Even
thought she's soon-to-be-an-ex sister-in-law, who knows who much longer
she's going to torment everyone. My brother is now in therapy, and this
week's discussion with his therapist is along the lines of, "I worked 15
hour days so she could stay home, how horrible of a husband was I? And
why does my kid hate me?"
Additionally, the YentaBeast is such a cruel
asshole, she informed my brother (who converted to Judaism for her, so
they could marry in the temple) that he's to give their kid "Xmas
gifts." Which I don't understand the rationalization for that at all--he
converted. He's a Jew. His kid is a Jew. He gives his kid Hanukkah
gifts. End of story! And I guess therein shows she never looked at herself as part of our family, or us as part of hers. We all have been strangers and outsiders to her. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
So two nights ago, he brought his daughter flowers for Hanukkah (as YB dictated that he not bring any gifts for the first night, as his daughter would be visiting him this weekend, and whatever gifts, XMAS GIFTS, should be given then. And his daughter's response was one of utter disgust that he'd give her FLOWERS for a Hanukkah gift.
And there was something worrisome in the last couple days, my brother asking my sister if he should get something for the YentaBeast for Hanukkah. And sis replied something to the effect of:
1. No.
2. If he's planning or even thinking about getting back with her, my sister is done with HIM.
And about #2, I find that to be more bluster than reality, because the reality IS that she will just keep helping, because that's the outward manifestation of the damage done to her, to be programmed to be "the care giver," as well as being the one to suffer the brunt of the chaos of everyone else's lives (whereas I just shut down and insulate myself from everyone and their chaos).
How absurd is that? How sick and co-dependent is my brother? This isn't some deeper sense of chivalry or trying to be the bigger person. I think there is something deeply wrong with him. And whatever it is that's wrong with him is what's also wrong with Audrey. I lack the professional expertise to know whether this is nature or nurture. Is this something that was innately programmed into both my brother and Audrey, or is WHATEVER this is the result of faulty programming (aka EMOTIONAL DAMAGE) Audrey did to our brother (and us, too), as well as the faulty programming/emotional damage my grandfather did to Audrey.
In the meanwhile, my sister is having panic attacks (and the scheduler for her therapist's office is being a real ass-pain), and she's having these vivid "sentient type" dreams, and she's convinced he's going to either kill himself or die. And she's got this messiah complex and compulsion going on. She can intellectualize the fact she needs to back off, but there's that primal instinctual programming going on, too--much in the way Canadian geese fly south for the winter, so, too, my sister continues to HELP, even to her own detriment.
Here endeth today's absurdity.
Thursday, December 14, 2017
Tuesday, December 5, 2017
12/5/17
(Screengrab from the Sheriff's website, 12/5/17.)
The value of the house is approx $250K-$275K--Look at how much they owe.
I
still have the overriding desire to let the executive directors of her
temple know that the person in charge of their "ways and means"
committee is incapable of handling basic household economics.
Today is their wedding anniversary (16 years).
Today is their daughter's birthday (12 years).
Today is the official date she leaves him.
I
never went into it, as I didn't think it was still relevant; however,
when my brother was a kid, he had a lot of problems. Perhaps dyslexic to
a degree. Definitely had learning issues. Was left back a year. Somehow
I thought he outgrew it. But it's really obvious to my sister and I, he
hasn't matured or evolved past the age of roughly 15, and I suspect
there's something else I cannot put my finger on exactly--perhaps a
touch of oppositional defiance disorder?
He was incapable of handling ANY of the details that needed to be handled in such a short period of time: sending the necessary paperwork to the Sheriff's office, establishing a new bank account, come up with a place to live, and try to shuffle as much of his stuff to mom's house, and the houses of trusted friends. I strongly suggested he establish a post box, and made that suggestion 3-4 weeks ago, and rather than do that, he had his address on record as our sister's house. Is he too cheap or too obstinate to do such a simple thing? I don't know.
Sister
has deluded herself into thinking that now that he's "settled" into
mom's house, she'll be able to coast. He's incapable of "playing nice"
with others, and where mom's house is (I really should get out of that
habit--as soon, it won't be "hers" any longer) has a HoA, and HoAs tend
to have lots of Nosey Parkers, trying to control what goes on outside
everyone's home. I don't see this ending well at all. And I worry that
my sister got her boss/owner of the company where she works involved in
this mess.
Monday, November 20, 2017
Non-Update Update
Not much to report here, at the moment.
The estate liquidator has flaked yet again, leaving us precisely where we were on October 14th, when she came by for the walk through--which is to say, EVEN FURTHER BEHIND THE 8 BALL than we were, THANKS AUDREY!
We signed a contract, so WE cannot back out of it; however, we are just waiting until THEY decide to emerge out of obscurity, at which point, the house will probably be sold at that point in time. FUCK THESE PEOPLE.
And we are one day away from the date of foreclosure on my brother's house.
What a train wreck all of this has become.
So much in life comes right down to timing. Rather than lead us all on this stupid vanity trip of Audrey half assing her way through rehab, had she been honest with herself (AND MORE IMPORTANTLY--US!), we could have used the two months she languished and half-assed through rehab, to empty the house. But instead, we get one week's notice that "oh by the way, I've decided to stay" and a week later, my sister got a $13K bill from Shady Pines. And the timing of the YentaBeast doing the five year long con, setting the stage for my brother to become, essentially, homeless. Fuck her too. These two hags are two peas in a fetid pod.
Even my family halfway around the glob are going through something similar. They are selling their previous property, and were depending on the financing from the buyer to go through by now, so my brother-in-law sells the ONLY FAMILY VEHICLE, thinking he can buy a new one SOON, and even halfway around the globe, people are disappointing, deceiving fucks.
The recap:
Audrey's house isn't empty & sold;
Brother's house is about to be foreclosed;
Brother ended up in ER due to defibrillator;
Brother hasn't suffered fatal cardiac attack, yet;
Sister hasn't suffered fatal cardiac attack, yet;
Brother hasn't gone out in a misguided blaze of glory in a murder-suicide, yet;
Estate liquidators are MIA.
Here endeth the non-update update.
The estate liquidator has flaked yet again, leaving us precisely where we were on October 14th, when she came by for the walk through--which is to say, EVEN FURTHER BEHIND THE 8 BALL than we were, THANKS AUDREY!
We signed a contract, so WE cannot back out of it; however, we are just waiting until THEY decide to emerge out of obscurity, at which point, the house will probably be sold at that point in time. FUCK THESE PEOPLE.
And we are one day away from the date of foreclosure on my brother's house.
What a train wreck all of this has become.
So much in life comes right down to timing. Rather than lead us all on this stupid vanity trip of Audrey half assing her way through rehab, had she been honest with herself (AND MORE IMPORTANTLY--US!), we could have used the two months she languished and half-assed through rehab, to empty the house. But instead, we get one week's notice that "oh by the way, I've decided to stay" and a week later, my sister got a $13K bill from Shady Pines. And the timing of the YentaBeast doing the five year long con, setting the stage for my brother to become, essentially, homeless. Fuck her too. These two hags are two peas in a fetid pod.
Even my family halfway around the glob are going through something similar. They are selling their previous property, and were depending on the financing from the buyer to go through by now, so my brother-in-law sells the ONLY FAMILY VEHICLE, thinking he can buy a new one SOON, and even halfway around the globe, people are disappointing, deceiving fucks.
The recap:
Audrey's house isn't empty & sold;
Brother's house is about to be foreclosed;
Brother ended up in ER due to defibrillator;
Brother hasn't suffered fatal cardiac attack, yet;
Sister hasn't suffered fatal cardiac attack, yet;
Brother hasn't gone out in a misguided blaze of glory in a murder-suicide, yet;
Estate liquidators are MIA.
Here endeth the non-update update.
Thursday, November 16, 2017
Stalker, More Details Trickling In
The story is awful enough as it is, isn't it? And yet, I felt compelled to ask for clarification on the details, specifically, "was it in front of the urinal or in a locked stall?" It's an act of aggression, certainly, and awful regardless of where it took place; however, I think if it were out in the open, it's even MORE awful.
Today's clarifications:
And in the meantime, the Haitian dude has a project: to basically find out the Stalker's schedule of what he does on what days and times, so I can ensure I stay far from those locations to the best of my ability.
I have two friends at work, two older men in their late 60s, old school paisans of whom are all in my "Circle of Trust," and I am in theirs. Without hesitation, upon hearing of these latest updates, my one friend, who, for privacy purposes, I will refer to herein as Snowy, blurted out, "If you need anything at all, you let me know. And I mean ANYTHING. You *know" D and I will take care of it."
Today's clarifications:
- The previously mentioned workplace tugging did not occur in a stall;
- It happened in front of a urinal in an open mens room (no lock on the door--multiple people can use the restroom);
- When someone walked in on him, not only did he NOT stop; he even managed to either scream or grunt at the point of *release*;
- When confronted (I guess by management or by whomever caught him), he was defiant and said he's not going to stop (and he also managed to say something along the lines about being lonely);
- He pretty much left the surrounding area of the urinal looking like a Jackson Pollock painting. (Ew.)
And in the meantime, the Haitian dude has a project: to basically find out the Stalker's schedule of what he does on what days and times, so I can ensure I stay far from those locations to the best of my ability.
I have two friends at work, two older men in their late 60s, old school paisans of whom are all in my "Circle of Trust," and I am in theirs. Without hesitation, upon hearing of these latest updates, my one friend, who, for privacy purposes, I will refer to herein as Snowy, blurted out, "If you need anything at all, you let me know. And I mean ANYTHING. You *know" D and I will take care of it."
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
Ruminating on The Hostile Work Environment Complaint
So many thoughts I want to smash together and sculpt the perfect post. I have to just accept I'm going to vomit the words here and it'll be sloppy, but so be it.
Since the outcome of the complaint amounted to a whole-lotta-nada, and has made me look at everyone involved, Tim-the-old-fuck, as well as his boss, I view them both with jaundiced eyes, and devoid of good will.
I circle back to how this all came to be, how neither one of them, apologized to me. I think of knowing both of these people roughly 15 years, and how neither one of them valued me as a human or as a friend or even as a co-worker sufficiently to even warrant an apology.
The question I ask myself is, "How would they feel if it were their daughter or granddaughter." And then the realization hits me, that perhaps Tim does this to his own daughters and granddaughters, and he doesn't give a shit. They are theirs for the taking. Women exist purely for their pleasure and whim, without question?
This is the 21st Century. I work where I work, so you'd think the standard would be to default to being a paragon of propriety. And in the end, like every other instance in my life where I was harassed or molested--nothing happened to the person(s) who perpetrated this shit upon me.
Within a year or so of my complaint, we had an EEOC type meeting on harassment, and there was one slide in the powerpoint presentation, wherein EVERY. SINGLE. BULLETPOINT. was pertinent to my complaint. I resented being at this meeting. I resented having to sign a form stating I attended this meeting. It was clear to me, this meeting and the contents of the presentation was not to protect ME, but to protect the "office" where I work.
Me speaking out is not MY problem.
Me wanting some modicum of acknowledgment or even justice, is not MY problem.
What IS my problem is being raised by two broken people who raised me to expect nothing more than to be broken, too. What no one (even myself!) ever expected was that I'd glue myself back together, and be strong, and be WHOLE, and have standards. This is not my problem.
I have no idea what it will take to break these old, abusive patriarchal behaviors and transgressions. No amount of outing famous, powerful men is going to do this. I haven't wrapped my brain around what it will take, but I know that a tag #MeToo isn't enough. And even men who come forward claiming #MeToo won't be enough either. And this crosses all manner of socio-economic, national, and racial lines too.
Sharing our stories and examining how common all of this truly is, is good in that it exposes how entrenched this problem is, within families, within our work, within our communities; however, what happens next?
Since the outcome of the complaint amounted to a whole-lotta-nada, and has made me look at everyone involved, Tim-the-old-fuck, as well as his boss, I view them both with jaundiced eyes, and devoid of good will.
