual artist who could help me with my tarot deck. I’m not sure why it’s so hard. Maybe because I can’t offer money?
Then there’s the story I thought my ex had completely deleted: I had floor plans; lists of characters including date of birth; date of death (& reason); relationship to other characters; etc. I had an outline, etc. Now I’ve got a few notes, but maybe it’ll be enough to write The Great American Novel my dad always referred to (still trying to please my dad. Pathetic.).
Yesterday, Monday, 27 March, as my birthday. My grandma guilt tripped me so I guilt tripped my son into seeing my dad. (Christianity anditta Catholicism come from Judaism, so we have been using guilt thousands of years before the Catholics.). Unfortunately, I had a cold and missed the Birthday celebration which went on without me. Odd.
Maybe next year I’ll be included in my birthday celebration