I circle back to how this all came to be, how neither one of them, apologized to me. I think of knowing both of these people roughly 15 years, and how neither one of them valued me as a human or as a friend or even as a co-worker sufficiently to even warrant an apology.
The question I ask myself is, "How would they feel if it were their daughter or granddaughter." And then the realization hits me, that perhaps Tim does this to his own daughters and granddaughters, and he doesn't give a shit. They are theirs for the taking. Women exist purely for their pleasure and whim, without question?
This is the 21st Century. I work where I work, so you'd think the standard would be to default to being a paragon of propriety. And in the end, like every other instance in my life where I was harassed or molested--nothing happened to the person(s) who perpetrated this shit upon me.
Within a year or so of my complaint, we had an EEOC type meeting on harassment, and there was one slide in the powerpoint presentation, wherein EVERY. SINGLE. BULLETPOINT. was pertinent to my complaint. I resented being at this meeting. I resented having to sign a form stating I attended this meeting. It was clear to me, this meeting and the contents of the presentation was not to protect ME, but to protect the "office" where I work.
Me speaking out is not MY problem.
Me wanting some modicum of acknowledgment or even justice, is not MY problem.
What IS my problem is being raised by two broken people who raised me to expect nothing more than to be broken, too. What no one (even myself!) ever expected was that I'd glue myself back together, and be strong, and be WHOLE, and have standards. This is not my problem.
I have no idea what it will take to break these old, abusive patriarchal behaviors and transgressions. No amount of outing famous, powerful men is going to do this. I haven't wrapped my brain around what it will take, but I know that a tag #MeToo isn't enough. And even men who come forward claiming #MeToo won't be enough either. And this crosses all manner of socio-economic, national, and racial lines too.
Sharing our stories and examining how common all of this truly is, is good in that it exposes how entrenched this problem is, within families, within our work, within our communities; however, what happens next?
A Palate Cleanser of Sorts: Update on the Stalker
It's been some time, and I don't recall off hand whether I shared (several months back) that I learned that the Stalker ended up retiring; however, last night I learned he didn't retire but was "let go." Apparently he had several issues/reprimands with/by his building manager (a woman), with the final straw being he was caught masturbating in the men's room (multiple times).
Masturbating in the men's room is a sign of aggression, also, an inappropriate place and time for that activity, which just further cements my opinion he's dangerous and a sociopath.
I do have an unanswered question about whether he was jerking off in front of a urinal or in a closed door stall. Not that it matters all that much, in the final analysis; however, if it were out in the open, it's even more aggressive, IMHO.
As I said to the Haitian doorman, "This whole thing is like 'the devil that you know, beats the devil that you don't know,' and that Julius Caesar quote, 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer.' The problem here is we don't know where the hell this devil IS right now!"
Masturbating in the men's room is a sign of aggression, also, an inappropriate place and time for that activity, which just further cements my opinion he's dangerous and a sociopath.
I do have an unanswered question about whether he was jerking off in front of a urinal or in a closed door stall. Not that it matters all that much, in the final analysis; however, if it were out in the open, it's even more aggressive, IMHO.
As I said to the Haitian doorman, "This whole thing is like 'the devil that you know, beats the devil that you don't know,' and that Julius Caesar quote, 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer.' The problem here is we don't know where the hell this devil IS right now!"
Tuesday, November 14, 2017
T-6 Days & A Wake Up
Here we are, officially/literally a week away from the date my brother's house gets foreclosed.
Where we left off...
He's still pretty much spinning his wheels. He finally broke down and called me. And it was a conversation that went no where, other than just wallowing and circling the drain. No forward movement.
He's incapable of doing what he needs to do (focus, power through, even for the short term) to get himself and his thoughts organized enough to do what he needs to do. And no amount of me telling him he needs to get a storage unit and start ferrying his shit THERE is going to matter.
When he called, he was at Walmart getting some bins to pack up some of his trains (see? he should be focusing on essentials, whatever). His goal for the day was to pack those four bins, and at some point during the day, he got himself wound up, and by the time a friend of our sister's arrived (to look at/assess/possibly buy some stuff), my brother's defibrillator was zapping him like a bolt of lightning.
Luckily the friend was there, and he called our sister, who asked him to take our brother to the hospital. Luckily, it wasn't a cardiac event (this time). After a day and a half of being in the hospital, it was discovered the defibrillator needs to be tweaked or calibrated, and was misfiring.
So losing that day and a half puts him even further behind the 8-ball.
All I can do is sit back and witness what's going on. The list of reasons for my non-involvement are:
Will my sister?
Will he go out in a blaze of misguided glory in a murder-suicide?
Who knows. Stay tuned.
Where we left off...
He's still pretty much spinning his wheels. He finally broke down and called me. And it was a conversation that went no where, other than just wallowing and circling the drain. No forward movement.
He's incapable of doing what he needs to do (focus, power through, even for the short term) to get himself and his thoughts organized enough to do what he needs to do. And no amount of me telling him he needs to get a storage unit and start ferrying his shit THERE is going to matter.
When he called, he was at Walmart getting some bins to pack up some of his trains (see? he should be focusing on essentials, whatever). His goal for the day was to pack those four bins, and at some point during the day, he got himself wound up, and by the time a friend of our sister's arrived (to look at/assess/possibly buy some stuff), my brother's defibrillator was zapping him like a bolt of lightning.
Luckily the friend was there, and he called our sister, who asked him to take our brother to the hospital. Luckily, it wasn't a cardiac event (this time). After a day and a half of being in the hospital, it was discovered the defibrillator needs to be tweaked or calibrated, and was misfiring.
So losing that day and a half puts him even further behind the 8-ball.
All I can do is sit back and witness what's going on. The list of reasons for my non-involvement are:
- Geography--I live too damned far away to commit to helping him without putting a strain on myself and my household, monopolizing our household's only car for this purpose;
- The fact that in 1998 when my life imploded, the only time my brother "helped" me, was when and if I were able to PAY him for his time;
- The fact he's got a baseline of hostility, in a general sense;
- The fact he possesses all the negative characteristics of both parents, that he's lazy and complacent, and easily overwhelmed, and pretty much thinks either he's going to hit rock bottom or perhaps someone will save him, because both of our parents did nothing in the way of preparing ANY OF US with any real life skills like COPING.
- He hasn't asked me for my help.
Will my sister?
Will he go out in a blaze of misguided glory in a murder-suicide?
Who knows. Stay tuned.
Thursday, November 9, 2017
Yesterday and Today
Just a quickie post of sorts.
I was in NYC for appointments yesterday. One of which was with my therapist, who I normally do phone in sessions. I was in the city for another appointment and I figured it would be nice to have an in person session if possible. The entire session was devoted to pretty much what I dump here in this blog.
This morning, as I'm packing my bag for work, I check my phone, and fuck-me-running, Audrey called AGAIN. This time at 8:02. I know this is where some other person would say, "I'm sorry but this is not an appropriate time for someone to call me," only problem is, I AM NOT SORRY. This is inappropriate.
Reason for the call: She's concerned she hasn't heard from me, and oh by the way, call your brother.
Um. No. I will not call him. Why? Because clearly, he knows I am the one who has suffered through a divorce, and yet, inexplicably, for whatever reason, he has decided NOT to loop me in (personally) in regards to what is going on with him, and I am not about to stick my nose in where it is clearly not wanted.
Also, my sister is on vacation this week, so, again, NO THANK YOU, I won't be answering my phone at all those weird hours.
Bottom line: Mom is in a stable environment. There is no way in hell I am going to answer the phone during these times:
Early a.m.: I am getting ready for work
During the day: I am at work
7:30: We are having dinner
Also, I don't trust myself at this point. I don't trust that I will be able to keep my composure while on the phone with her. I am thoroughly BORED by her, her narcissism, her pathetic nature, etc etc. DONE, in fact. I am totally devoid of fucks with which to dispense towards Audrey and the on going soap opera that is her life, aka "As the Stomach Churns."
And the more she calls me at inappropriate times, the less inclined I am to answer the phone or call her back.
I was in NYC for appointments yesterday. One of which was with my therapist, who I normally do phone in sessions. I was in the city for another appointment and I figured it would be nice to have an in person session if possible. The entire session was devoted to pretty much what I dump here in this blog.
This morning, as I'm packing my bag for work, I check my phone, and fuck-me-running, Audrey called AGAIN. This time at 8:02. I know this is where some other person would say, "I'm sorry but this is not an appropriate time for someone to call me," only problem is, I AM NOT SORRY. This is inappropriate.
Reason for the call: She's concerned she hasn't heard from me, and oh by the way, call your brother.
Um. No. I will not call him. Why? Because clearly, he knows I am the one who has suffered through a divorce, and yet, inexplicably, for whatever reason, he has decided NOT to loop me in (personally) in regards to what is going on with him, and I am not about to stick my nose in where it is clearly not wanted.
Also, my sister is on vacation this week, so, again, NO THANK YOU, I won't be answering my phone at all those weird hours.
Bottom line: Mom is in a stable environment. There is no way in hell I am going to answer the phone during these times:
Early a.m.: I am getting ready for work
During the day: I am at work
7:30: We are having dinner
Also, I don't trust myself at this point. I don't trust that I will be able to keep my composure while on the phone with her. I am thoroughly BORED by her, her narcissism, her pathetic nature, etc etc. DONE, in fact. I am totally devoid of fucks with which to dispense towards Audrey and the on going soap opera that is her life, aka "As the Stomach Churns."
And the more she calls me at inappropriate times, the less inclined I am to answer the phone or call her back.
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
YentaBeast: Fourth Shitty Incident, December 25, 2001
Though, I rarely view giving a handmade gift as a "cheap gift," this is the one occasion where I didn't feel like spending money, and knocked out a muffler with some beautiful pink mohair yarn (for the first and only holiday gift I ever gave the YentaBeast), which was given in my absence (see also: I was avoiding direct contact with my mother from 2001-2002).
YentaBeast's reply?
"Why does Maven hate me so much?"
YentaBeast's reply?
"Why does Maven hate me so much?"
YentaBeast: Timeline, Third Shitty Incident, December 5, 2001
In the beginning of December 2001, my brother and YB got married in a hush-hush marriage ceremony performed by a Justice-of-the-Peace in northwestern NJ.
Imagine my surprise when I came to learn that both sets of parents and both sets of siblings were invited; however, I was not included. Later on, I was told they didn't think I'd attend anyway, given it was on a Wednesday night and so far from my house.
I still think I should have been the one to make that determination.
So why "hush-hush?" They were married for six full months before their wedding, or as I call it the $20,000 mad grab for cash and gifts. They got married so soon so she could go on his medical insurance. And hush-hush, because if other extended family were to know that they are already married, those relatives probably would be less inclined to attend the other wedding (subtext: and would be less inclined to give cash gifts).
When the invitation came for the June nuptials, Maharajah proved himself to be a fabulous husband and booked us a vacation in Ft. Lauderdale instead, it would prove to be a far more enjoyable thing to do with our time (and our money).
Imagine my surprise when I came to learn that both sets of parents and both sets of siblings were invited; however, I was not included. Later on, I was told they didn't think I'd attend anyway, given it was on a Wednesday night and so far from my house.
I still think I should have been the one to make that determination.
So why "hush-hush?" They were married for six full months before their wedding, or as I call it the $20,000 mad grab for cash and gifts. They got married so soon so she could go on his medical insurance. And hush-hush, because if other extended family were to know that they are already married, those relatives probably would be less inclined to attend the other wedding (subtext: and would be less inclined to give cash gifts).
When the invitation came for the June nuptials, Maharajah proved himself to be a fabulous husband and booked us a vacation in Ft. Lauderdale instead, it would prove to be a far more enjoyable thing to do with our time (and our money).
Monday, November 6, 2017
YentaBeast: Timeline: Second Incident, September 2001
It has been 16 years since our wedding, and people STILL continue to talk about how wonderful the food was. As many compliments as I received, what I am going to detail herein overshadows any positive experiences others had of the day.
What I am about to detail is devoid of hyperbole. What I am going to detail are just the facts as they unfolded.
My brother and (his then girlfriend) wife arrived to my wedding reception (which was held in an Indian restaurant), each of them wearing the gold paper crowns from Burger King, and sporting a bag of BK burgers and a 7-11 Big Gulp in each hand.
Okay, process the level of disrespect right there:
1. Showing disrespect to us by upstaging us in those stupid crowns;
2. Showing disrespect to my husband, the host of our reception, by toting in BEEF HAMBURGERS into an Indian restaurant where beef is not served.
Done processing? It gets worse.
They then proceeded to announce their engagement.
AT. MY. WEDDING. RECEPTION.
Incredulously, it continues to get worse.
My mother then insisted then demanded that I acknowledge that they got engaged. (The more someone demands I do something which is THIS FUCKED UP, the more I dig my heels in and refuse.
This then spiraled out of control to the point where, weeks later, my mother wrote e a piece of shit letter that basically detailed how ashamed she was of me, and that if I didn't fix this RIGHT NOW (mind you, I was 32 at the time, not a small child to be castigated and chided into obeying) she was going to just write me off (or somesuch, I don't recall the precise wording, as the Maharajah insisted on grabbing the letter and ripping it up).
I then rewarded my mother for being such a bitch, I refused to visit her and avoided speaking to her for an entire year.
What I am about to detail is devoid of hyperbole. What I am going to detail are just the facts as they unfolded.
My brother and (his then girlfriend) wife arrived to my wedding reception (which was held in an Indian restaurant), each of them wearing the gold paper crowns from Burger King, and sporting a bag of BK burgers and a 7-11 Big Gulp in each hand.
Okay, process the level of disrespect right there:
1. Showing disrespect to us by upstaging us in those stupid crowns;
2. Showing disrespect to my husband, the host of our reception, by toting in BEEF HAMBURGERS into an Indian restaurant where beef is not served.
Done processing? It gets worse.
They then proceeded to announce their engagement.
AT. MY. WEDDING. RECEPTION.
Incredulously, it continues to get worse.
My mother then insisted then demanded that I acknowledge that they got engaged. (The more someone demands I do something which is THIS FUCKED UP, the more I dig my heels in and refuse.
This then spiraled out of control to the point where, weeks later, my mother wrote e a piece of shit letter that basically detailed how ashamed she was of me, and that if I didn't fix this RIGHT NOW (mind you, I was 32 at the time, not a small child to be castigated and chided into obeying) she was going to just write me off (or somesuch, I don't recall the precise wording, as the Maharajah insisted on grabbing the letter and ripping it up).
I then rewarded my mother for being such a bitch, I refused to visit her and avoided speaking to her for an entire year.
YentaBeast: Timeline: First Incident, August 2001
One of the many reasons why I am not involving myself in the Merde Maelstrom is the fact that at a time when I was financially devastated, the only way I could convince my brother to help me would be to PAY HIM.
My shitty Escort needed new rotors, and I didn't have a dime to my name, and he was single and living with our parents and working in a well-paying transit job, and he had the connections to get the rotor for me (perhaps at cost) and he could have done the repair for gratis, too, to HELP; but no. I had to elicit the help of the former brother-in-law of a first cousin of our mom, to get me the rotors for cost, and I had to drive to Paterson to pick them up, and then I had to drive an hour so my brother could do the repairs.
And just when my life was on the verge of about to improve, and I needed some help moving some things from my home in Morristown NJ to Westchester, I had to pay him $300 (FOR HIS TIME). And in doing so, to add insult to injury, the YentaBeast had wiggled her way into this particular day. She wasn't invited. It was not a social call. This had nothing to do with her, plus, in doing so, her presence also immediately impacted how we were going to be able to transport the items I needed moved.
We arrive in Westchester and move everything in, and the Maharajah had catered in a lunch from PF Changs--Chinese food, and nothing too adventurous. And rather than sitting down to eat and being POLITE, and acting as if this particular day was all about HER, she blurts out, "Oh, I only eat normal food." WHATEVER THE FUCK THAT MEANS.
My mistake here was that I didn't know her well enough to assert myself. Despite her rudeness, I wanted to accommodate them, since my brother did move my stuff for me (FOR A PRICE). We went to a diner, and that was the first and very last time I ever had my brother and the YentaBeast in my home.
There's a Maya Angelou quote kicking around the internet these days, "When someone reveals who they are, you owe it to yourself to take notice."
Here endeth the first encounter.
My shitty Escort needed new rotors, and I didn't have a dime to my name, and he was single and living with our parents and working in a well-paying transit job, and he had the connections to get the rotor for me (perhaps at cost) and he could have done the repair for gratis, too, to HELP; but no. I had to elicit the help of the former brother-in-law of a first cousin of our mom, to get me the rotors for cost, and I had to drive to Paterson to pick them up, and then I had to drive an hour so my brother could do the repairs.
And just when my life was on the verge of about to improve, and I needed some help moving some things from my home in Morristown NJ to Westchester, I had to pay him $300 (FOR HIS TIME). And in doing so, to add insult to injury, the YentaBeast had wiggled her way into this particular day. She wasn't invited. It was not a social call. This had nothing to do with her, plus, in doing so, her presence also immediately impacted how we were going to be able to transport the items I needed moved.
We arrive in Westchester and move everything in, and the Maharajah had catered in a lunch from PF Changs--Chinese food, and nothing too adventurous. And rather than sitting down to eat and being POLITE, and acting as if this particular day was all about HER, she blurts out, "Oh, I only eat normal food." WHATEVER THE FUCK THAT MEANS.
My mistake here was that I didn't know her well enough to assert myself. Despite her rudeness, I wanted to accommodate them, since my brother did move my stuff for me (FOR A PRICE). We went to a diner, and that was the first and very last time I ever had my brother and the YentaBeast in my home.
There's a Maya Angelou quote kicking around the internet these days, "When someone reveals who they are, you owe it to yourself to take notice."
Here endeth the first encounter.
T-14 Days (and a "wake up")
Make no mistake, even the act of doing nothing in the physical sense does bring with it a tremendous amount of stress, which for me, I absorb like a sponge, and the result is additional pain and stiffness as well as mental exhaustion and emotional depression.
So here we are, a smidge over two weeks from when the Sheriffs put a lock on the door to my brother's house.
If I am this exhausted, I do not know how my sister keeps going, even as desperate as she is to ensure two things: 1. That our brother does not end up homeless; and 2. That our brother does not end up living at her house (to keep from being homeless). I'm sure that to scratch beyond the surface of her helping our brother (and hopefully helping prevent him from having a cardiac event), she's also operating from a point of self-interest too.
All of this could have been avoided. I keep thinking of that Woody Woodpecker episode, "If Woody had gone to the police, none of this would have happened." If my brother made smarter choices, none of this would have happened. If he wasn't too trusting, or didn't marry Voldemort with a vagina, none of this would have happened.
And yet, my god. He is worse than both of my parents combined.
New Discovery: He is a hoarder. Like he needs an intervention. He needs psychological counseling. He should be on the t.v. show Hoarders THAT LEVEL HOARDER. This, of course, will be used against him on the complaint of divorce.
Question: If you were about to be homeless--if your house were on fire, what would you grab? Clothing? Meds? Photographs? Important papers? Nope! Not this dipshit. He insists on boxing up his library of music CDs. I know how overwhelming it is to be in that very spot--because in 1998, I was there, and I believe I had less time to come up with an emergency/transitional plan for my life.
My input or advice hasn't been solicited. My help is not wanted. So I'm staying out of this. Yet, despite being a bystander, it is disgusting (among other adjectives) to bear witness to this.
When your life is in upheaval, you no longer have long term goals. Everything else is suspended, until you can catch your breath. You first lock down your finances, cut off points of access to your funds so the other person won't bleed you dry in the interim. You set up a post office box. You take advantage of every single moment the other person is not in the house, so you can (as calm as you can) take an inventory of what you might need for your immediate survival (we call this your "A" stuff).
You then line up a depository of sorts, whether it is a storage unit or an alternate site (or better yet, the place that will be your transitional home) and start ferrying your stuff there while the other mate is not at home.
You gather up all your important papers, your tax rebates, every document you need, titles to your cars, deeds to your home, birth certificates; everything.
Not him. Suggestions have been made by others, and he's not absorbing shit. Either that, or he is hearing the suggestions, and then becomes the eunuch-ified personification of Blanche DuBois, by relying on the kindness of (strangers) others to do the heavy lifting.
Case in point:
My sister, brother-in-law, niece, and a few friends of my sister's were at my brother's house to help box up what they can. My brother-in-law went into my brother's bedroom and was repulsed by the mess, the stink, and the dust. My brother apparently has hyperhydrosis, so everything that touches him is permeated with his sweat. And his bedroom was filthy, and appeared as if it had never been dusted--EVER.
My sister loaded up a truck she borrowed from work, and managed to drive that a half hour back to mom's, many "treasures" of which my brother couldn't wait to pilfer and abscond home--are making their way back to our mother's house.
My sister's boss, allegedly, is planning on buying mom's house to "flip," and my brother will be able to stay at the house in the interim (possibly 1-2 months) until the sale goes through. Hopefully that will be enough time for him to get a handle on things. My educated guess would be a resounding NO. He's going to get comfortable, TOO comfortable (Denial is a helluva thing!), and then that will be another problem to get him out of a house which will then be owned by my sister's boss.
So, my sister drove that truck back to mom's, where our uncle and our Viking Warrior Aunt with the Stage IV breast cancer (with mets) is helping unload the truck. Where is the Dipshit? Shamelessly, out having a leisurely dinner... WITH THE YENTABEAST.
So here we are, a smidge over two weeks from when the Sheriffs put a lock on the door to my brother's house.
If I am this exhausted, I do not know how my sister keeps going, even as desperate as she is to ensure two things: 1. That our brother does not end up homeless; and 2. That our brother does not end up living at her house (to keep from being homeless). I'm sure that to scratch beyond the surface of her helping our brother (and hopefully helping prevent him from having a cardiac event), she's also operating from a point of self-interest too.
All of this could have been avoided. I keep thinking of that Woody Woodpecker episode, "If Woody had gone to the police, none of this would have happened." If my brother made smarter choices, none of this would have happened. If he wasn't too trusting, or didn't marry Voldemort with a vagina, none of this would have happened.
And yet, my god. He is worse than both of my parents combined.
New Discovery: He is a hoarder. Like he needs an intervention. He needs psychological counseling. He should be on the t.v. show Hoarders THAT LEVEL HOARDER. This, of course, will be used against him on the complaint of divorce.
Question: If you were about to be homeless--if your house were on fire, what would you grab? Clothing? Meds? Photographs? Important papers? Nope! Not this dipshit. He insists on boxing up his library of music CDs. I know how overwhelming it is to be in that very spot--because in 1998, I was there, and I believe I had less time to come up with an emergency/transitional plan for my life.
My input or advice hasn't been solicited. My help is not wanted. So I'm staying out of this. Yet, despite being a bystander, it is disgusting (among other adjectives) to bear witness to this.
When your life is in upheaval, you no longer have long term goals. Everything else is suspended, until you can catch your breath. You first lock down your finances, cut off points of access to your funds so the other person won't bleed you dry in the interim. You set up a post office box. You take advantage of every single moment the other person is not in the house, so you can (as calm as you can) take an inventory of what you might need for your immediate survival (we call this your "A" stuff).
You then line up a depository of sorts, whether it is a storage unit or an alternate site (or better yet, the place that will be your transitional home) and start ferrying your stuff there while the other mate is not at home.
You gather up all your important papers, your tax rebates, every document you need, titles to your cars, deeds to your home, birth certificates; everything.
Not him. Suggestions have been made by others, and he's not absorbing shit. Either that, or he is hearing the suggestions, and then becomes the eunuch-ified personification of Blanche DuBois, by relying on the kindness of (strangers) others to do the heavy lifting.
Case in point:
My sister, brother-in-law, niece, and a few friends of my sister's were at my brother's house to help box up what they can. My brother-in-law went into my brother's bedroom and was repulsed by the mess, the stink, and the dust. My brother apparently has hyperhydrosis, so everything that touches him is permeated with his sweat. And his bedroom was filthy, and appeared as if it had never been dusted--EVER.
My sister loaded up a truck she borrowed from work, and managed to drive that a half hour back to mom's, many "treasures" of which my brother couldn't wait to pilfer and abscond home--are making their way back to our mother's house.
My sister's boss, allegedly, is planning on buying mom's house to "flip," and my brother will be able to stay at the house in the interim (possibly 1-2 months) until the sale goes through. Hopefully that will be enough time for him to get a handle on things. My educated guess would be a resounding NO. He's going to get comfortable, TOO comfortable (Denial is a helluva thing!), and then that will be another problem to get him out of a house which will then be owned by my sister's boss.
So, my sister drove that truck back to mom's, where our uncle and our Viking Warrior Aunt with the Stage IV breast cancer (with mets) is helping unload the truck. Where is the Dipshit? Shamelessly, out having a leisurely dinner... WITH THE YENTABEAST.
Friday, November 3, 2017
(T-27 Days) Dueling Shit Shows
T: -27 Days: Prelude To YentaBeast's Departure
Where to begin? I'm not even sure I've sufficiently delved into the beast of whom my brother married 16 years ago. Pretty much a monster in all manner. Shrill, know it all, emasculating, rude, socially inept, pretentious, jealous, petty--do you have all day? The inventory truly is never ending.
Where to start? I don't know where I left off as it pertains to peeling the rotten orange that she is. Have I delved into and analyzed her as a human--and I dare say that as she's truly proven herself time and time again to be nothing more than an over-stuffed garbage bag wrapped in something resembling skin and trying to pass herself off as a human.
I've always thought she was evil; however, her actions as of late truly demand a refinement on the adjective to adequately describe her.
The nuts and bolts of what is going on currently is that she wants to leave my brother and plans on doing so the beginning of December, a scant 27 days from today (really, 26 days and a wake up). This would be difficult yet manageable if it weren't for the fact that we have come to discover that she had not managed to pay their mortgage for an fathomable 61 months.
For 16 years, my brother, in good faith, has had his paychecks directly deposited into a joint account; and in good faith, he presumed that since bill paying was her strong suit, that she would be doing just that--paying the bills. And paying the bills one would assume (rightly, so) it would include paying one's mortgage.
I'm not really certain what has transpired in the last five years. Perhaps she wanted to restructure their mortgage? Or perhaps she re-mortgaged the house? Or perhaps she forgot to fill out some necessary paperwork and then things snowballed from there? I haven't a clue. Perhaps she put it in forebearance? And since she's home, she'd grab the bills and notices as they arrived--and perhaps there was a foreclosure notice taped to the house itself, which she also hid from my brother.
The full depths of the fraud she's perpetuated against my brother has yet to be fully actualized. What I have detailed herein is merely the superficial stuff he's unearthed. I am sure there will be more of a financial shit show to be discovered after he finally sees his divorce attorney.
No, she hasn't absconded with his money, or at least not all of it (she has moved some money around, but smaller amounts that wouldn't necessarily catch one's attention if they weren't looking closely); from what I can gather, the money is still in the account; however, the house is scheduled for foreclosure on 11/21, 18 days from today (really 17 and a wake up).
So if you're following along and connecting the dots, she fully intended on leaving my brother at the beginning of December, and planned on doing so without informing my brother that he is on the precipice of being homeless. It is only within the last week that my brother started digging around, and with the help of our brother-in-law, he has uncovered quite the shit storm she has been planning for him, for the last FIVE YEARS.
So he's got 17 days and a wake up until the Sheriff's office comes by and puts a lock on his home. I'm envisioning how this could have gone down had he not made this crucial discovery this week: perhaps he would have worked a long day, then made that one hour commute home, in the dark of night, only to realize he cannot get into his home.
The unfortunate thing here is, my brother possesses all the negative qualities of both of my parents: dad's laziness and complacency and weakness; and mom's ease of getting overwhelmed, and weakness; zero fortitude on both of their parts, and zero ability to be an adult.
To say my brother is overwhelmed is an understatement. The last few days he's been INERT. In shock. And wasting precious time wallowing when he could be ferrying what possessions of his that he can (in such a short amount of time) to a storage facility, and come up with a transitional plan for his life--as well as contact a divorce attorney (and looks likely he'll need a bankruptcy attorney too), and do what damage control he can, to minimize what little of the destruction his wife has wrought.
I don't presume to know what it must have been like for the last 16 years to live in their home; however, as a bystander, at family gatherings, their presence together was unbearable.
And if you're curious about what's going on with my mother's house, where we left off there is:
This woman is a fucking blight, and I want to scorch the earth by outing her and shaming her.
Where to begin? I'm not even sure I've sufficiently delved into the beast of whom my brother married 16 years ago. Pretty much a monster in all manner. Shrill, know it all, emasculating, rude, socially inept, pretentious, jealous, petty--do you have all day? The inventory truly is never ending.
Where to start? I don't know where I left off as it pertains to peeling the rotten orange that she is. Have I delved into and analyzed her as a human--and I dare say that as she's truly proven herself time and time again to be nothing more than an over-stuffed garbage bag wrapped in something resembling skin and trying to pass herself off as a human.
I've always thought she was evil; however, her actions as of late truly demand a refinement on the adjective to adequately describe her.
The nuts and bolts of what is going on currently is that she wants to leave my brother and plans on doing so the beginning of December, a scant 27 days from today (really, 26 days and a wake up). This would be difficult yet manageable if it weren't for the fact that we have come to discover that she had not managed to pay their mortgage for an fathomable 61 months.
For 16 years, my brother, in good faith, has had his paychecks directly deposited into a joint account; and in good faith, he presumed that since bill paying was her strong suit, that she would be doing just that--paying the bills. And paying the bills one would assume (rightly, so) it would include paying one's mortgage.
I'm not really certain what has transpired in the last five years. Perhaps she wanted to restructure their mortgage? Or perhaps she re-mortgaged the house? Or perhaps she forgot to fill out some necessary paperwork and then things snowballed from there? I haven't a clue. Perhaps she put it in forebearance? And since she's home, she'd grab the bills and notices as they arrived--and perhaps there was a foreclosure notice taped to the house itself, which she also hid from my brother.
The full depths of the fraud she's perpetuated against my brother has yet to be fully actualized. What I have detailed herein is merely the superficial stuff he's unearthed. I am sure there will be more of a financial shit show to be discovered after he finally sees his divorce attorney.
No, she hasn't absconded with his money, or at least not all of it (she has moved some money around, but smaller amounts that wouldn't necessarily catch one's attention if they weren't looking closely); from what I can gather, the money is still in the account; however, the house is scheduled for foreclosure on 11/21, 18 days from today (really 17 and a wake up).
So if you're following along and connecting the dots, she fully intended on leaving my brother at the beginning of December, and planned on doing so without informing my brother that he is on the precipice of being homeless. It is only within the last week that my brother started digging around, and with the help of our brother-in-law, he has uncovered quite the shit storm she has been planning for him, for the last FIVE YEARS.
So he's got 17 days and a wake up until the Sheriff's office comes by and puts a lock on his home. I'm envisioning how this could have gone down had he not made this crucial discovery this week: perhaps he would have worked a long day, then made that one hour commute home, in the dark of night, only to realize he cannot get into his home.
The unfortunate thing here is, my brother possesses all the negative qualities of both of my parents: dad's laziness and complacency and weakness; and mom's ease of getting overwhelmed, and weakness; zero fortitude on both of their parts, and zero ability to be an adult.
To say my brother is overwhelmed is an understatement. The last few days he's been INERT. In shock. And wasting precious time wallowing when he could be ferrying what possessions of his that he can (in such a short amount of time) to a storage facility, and come up with a transitional plan for his life--as well as contact a divorce attorney (and looks likely he'll need a bankruptcy attorney too), and do what damage control he can, to minimize what little of the destruction his wife has wrought.
I don't presume to know what it must have been like for the last 16 years to live in their home; however, as a bystander, at family gatherings, their presence together was unbearable.
And if you're curious about what's going on with my mother's house, where we left off there is:
- 10/14 The estate liquidator came by to do a walk through and do an assessment of volume of stuff and talk over fees to organize/price/advertise the tag sale--despite us signing a contract and the estate sale was supposed to take place THIS weekend (11/4), the liquidator has flaked already and wants to reschedule for the following weekend--this is getting everyone anxious as fuck!
- A bill has been received already from Shady Pines, to the tune of $13K--so it's more than somewhat urgent that we get the home emptied and sold in order to pay Audrey's bill, so she can continue to live out her days in delusion, as if she were Leona Helmsley living at a 5 star hotel, complaining how the staff isn't wiping her ass quick enough;
- In the interim, now, as we empty my mother's house of HER stuff, my brother is going to be moving what stuff of his he can into the house, so he won't be out on the street homeless--this is a temporary thing for the next 1-2 months until the house sells, and hopefully in that amount of time, he'll get his act together;
- In the interim, we are worried about his health. In subsequent posts to this one, I might do a small series of posts that delve a bit into what a trash heap this twat has been, not just to my brother, but to pretty much everyone in our family--however, as this paragraph is devoted to my brother's health, my sister and I are concerned that he'll end up having a fatal heart attack from all the stress;
- In the interim, we also are doubly concerned about him hitting rock bottom--and many other people have turned up in the evening news in the form of an article about how some mild mannered man ends up murdering his family and commits suicide--as tragic as this is, this would not surprise me if this were the case.
This woman is a fucking blight, and I want to scorch the earth by outing her and shaming her.
Monday, October 23, 2017
The Back Story (As of Late) (And It's a Long One)
It's been a while since my last update, and trust me that it's not due to a paucity of material.
Columbus Day brought with it a (long holiday weekend) visit with a friend, with whom I average a visit (roughly) every 10 years or so. It was lovely, but it took a lot out of me physically. Couple this up with the fact that things at my workplace have continued to get worse/challenging, and I'm expending far more brain power (and not in a satisfying kind of way), and TPTB continue to redefine what abject lack of appreciation IS--this all set me up to be destroyed, physically and emotionally for the following weekend (10/14/17), when I went to NJ.
However, before I can even DO that, go to NJ, I had a much-needed chiropractic visit planned. And before I can even go to NJ, I had to go to Firestone after my chiro appointment, because FUCK-ME-RUNNING, somehow I managed to pick up a NAIL in my tire. Just what you want and need right before a 125 mile (one way) drive, right?
So my adrenaline and cortisol were pumping pretty vigorously, and I begged the Maharajah to pack an overnight bag, as I needed the moral support now more than ever, and I was going into a mini-panic attack after mini-panic attack, and yet, somehow trying to keep all my mental shit together.
His job was just to be there, and mercifully, he figured out how to make all the necessary cable connections on mom's TV (remember the TV broke her fall the first time she fell, the day before the fall that ultimately ended her up in the nursing home).
Oh, let me back track a bit. Why *DID* I even have to go to NJ?
Well, Audrey in her misplaced pride, or perhaps it's her fucking delusion, thought by merely HALF-ASSING her way through her rehab, she'd be able to return home. Audrey lacks fortitude, and god damn it, she's a great quitter. We all knew she'd fail, even if she was too immersed in her pride or delusion, we knew it would come to this, and rather than LISTEN AND PROCESS what I said to her in AUGUST, it took her TWO MONTHS to come to realize she needs to stay at Shady Pines permanently, thus/thereby wasting two precious months where the house could be emptied out and sold in a much more (comparatively) leisurely fashion.
So. She goes on "self pay" at the nursing home as of 10/24, which, if you're keeping track, is the anniversary date of dad's death. This detail is lost on neither of my siblings nor myself.
So. Circling back to last weekend, when I went to NJ...
Initially, I thought my role would be to act as a conduit between my sister and the estate liquidator, who was to do a walk through at the house, to take an assessment of contents etc, and for the liquidator to discuss fees and what services they provide.
Had I known I'd be put to work, I would have brought filter paper masks (or respirators), and one more change of clothing.
Initially, I packed a few items, one box. End of story. Then my sister and I set about doing more intensive stuff. And the more we did, the more it became apparent to me that despite paying for a house keeper, it was obvious that the house had not been thoroughly cleaned since my dad died (We even managed to find a still sealed, brand new box of tea bags in the cupboard that had a sell by date of 2008).
We ordered take out and I insisted we all sit at the dining room table to share the meal together. I am quite confident that this will be the second to the last time that all three of us siblings will sit at a table, breaking bread together. The last meal will be the post-funeral repast when mom dies--whenever that might be, and it doesn't look like it's any time soon.
The more we worked, the more debilitated I became. And the more debilitated I became, the more I was vulnerable to the emotional toll this would take on anyone.
My brother puttered in the garage for several hours, and my sister and I thought surely he had things under control in there, and only after he left did we realize he did not show up to help--he showed up to HELP HIMSELF to whatever last remaining scraps of usefulness were in the garage, leaving the garage looking like a bomb went off in it.
Oh, it also should be noted that he also HELPED HIMSELF to the little table that dad's grandfather made, which dad spent the last year of his life perfecting and tweaking. The table that all three of us knows full well that was on the inventory of things dad wanted ME to have. So not only did I get shafted by Audrey whose attitude after dad died was, "If it's in my house, it's MINE," and kept that table from me (yet prominently on display, so I'd see it every time I entered/exited her hovel), now my brother is doing the same thing to me. And to be honest--fuck him. In the end there is nothing for us, inheritance wise, and he thinks he's entitled to my little table? And this is where I could easily de-evolve and dissolve into a puddle of profanity about what a piece of shit my brother is, but whatever. Why should I get red in the face?
After he left, my sister and I went into the garage and started sorting things for an Xmas auction at her church, but damn, the place was such a mess. Before she left, we packed up her car, and she helped me pack up mine. By 10:30 she left, as her husband was concerned about her as she had been at the house all day. By 10:45, I decided I was going to do what I could, and a lot of it I manged to do while seated. I took off my rings and got to work, as I heard the Maharajah (two rooms away) choking on the dust--the ventilation system hadn't been cleaned in nine years either--the intake vents were all gross).
By midnight, I had emptied out dad's cabinet, sorted books, sorted and grouped similar items together (like DME), broke down boxes and bagged up what I could. In the end, I filled the front of the garage with about a dozen of those heavy duty lawn and leaf bags that landscape contractors use.
The fuckery here is, the HoA where Audrey's house is, only takes 3 cans or 3 bags on trash day--and trash is picked up ONCE A WEEK. 12 bags in the garage--three bags and three cans in the living room--and this process IS FAR FROM DONE. (ETA: I took 4 bags of trash home to dump in my dumpster--whereas my brother, who didn't take even one bag to try to help disposing what needed disposing).
I finished up and took a Silkwood type shower with water as hot as I could stand it, and wrapped myself in a bed sheet (like I said I didn't pack a spare pair of clothing or pajamas--I just had the clothes I was going to wear to go home in for Sunday), laid down and somehow the exhaustion took control and I fell asleep.
I got up when the sun came up, got dressed, and I continued to putter until my sister showed up with breakfast. As we ate, she started doing a freeform word vomit almost like a "Memory Lane" or "Remember When" type discourse, but instead of talking about good things, she talked about the only thing there was an abundance of, which was an inventory of abuse. Maharajah sat there horrified. I never talk of these things, because, for the most part, in order to survive, even from a young age, I compartmentalize it all. Talking about it accomplishes nothing except RELIVING the traumas. When she got to the "Hey, remember all those beatings?" I started to get palpitations, but kept myself from losing it completely.
And right around then, I had this text exchange with my brother:
With that last text he sent me, I threw my phone at my sister, and finally removed myself from the dining room to brush my teeth and hopefully stanch the palpitations. My sister replied to him pretty much duplicating what I just said to him.
To be honest, I'm done with him. I have no use for him, and I really have no use for him or his hostility in my life. His wife is a beast, and his kid has all of the negative qualities of both of them. Luckily for me, he puts forth zero effort, so in the end the same thing he said to my mom applies to him, "you get what you give."
I returned from the bathroom and declared, "When he zaps me a text in a few weeks or whenever, about those fucking photos, I'll just reply, "Hey--we all want things we can't have." And when he asks what do I mean by that, I'll lay it on the line, that if he wants the photos, I want the little table." But whatever, that's a ways off from now, hopefully.
The word vomit inventory of the abuses, made me re-live every fucking awful thing, and in particular, made me analyze how I was molested--and it wasn't just once, and all were members of my mother's family. And that's not including being ogled lecherously by the husband of (surprise, surprise) a cousin of mom's.
From what I can remember, I don't think I was raped by all three family members--though digitally I was at least once that I can recall, so I guess I was raped, in a way. Digitally. I have long believed that my maternal grandfather molested me, and I've blotted so much out, and am only now remembering a time when I was anorexic, wearing a black leather pantsuit, and he put his hands on my behind inappropriately. SURELY there were other times, too, but my psyche is protecting me from those memories.
Then I think of being molested by my uncle, and when I dared to mention it, I was slut-shamed by both, my mother and my grandmother, at another uncle's house, after a Sunday dinner, and not one person, NOT ONE SINGLE ADULT PRESENT, was concerned for me.
Then I think of being molested by my mother's cousin, and reminded how even my brother (at the age of I guess 9 or 10) somehow knew I was digitally raped, how could no one else know? My father only acted on this knowledge when that cousin brandished a Bowie type hunting knife on my brother--yet to me, the one who was violated? My father did nothing.
Cycling through these memories, which thanks to my survival instinct, resembles a slice of Swiss cheese, too many damned holes, too many moments where I just "checked out" mentally because--well, who WOULDN'T, given the same situation? I can remember the black pantsuit episode with my grandfather's hands on my ass (and surely SOMEONE had to have seen that!), I now wonder what else am I repressing? What else might have happened to me, perhaps when I was in diapers and defenseless? It's almost too much to consider. It all is entirely possible, given the cast of characters and lack of protection and advocacy.
So thinking back on my aunt's declaration a few months back about "we all know what a manipulator your mom is," just makes me wonder how much did my aunt know what was going on--and well, FUCK HER for not protecting me (and my siblings).
So it is no great surprise that the following summer, after being branded the family pariah and slut, I finally had sex for the first time, JUST TO GET IT OUT OF THE WAY, and HEY, if I'm going to be called a slut, I might as well enjoy myself, right? (Or at least that was what my 15 year old self thought at the time.) Oh and Audrey was too involved in the seedy goings-on with our neighbor who had a whirlwind summer of leaving her husband, marrying her ex-husband's best friend, then having an abortion. Yeah. I could totally see that as more pressing than knowing what was going on with me, and even much less concerned with cultivating SELF WORTH in her children.
My mind then cycles through the countless times my mother abused, insulted, emotionally destroyed me, and interfered with what few opportunities came my way. I think back on how my ex-husband lived with my family following the death of his mother (who, I might add, informed him he was in fact, an abortion that lived--long story there!), and how my brother caused troubles for us at a time when we were desperate to get our bearings. He agitated my father to the point of fury, and when my father kicked my ex out of the house, he phrased it thusly, "I need you out, and if you want to take her, you're more than welcome to her (me)," as if I were some piece of fucking property, and of course, how welcome was I supposed to feel if I stayed? Pretty much sealed my fate.
Women like who I was at age 21 end up marrying losers like my ex, when they lack the life skills, support and financial means to actually HAVE A CHOICE. I had no choice.
Much in the way I joined the military because the possible future of college was stolen from me, and how mom attempted to interfere with my enlistment, I persevered, and I moved out to save myself.
For about six months, we lived in a shit-hole boarding house in Asbury Park in the late 1980s, because that's what people with shitty credit and no resources do. The moment my parents knew where I was living, they begged me to move home, and I essentially told them to fuck off.
Coincidentally, last week that #MeToo campaign was trending on Facebook, and it all became too much for me to stand (and still is). Pandora's Box pretty much blew wide open.
Here it is, the day before dad's ninth death anniversary, and I'm enraged by him. Oh how this motherfucker worshiped his guns, the NRA fetishist he was! And how when dates would show up at the house, he'd take out his pistols or rifles and start cleaning them--I guess to intimidate? However, when the time came to act on anything, to protect me or defend me, and I didn't need him to SHOOT anyone, for all that blustery NRA bravado, my father did NOTHING.
In the end, after eight years of marriage, when my first marriage went belly up, all my father could do was cry--and today I think FUCK those tears! Then when I managed to remarry, dad viewed that as my MAJOR LIFE ACCOMPLISHMENT. So yeah--so much that is wrong right there.
I think I've progressed nicely in my grief process regarding dad. Soon enough, we'll be in Singapore, taking a cruise, and I'll disperse the last of his cremains at the Equator--which, comparatively speaking, is much more generous and thoughtful of a gift to him, and my final gift to him, and perhaps a gift to myself, that I did this. Not for him, but for me, and I think 2018, being the 10th calendar year of his passing, should be a sufficient amount of time for me to actively grieve for the loss of him. And now I'm seeing things with the eyes of an adult, and I'll be ready to move on with my life, and leave all of this horseshit behind.
The only problem is, I haven't thrown dirt on Audrey's grave yet. She's been dead inside for years, and I'm done with her and her abuse. Done. I have her eulogy written already. I'm ready. She's been dead inside for decades--let's make this official!
I've been avoiding her calls for about 2 weeks now. If I could continue avoiding her until her Dirt Day comes, my god. I'd be content with that.
So, short of giving a full inventory of the outright awful things she's done or said to me, or citing example after example of how she's interfered with my life and my choices, I suppose now would be a good time to conclude this update--of course, assuming anyone has bothered to read this to the end, in which case, I salute your fortitude, and just know, this is just a SPLINTER'S worth of regrettable stories I can tell.
Columbus Day brought with it a (long holiday weekend) visit with a friend, with whom I average a visit (roughly) every 10 years or so. It was lovely, but it took a lot out of me physically. Couple this up with the fact that things at my workplace have continued to get worse/challenging, and I'm expending far more brain power (and not in a satisfying kind of way), and TPTB continue to redefine what abject lack of appreciation IS--this all set me up to be destroyed, physically and emotionally for the following weekend (10/14/17), when I went to NJ.
However, before I can even DO that, go to NJ, I had a much-needed chiropractic visit planned. And before I can even go to NJ, I had to go to Firestone after my chiro appointment, because FUCK-ME-RUNNING, somehow I managed to pick up a NAIL in my tire. Just what you want and need right before a 125 mile (one way) drive, right?
So my adrenaline and cortisol were pumping pretty vigorously, and I begged the Maharajah to pack an overnight bag, as I needed the moral support now more than ever, and I was going into a mini-panic attack after mini-panic attack, and yet, somehow trying to keep all my mental shit together.
His job was just to be there, and mercifully, he figured out how to make all the necessary cable connections on mom's TV (remember the TV broke her fall the first time she fell, the day before the fall that ultimately ended her up in the nursing home).
Oh, let me back track a bit. Why *DID* I even have to go to NJ?
Well, Audrey in her misplaced pride, or perhaps it's her fucking delusion, thought by merely HALF-ASSING her way through her rehab, she'd be able to return home. Audrey lacks fortitude, and god damn it, she's a great quitter. We all knew she'd fail, even if she was too immersed in her pride or delusion, we knew it would come to this, and rather than LISTEN AND PROCESS what I said to her in AUGUST, it took her TWO MONTHS to come to realize she needs to stay at Shady Pines permanently, thus/thereby wasting two precious months where the house could be emptied out and sold in a much more (comparatively) leisurely fashion.
So. She goes on "self pay" at the nursing home as of 10/24, which, if you're keeping track, is the anniversary date of dad's death. This detail is lost on neither of my siblings nor myself.
- Today's date is 10/23.
- Self-pay starts 10/24 (tomorrow). In fact, my brother-in-law has already received a $13K bill for the current month and following month.
- The earliest the estate liquidator can do the estate/tag sale to sell off all her worldly effects is 11/4 & 11/5.
- You sell off contents of their home. The proceeds go in a trust fund account that the nursing home then siphons off all available money--
- That trust fund also includes all assets which have been liquidated: whatever $$ in bank accounts, CDs, the sale of her home--and because she is stuck in the "poverty mindset," she was also too cheap to take an alternate structure to her pension--so when she dies, no one gets anything--however, until she dies, the nursing home gets her pension payments;
- When all available assets have been drained, thereby IMPOVERISHING the person/family member/loved one, then Medicaid finally kicks in, and foots the bill.
So. Circling back to last weekend, when I went to NJ...
Initially, I thought my role would be to act as a conduit between my sister and the estate liquidator, who was to do a walk through at the house, to take an assessment of contents etc, and for the liquidator to discuss fees and what services they provide.
Had I known I'd be put to work, I would have brought filter paper masks (or respirators), and one more change of clothing.
Initially, I packed a few items, one box. End of story. Then my sister and I set about doing more intensive stuff. And the more we did, the more it became apparent to me that despite paying for a house keeper, it was obvious that the house had not been thoroughly cleaned since my dad died (We even managed to find a still sealed, brand new box of tea bags in the cupboard that had a sell by date of 2008).
We ordered take out and I insisted we all sit at the dining room table to share the meal together. I am quite confident that this will be the second to the last time that all three of us siblings will sit at a table, breaking bread together. The last meal will be the post-funeral repast when mom dies--whenever that might be, and it doesn't look like it's any time soon.
The more we worked, the more debilitated I became. And the more debilitated I became, the more I was vulnerable to the emotional toll this would take on anyone.
My brother puttered in the garage for several hours, and my sister and I thought surely he had things under control in there, and only after he left did we realize he did not show up to help--he showed up to HELP HIMSELF to whatever last remaining scraps of usefulness were in the garage, leaving the garage looking like a bomb went off in it.
Oh, it also should be noted that he also HELPED HIMSELF to the little table that dad's grandfather made, which dad spent the last year of his life perfecting and tweaking. The table that all three of us knows full well that was on the inventory of things dad wanted ME to have. So not only did I get shafted by Audrey whose attitude after dad died was, "If it's in my house, it's MINE," and kept that table from me (yet prominently on display, so I'd see it every time I entered/exited her hovel), now my brother is doing the same thing to me. And to be honest--fuck him. In the end there is nothing for us, inheritance wise, and he thinks he's entitled to my little table? And this is where I could easily de-evolve and dissolve into a puddle of profanity about what a piece of shit my brother is, but whatever. Why should I get red in the face?
After he left, my sister and I went into the garage and started sorting things for an Xmas auction at her church, but damn, the place was such a mess. Before she left, we packed up her car, and she helped me pack up mine. By 10:30 she left, as her husband was concerned about her as she had been at the house all day. By 10:45, I decided I was going to do what I could, and a lot of it I manged to do while seated. I took off my rings and got to work, as I heard the Maharajah (two rooms away) choking on the dust--the ventilation system hadn't been cleaned in nine years either--the intake vents were all gross).
By midnight, I had emptied out dad's cabinet, sorted books, sorted and grouped similar items together (like DME), broke down boxes and bagged up what I could. In the end, I filled the front of the garage with about a dozen of those heavy duty lawn and leaf bags that landscape contractors use.
The fuckery here is, the HoA where Audrey's house is, only takes 3 cans or 3 bags on trash day--and trash is picked up ONCE A WEEK. 12 bags in the garage--three bags and three cans in the living room--and this process IS FAR FROM DONE. (ETA: I took 4 bags of trash home to dump in my dumpster--whereas my brother, who didn't take even one bag to try to help disposing what needed disposing).
I finished up and took a Silkwood type shower with water as hot as I could stand it, and wrapped myself in a bed sheet (like I said I didn't pack a spare pair of clothing or pajamas--I just had the clothes I was going to wear to go home in for Sunday), laid down and somehow the exhaustion took control and I fell asleep.
I got up when the sun came up, got dressed, and I continued to putter until my sister showed up with breakfast. As we ate, she started doing a freeform word vomit almost like a "Memory Lane" or "Remember When" type discourse, but instead of talking about good things, she talked about the only thing there was an abundance of, which was an inventory of abuse. Maharajah sat there horrified. I never talk of these things, because, for the most part, in order to survive, even from a young age, I compartmentalize it all. Talking about it accomplishes nothing except RELIVING the traumas. When she got to the "Hey, remember all those beatings?" I started to get palpitations, but kept myself from losing it completely.
And right around then, I had this text exchange with my brother:
Him: Hey, I didn't get to go through that case of photos, can you weed out all the photos of me?So. Yeah. Good times, right?
Me: I am ready to leave. You'll get the photos when I am done scanning them.
Him: You can't dig out my pictures so I can have the originals? I moved half my garage yesterday to dig out that dining table! (Note: The dining table is not the same table as the little table)
With that last text he sent me, I threw my phone at my sister, and finally removed myself from the dining room to brush my teeth and hopefully stanch the palpitations. My sister replied to him pretty much duplicating what I just said to him.
To be honest, I'm done with him. I have no use for him, and I really have no use for him or his hostility in my life. His wife is a beast, and his kid has all of the negative qualities of both of them. Luckily for me, he puts forth zero effort, so in the end the same thing he said to my mom applies to him, "you get what you give."
I returned from the bathroom and declared, "When he zaps me a text in a few weeks or whenever, about those fucking photos, I'll just reply, "Hey--we all want things we can't have." And when he asks what do I mean by that, I'll lay it on the line, that if he wants the photos, I want the little table." But whatever, that's a ways off from now, hopefully.
The word vomit inventory of the abuses, made me re-live every fucking awful thing, and in particular, made me analyze how I was molested--and it wasn't just once, and all were members of my mother's family. And that's not including being ogled lecherously by the husband of (surprise, surprise) a cousin of mom's.
From what I can remember, I don't think I was raped by all three family members--though digitally I was at least once that I can recall, so I guess I was raped, in a way. Digitally. I have long believed that my maternal grandfather molested me, and I've blotted so much out, and am only now remembering a time when I was anorexic, wearing a black leather pantsuit, and he put his hands on my behind inappropriately. SURELY there were other times, too, but my psyche is protecting me from those memories.
Then I think of being molested by my uncle, and when I dared to mention it, I was slut-shamed by both, my mother and my grandmother, at another uncle's house, after a Sunday dinner, and not one person, NOT ONE SINGLE ADULT PRESENT, was concerned for me.
Then I think of being molested by my mother's cousin, and reminded how even my brother (at the age of I guess 9 or 10) somehow knew I was digitally raped, how could no one else know? My father only acted on this knowledge when that cousin brandished a Bowie type hunting knife on my brother--yet to me, the one who was violated? My father did nothing.
Cycling through these memories, which thanks to my survival instinct, resembles a slice of Swiss cheese, too many damned holes, too many moments where I just "checked out" mentally because--well, who WOULDN'T, given the same situation? I can remember the black pantsuit episode with my grandfather's hands on my ass (and surely SOMEONE had to have seen that!), I now wonder what else am I repressing? What else might have happened to me, perhaps when I was in diapers and defenseless? It's almost too much to consider. It all is entirely possible, given the cast of characters and lack of protection and advocacy.
So thinking back on my aunt's declaration a few months back about "we all know what a manipulator your mom is," just makes me wonder how much did my aunt know what was going on--and well, FUCK HER for not protecting me (and my siblings).
So it is no great surprise that the following summer, after being branded the family pariah and slut, I finally had sex for the first time, JUST TO GET IT OUT OF THE WAY, and HEY, if I'm going to be called a slut, I might as well enjoy myself, right? (Or at least that was what my 15 year old self thought at the time.) Oh and Audrey was too involved in the seedy goings-on with our neighbor who had a whirlwind summer of leaving her husband, marrying her ex-husband's best friend, then having an abortion. Yeah. I could totally see that as more pressing than knowing what was going on with me, and even much less concerned with cultivating SELF WORTH in her children.
My mind then cycles through the countless times my mother abused, insulted, emotionally destroyed me, and interfered with what few opportunities came my way. I think back on how my ex-husband lived with my family following the death of his mother (who, I might add, informed him he was in fact, an abortion that lived--long story there!), and how my brother caused troubles for us at a time when we were desperate to get our bearings. He agitated my father to the point of fury, and when my father kicked my ex out of the house, he phrased it thusly, "I need you out, and if you want to take her, you're more than welcome to her (me)," as if I were some piece of fucking property, and of course, how welcome was I supposed to feel if I stayed? Pretty much sealed my fate.
Women like who I was at age 21 end up marrying losers like my ex, when they lack the life skills, support and financial means to actually HAVE A CHOICE. I had no choice.
Much in the way I joined the military because the possible future of college was stolen from me, and how mom attempted to interfere with my enlistment, I persevered, and I moved out to save myself.
For about six months, we lived in a shit-hole boarding house in Asbury Park in the late 1980s, because that's what people with shitty credit and no resources do. The moment my parents knew where I was living, they begged me to move home, and I essentially told them to fuck off.
Coincidentally, last week that #MeToo campaign was trending on Facebook, and it all became too much for me to stand (and still is). Pandora's Box pretty much blew wide open.
Here it is, the day before dad's ninth death anniversary, and I'm enraged by him. Oh how this motherfucker worshiped his guns, the NRA fetishist he was! And how when dates would show up at the house, he'd take out his pistols or rifles and start cleaning them--I guess to intimidate? However, when the time came to act on anything, to protect me or defend me, and I didn't need him to SHOOT anyone, for all that blustery NRA bravado, my father did NOTHING.
In the end, after eight years of marriage, when my first marriage went belly up, all my father could do was cry--and today I think FUCK those tears! Then when I managed to remarry, dad viewed that as my MAJOR LIFE ACCOMPLISHMENT. So yeah--so much that is wrong right there.
I think I've progressed nicely in my grief process regarding dad. Soon enough, we'll be in Singapore, taking a cruise, and I'll disperse the last of his cremains at the Equator--which, comparatively speaking, is much more generous and thoughtful of a gift to him, and my final gift to him, and perhaps a gift to myself, that I did this. Not for him, but for me, and I think 2018, being the 10th calendar year of his passing, should be a sufficient amount of time for me to actively grieve for the loss of him. And now I'm seeing things with the eyes of an adult, and I'll be ready to move on with my life, and leave all of this horseshit behind.
The only problem is, I haven't thrown dirt on Audrey's grave yet. She's been dead inside for years, and I'm done with her and her abuse. Done. I have her eulogy written already. I'm ready. She's been dead inside for decades--let's make this official!
I've been avoiding her calls for about 2 weeks now. If I could continue avoiding her until her Dirt Day comes, my god. I'd be content with that.
So, short of giving a full inventory of the outright awful things she's done or said to me, or citing example after example of how she's interfered with my life and my choices, I suppose now would be a good time to conclude this update--of course, assuming anyone has bothered to read this to the end, in which case, I salute your fortitude, and just know, this is just a SPLINTER'S worth of regrettable stories I can tell.
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
Monthly Care Meeting
Yesterday was the second care meeting for mom. She's delusional. She thinks she can just check herself out of the nursing home and go home. She's out of her mind. How will she get home? She can't fit in any of our cars. How will she deal with day to day life? She can't afford a live in nurse. She's convinced if she stays at Shady Pines, she'll "wither and die."
She's still accusing my sister of holding her against her will at the nursing home (incorrect). She's now blaming my sister for the fact mom is at the home at all. Of course, it'd be easier to deflect blame onto my sister (or anyone else for that matter) than to realize the only person to blame is my mother, herself, for the current state of things.
It's taken my sister ten years longer than myself to establish and maintain boundaries. She's only seeing mom once a week (and to be honest, I think 1x a week is too much, especially for someone so thankless and abusive).
Looks like she's either sweet talked (or coerced with some promise of financial gain) one of our cousins (who, in addition to being a certifiable flake, also has THREE daughters who are on the autism spectrum--all of whom are now in their 20s, and I don't know if they live with her or what), to commit to doing two days of home care or companionship a week (pretty big commitment, since the cousin lives over an hour away from mom).
If the cousin doesn't flake out and does manage to be dependable, that would mean HER mom (mom's first cousin) would then be privy to all kinds of insider information about mom, mom's finances, home, plus the never-ending-stream of criticisms mom has about EVERYONE.
Perhaps this cousin, much like mom's friend "B," are the last people to suffer mom's wrath.
I said to my sister about the idea of our cousin doing home care for mom, "Let her. Mom will wear out her welcome quick enough. Let mom check herself out of Shady Pines. And let her next fall be a fatal one on a day when our cousin isn't there. Why should we give a shit, when she doesn't?"
She's still accusing my sister of holding her against her will at the nursing home (incorrect). She's now blaming my sister for the fact mom is at the home at all. Of course, it'd be easier to deflect blame onto my sister (or anyone else for that matter) than to realize the only person to blame is my mother, herself, for the current state of things.
It's taken my sister ten years longer than myself to establish and maintain boundaries. She's only seeing mom once a week (and to be honest, I think 1x a week is too much, especially for someone so thankless and abusive).
Looks like she's either sweet talked (or coerced with some promise of financial gain) one of our cousins (who, in addition to being a certifiable flake, also has THREE daughters who are on the autism spectrum--all of whom are now in their 20s, and I don't know if they live with her or what), to commit to doing two days of home care or companionship a week (pretty big commitment, since the cousin lives over an hour away from mom).
If the cousin doesn't flake out and does manage to be dependable, that would mean HER mom (mom's first cousin) would then be privy to all kinds of insider information about mom, mom's finances, home, plus the never-ending-stream of criticisms mom has about EVERYONE.
Perhaps this cousin, much like mom's friend "B," are the last people to suffer mom's wrath.
I said to my sister about the idea of our cousin doing home care for mom, "Let her. Mom will wear out her welcome quick enough. Let mom check herself out of Shady Pines. And let her next fall be a fatal one on a day when our cousin isn't there. Why should we give a shit, when she doesn't?"
Tuesday, September 5, 2017
More Telephone Twattery
I was in Vermont all last week, and I *did* try calling her a few times while away; and again, I tried to call her on Saturday. And then the weekend kind of ran away with itself. And here we are on Tuesday.
I tried calling on her cell and on her room phone, and both of which rang and rang, and neither of which have voicemail set up, so pretty much it's as if she's at her own house where the phone is equally fucked and no voicemail set up.
And even if I did call and got her, her memory is so shot from either her glucose issues or the long term use of vicodin and lyrica fucking with her brain function, she forgets things too quick.
So whatever.
I tried calling on her cell and on her room phone, and both of which rang and rang, and neither of which have voicemail set up, so pretty much it's as if she's at her own house where the phone is equally fucked and no voicemail set up.
And even if I did call and got her, her memory is so shot from either her glucose issues or the long term use of vicodin and lyrica fucking with her brain function, she forgets things too quick.
So whatever.
"Get Busy Living, Or Get Busy Dying"
So, the discussion I had with my mom a couple weeks back wen I visited her at Shady Pines. Sorry, I've been remiss. I guess I should just jot this shit down for posterity. In no particular order (given the conversation wasn't very linear anyway), I'll do word vomit in bullet points:
- Life is full of choices, and right now you have two: Get busy living or get busy dying;
- All of us want what is best for you, whether that means you go home or stay here in the nursing facility;
- NONE of us can do what needs to be done to get you back home--THAT IS UP TO YOU;
- Whether you are able to leave the facility or not hinges directly on you fully applying yourself in your rehab, because if you cannot walk unassisted with your walker, you cannot go home;
- There are many valid points to be made if you stay in the nursing home;
- How you verbally shredded your friend "B" should be a tip off to you that you need psychological help--she's the sweetest person, who didn't deserve your venom;
- If they offer counseling and antidepressants, take them;
- If the antidepressants don't work, keep trying a new medication until you find what works;
- Grandpa has been dead since 2012. Nothing can undo the damage he's done, but don't you want to be as happy as you can? Or at least TRY TO BE?;
- WE ARE TALKING ABOUT HOW YOU SPEND THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, HERE;
Forgot to Share This on March 4th
A bit of absurdity I neglected to share, and here I am, clearing out some of the photos off my phone, and totally forgot about this.
I visited my mother for her birthday in March, and she allowed me to snap this photo in all its glorious fuckeduppedness.
What you're witnessing here is what happens when you accidentally bend (quite possibly reused) your syringe and empty the contents (insulin) under the skin rather, I guess, into the meat, and then let the insulin pool there, subcutaneously (rather than try to squeeze out a blister full of insulin), and then of course, it gets infected. OH! And of course, NOT seek out medical attention for it.
At least she was keeping it clean--but STILL? I'm not a nurse, and yet, I'm relegated to this role, because she's stupid.
I wish I had a Kennedy half dollar for scale, as I believe the open wound's circumference was roughly that size. I ended up going to CVS to get some OTC silver based wound spray and that helped clear things up. She DID have a tub of Silvadene (or however you spell it), which was filthy and no doubt expired. This should have been a huge indicator that she shouldn't be left alone at home. WHO ALLOWS THIS TO HAPPEN TO THEMSELVES?
I visited my mother for her birthday in March, and she allowed me to snap this photo in all its glorious fuckeduppedness.
What you're witnessing here is what happens when you accidentally bend (quite possibly reused) your syringe and empty the contents (insulin) under the skin rather, I guess, into the meat, and then let the insulin pool there, subcutaneously (rather than try to squeeze out a blister full of insulin), and then of course, it gets infected. OH! And of course, NOT seek out medical attention for it.
I wish I had a Kennedy half dollar for scale, as I believe the open wound's circumference was roughly that size. I ended up going to CVS to get some OTC silver based wound spray and that helped clear things up. She DID have a tub of Silvadene (or however you spell it), which was filthy and no doubt expired. This should have been a huge indicator that she shouldn't be left alone at home. WHO ALLOWS THIS TO HAPPEN TO THEMSELVES?
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
8/16/17
Where to begin? It's been a crazy week. And timing is everything, and this morning, I happened to have an appointment with my pain doctor, as well as a very tightly scheduled session with my therapist (on the phone, on the ride back to the office). And I pretty much stupefied my therapist with the goings-on. And by stupefied, he told me candidly that he was happy but exhausted hearing it all--and he lumped some major praise on me too. And I told him that if this is what a social worker does, I'm not cut out for it!
Like I said, my sister called me last week, so it's been about eight days since, and we've been texting each other regularly.
Saturday I went to Jersey for a visit. As is my norm, I stopped at Delicious Orchards to get a blast of dopamine up front, to bolster or buoy me for visiting my mom--this would be my first visit seeing her in the nursing home. So I loaded myself down with coffee and cheeses and smoked meats, and of course, the cinnamon cider donuts of which I'm so fond, and continued southward.
I set a timer for myself, as I didn't want to lose the whole day (and chances were good mom would've kicked me out of there earlier than I'd like), and set the ringer nice and loud, so she knew when her 15 minute warning was.
The visit was good, and productive, I think. And I will isolate a somewhat linear discussion I had with mom, and the title of that is a line of dialogue from Shawshank Redemption, "Either get busy living, or get busy dying," and save the content of my side of the discussion for a separate post.
As I was gearing up to head to a very late lunch with my sister and niece, my aunt texted me to see how the visit went, and I suggested she call mom herself, as I was en route to see my sister, so a longer discussion would be forthcoming later, and I was interested to see how much of what I said to mom actually TOOK ROOT.
Now, as ever, talking to mom is a dizzying game of "telephone," where she hears what she wants and then parrots back to people what she thinks they want to hear--and oftentimes what she tells other people are outright lies. So I don't know how much of that is the nature of being a granddaughter of a Calabrese nonna, or if it's her borderline personality disorder, or is her memory retention just THAT DODGEY?
The long and the short of it is, mom did manage to process what I had to say, and to know more about what was said, you'll have to wait until I peck out the dialogue--possibly tomorrow.
I arrived at my sister's church (where they were having a rummage sale), just as they were wrapping everything up. I had hoped to go to the bathroom right before seeing her for the first time in 2 years and 7 months; however, as I ran to the restroom, she barrelled out of the ladies room. I gave her a pre-piss hug, and met up with her afterwards in the parish hall.
Before our car pulled out of the lot on our way to get something to eat, I had my niece get out of the car. I had my sister shut her door. And I apologized to my niece for hurting her in May at the bridal shower when I didn't go out of my way to acknowledge her. She hugged me back and said she was confused too, and didn't know how to handle things, either.
Lunch was pleasant, odd, and familiar all at once. We decided not to let mom know we are talking. While, yes, it's cruel to let her continue to think we aren't speaking; however, we both are looking at this as a second chance at being sisters, and are pretty protective of this thing, and don't want mom's interference or influence on it.
We made plans, set boundaries, and hope to manage expectations. Plans have been made where they will come up to see me for Thanksgiving, sleep over and head home on Friday. Other plans have been talked about, classes and what have you. I've only got three more years with my niece before she goes away to college--and I'm hoping she ends up getting interested in an internship in my office for possibly the summer before she graduates--so I'll get her for the summer (perhaps).
We drove back to the church where I got my car, and we managed to talk for another hour or so, and could have gone on longer, and I blurted out, "We need to go. More talking and texting later."
Before heading home, I zapped my aunt a text and asked if she was up for a visit--as I could have benefited from stopping there, as it's a halfway point home, and she declined. I ended up visiting a friend's house, about a half hour from home, ostensibly to tie a rahki on him and give blessings and sweets as I missed the holiday this year. The visit was short, and I must have looked like a wreck (I was on the go for about 13 hours).
I got home and was an absolute wreck.
Not unlike today. So, I used up all my fortitude to get myself washed and dressed and out the door and to the doctor appointment and have the therapy session before work... and my job right now is to be a human potato until the end of the work day, when I can go and get a well deserved deep tissue massage (with a possibility of a hot bath when I get home).
Like I said, my sister called me last week, so it's been about eight days since, and we've been texting each other regularly.
Saturday I went to Jersey for a visit. As is my norm, I stopped at Delicious Orchards to get a blast of dopamine up front, to bolster or buoy me for visiting my mom--this would be my first visit seeing her in the nursing home. So I loaded myself down with coffee and cheeses and smoked meats, and of course, the cinnamon cider donuts of which I'm so fond, and continued southward.
I set a timer for myself, as I didn't want to lose the whole day (and chances were good mom would've kicked me out of there earlier than I'd like), and set the ringer nice and loud, so she knew when her 15 minute warning was.
The visit was good, and productive, I think. And I will isolate a somewhat linear discussion I had with mom, and the title of that is a line of dialogue from Shawshank Redemption, "Either get busy living, or get busy dying," and save the content of my side of the discussion for a separate post.
As I was gearing up to head to a very late lunch with my sister and niece, my aunt texted me to see how the visit went, and I suggested she call mom herself, as I was en route to see my sister, so a longer discussion would be forthcoming later, and I was interested to see how much of what I said to mom actually TOOK ROOT.
Now, as ever, talking to mom is a dizzying game of "telephone," where she hears what she wants and then parrots back to people what she thinks they want to hear--and oftentimes what she tells other people are outright lies. So I don't know how much of that is the nature of being a granddaughter of a Calabrese nonna, or if it's her borderline personality disorder, or is her memory retention just THAT DODGEY?
The long and the short of it is, mom did manage to process what I had to say, and to know more about what was said, you'll have to wait until I peck out the dialogue--possibly tomorrow.
I arrived at my sister's church (where they were having a rummage sale), just as they were wrapping everything up. I had hoped to go to the bathroom right before seeing her for the first time in 2 years and 7 months; however, as I ran to the restroom, she barrelled out of the ladies room. I gave her a pre-piss hug, and met up with her afterwards in the parish hall.
Before our car pulled out of the lot on our way to get something to eat, I had my niece get out of the car. I had my sister shut her door. And I apologized to my niece for hurting her in May at the bridal shower when I didn't go out of my way to acknowledge her. She hugged me back and said she was confused too, and didn't know how to handle things, either.
Lunch was pleasant, odd, and familiar all at once. We decided not to let mom know we are talking. While, yes, it's cruel to let her continue to think we aren't speaking; however, we both are looking at this as a second chance at being sisters, and are pretty protective of this thing, and don't want mom's interference or influence on it.
We made plans, set boundaries, and hope to manage expectations. Plans have been made where they will come up to see me for Thanksgiving, sleep over and head home on Friday. Other plans have been talked about, classes and what have you. I've only got three more years with my niece before she goes away to college--and I'm hoping she ends up getting interested in an internship in my office for possibly the summer before she graduates--so I'll get her for the summer (perhaps).
We drove back to the church where I got my car, and we managed to talk for another hour or so, and could have gone on longer, and I blurted out, "We need to go. More talking and texting later."
Before heading home, I zapped my aunt a text and asked if she was up for a visit--as I could have benefited from stopping there, as it's a halfway point home, and she declined. I ended up visiting a friend's house, about a half hour from home, ostensibly to tie a rahki on him and give blessings and sweets as I missed the holiday this year. The visit was short, and I must have looked like a wreck (I was on the go for about 13 hours).
I got home and was an absolute wreck.
Not unlike today. So, I used up all my fortitude to get myself washed and dressed and out the door and to the doctor appointment and have the therapy session before work... and my job right now is to be a human potato until the end of the work day, when I can go and get a well deserved deep tissue massage (with a possibility of a hot bath when I get home).
Wednesday, August 9, 2017
8/9/17 If I had my way
... I'd keep the older of mom's two brothers from calling her.
From someone who heard him say it to her on the phone:
Yeah. One small consolation I will have is knowing when my mom ultimately passes away, I won't have anything to do with this asshole again.
From someone who heard him say it to her on the phone:
"So, are you the only resident bed wetter there?"
Yeah. One small consolation I will have is knowing when my mom ultimately passes away, I won't have anything to do with this asshole again.
8/9/17
Last night my sister called, and I answered the phone. We spoke for two hours.
In all likelihood, mom won't be returning home. She's a great quitter. She told her physical therapist to go fuck himself.
The prevailing thought was we had 100 days until we had to worry about liquidating her house. But the system appears to be set up in such a way where they get everything organized (vis-a-vis financials) so that if/when a determination is made where if she is NOT returning home, the nursing home sets mom up on self-pay until such time she runs out of cash (which at this point will be roughly 9-12 months, depending on how much her house sells for).
I'm pretty numb, or insulated or maybe I am too logical or perhaps it all hasn't hit me yet. It's a lot to process to think that before Thanksgiving is even here, mom's house won't be hers anymore.
I'm processing how the last visit I planned (first, for Mother's Day, and then later, in the beginning of July--which ended up getting cancelled), would have been THE last visit where mom was still reasonably still "herself" and in her home with her things, her precious books, and above all else, intimacy/privacy (which a nursing home doesn't afford). It's a lot to process.
Is this what death is? You die a thousand deaths, some at the molecular level, until the day you draw your final breath.
There's a lot to unpack from the conversation with my sister, stuff that is between she and I. But at the moment, our focus is on mom.
And thinking about yesterday's conversation with mom, how I had that moment where I felt like this is what normal mother-daughter relationships are like. And it made me sad. She's capable of it. And I don't know if it's she's unwilling or incapable of being that way 24/7. It's almost cruel.
I like to think the "real" mom is the one who was loving and affectionate to me yesterday. The problem is, the monster inhabits the same body.
As of this moment, we know mom's pretty much giving up her will to live because: 1. She isn't eating; and 2. She isn't calling anyone. However, knowing how she's vacillating wildly from lucid to NOT (mostly NOT, but she really sounds like she's normal up to a point), it might be just as well that she's not calling people, as the monster is the prominent personality, and who the hell knows what kind of awful things she'll tell "outsiders."
In all likelihood, mom won't be returning home. She's a great quitter. She told her physical therapist to go fuck himself.
The prevailing thought was we had 100 days until we had to worry about liquidating her house. But the system appears to be set up in such a way where they get everything organized (vis-a-vis financials) so that if/when a determination is made where if she is NOT returning home, the nursing home sets mom up on self-pay until such time she runs out of cash (which at this point will be roughly 9-12 months, depending on how much her house sells for).
I'm pretty numb, or insulated or maybe I am too logical or perhaps it all hasn't hit me yet. It's a lot to process to think that before Thanksgiving is even here, mom's house won't be hers anymore.
I'm processing how the last visit I planned (first, for Mother's Day, and then later, in the beginning of July--which ended up getting cancelled), would have been THE last visit where mom was still reasonably still "herself" and in her home with her things, her precious books, and above all else, intimacy/privacy (which a nursing home doesn't afford). It's a lot to process.
Is this what death is? You die a thousand deaths, some at the molecular level, until the day you draw your final breath.
There's a lot to unpack from the conversation with my sister, stuff that is between she and I. But at the moment, our focus is on mom.
And thinking about yesterday's conversation with mom, how I had that moment where I felt like this is what normal mother-daughter relationships are like. And it made me sad. She's capable of it. And I don't know if it's she's unwilling or incapable of being that way 24/7. It's almost cruel.
I like to think the "real" mom is the one who was loving and affectionate to me yesterday. The problem is, the monster inhabits the same body.
As of this moment, we know mom's pretty much giving up her will to live because: 1. She isn't eating; and 2. She isn't calling anyone. However, knowing how she's vacillating wildly from lucid to NOT (mostly NOT, but she really sounds like she's normal up to a point), it might be just as well that she's not calling people, as the monster is the prominent personality, and who the hell knows what kind of awful things she'll tell "outsiders."
Tuesday, August 8, 2017
Mom, Today 8/8/17
Last time I spoke to her was Friday, right before she was being transported to the rehab facility. My aunt provided me mom's phone # and room #, and despite attempts on Sunday and Monday, there was no answer on mom's room phone. Today, I decided to call in the middle of the day, and I managed to get a hold of her.
She sounded more "with it" than on Thursday (the call wherein she conveyed she feels like my sister is holding her against her will) and my chat on Friday was so brief, I didn't get much of a handle on her mental state that day. But today she sounds more like herself, albeit a bit tired--and I thought for a hot second perhaps they had her on antidepressants.
She rehashed a bit of what she said in Thursday's conversation, and when she just barely touched on the notion of being held against her will, I asked her pointedly, "How much do you trust me?" She replied, "With my life. Just like you trusted me with yours." (I suspect she meant while I was still in her belly.)
I then blurted out, "Don't make me cry. But how much do you trust me? And even though you DO trust me, IF you didn't trust me, you trust your sister, right? Well, we both do not believe you are being held against your will. So get that thought out of your head. When that crazy voice starts talking, you tell that voice to STFU." My pep talk continued.
"And even though people aren't visiting or calling you every day, you have a LOT of people who are thinking of you, and hoping for the best. Your first job you need to do right now is sleep as much as you can. You can't rush a bone healing. Your SECOND job right now is to do the best you can and apply yourself when you go for your daily physical therapy. Your mindset is JUST as important." You need to keep yourself mentally strong." It was at this point she informed me that my brother told her the same thing.
One good thing to come out of this chat is that she has a social worker she spoke with either today or yesterday. And I told mom to make good use out of those chats, and to speak with the social worker every opportunity she has.
I think it was a good chat. Who knows which version of mom's personality I'll encounter when I talk to her tomorrow. But at least in this moment, she trusts me with her life, and my call served to remind her she's not alone.
I feel a bit weird tagging this with the DeathWatch 2017 tag, but the tag stays put. For now.
She sounded more "with it" than on Thursday (the call wherein she conveyed she feels like my sister is holding her against her will) and my chat on Friday was so brief, I didn't get much of a handle on her mental state that day. But today she sounds more like herself, albeit a bit tired--and I thought for a hot second perhaps they had her on antidepressants.
She rehashed a bit of what she said in Thursday's conversation, and when she just barely touched on the notion of being held against her will, I asked her pointedly, "How much do you trust me?" She replied, "With my life. Just like you trusted me with yours." (I suspect she meant while I was still in her belly.)
I then blurted out, "Don't make me cry. But how much do you trust me? And even though you DO trust me, IF you didn't trust me, you trust your sister, right? Well, we both do not believe you are being held against your will. So get that thought out of your head. When that crazy voice starts talking, you tell that voice to STFU." My pep talk continued.
"And even though people aren't visiting or calling you every day, you have a LOT of people who are thinking of you, and hoping for the best. Your first job you need to do right now is sleep as much as you can. You can't rush a bone healing. Your SECOND job right now is to do the best you can and apply yourself when you go for your daily physical therapy. Your mindset is JUST as important." You need to keep yourself mentally strong." It was at this point she informed me that my brother told her the same thing.
One good thing to come out of this chat is that she has a social worker she spoke with either today or yesterday. And I told mom to make good use out of those chats, and to speak with the social worker every opportunity she has.
I think it was a good chat. Who knows which version of mom's personality I'll encounter when I talk to her tomorrow. But at least in this moment, she trusts me with her life, and my call served to remind her she's not alone.
I feel a bit weird tagging this with the DeathWatch 2017 tag, but the tag stays put. For now.
Friday, August 4, 2017
Mom, Today, 8/4/17
This morning I fielded a call from mom bugging out a bit on her cell. It was a non-linear conversation which contained a few fragmented thoughts from her:
Of course, given this weirdness with my sister, it'd be all too convenient for me to jump to the conclusion that she's going to keep mom from going home; however, I'll give her the benefit of the doubt here. Even my aunt heartily concurs that this isn't the case.
I then brought up the fact mom wanted me to contact Bob (I guess to report it--she lost her thought process before she could finish that sentence), and seemed almost to wake up when I asked why should I call and she replied, "I don't know."
Her glucose continues to hover around 200-220. The food she's being given to eat is not only gross, but it's also not conducive to someone who is diabetic (i.e. not a lot of lean protein or steamed veggies, the fruits aren't low glycemic (when I was there it was canned mandarin oranges--and I don't care if the can says "sugar free" oranges are not good for people with diabetes. PERIOD.), and the bread is standard white, fluffy high glycemic index bread.
The problem not just is in the food that's provided, but also, she's not eating. And that's having a result too.
Another "gem" that came out when I spoke with my aunt was how mom wanted her to go back to mom's house to get mom's supply of vicodin, put it in a baggie and bring it back to the hospital. Of course, my aunt refused to do this!
My next step was to text my uncle T in Florida, to see what he could tell me about whatever conversation he had with mom that involved his friend Bob. I said, "Being in law enforcement myself, I know enough that if mom were to report anything to anyone, it'd be a cop from the local PD, not someone from northern NJ."
So we hurry up and wait. And it's a weird kind of waiting. I am not sure if I elucidated this previously, but the timeline here is kind of eerie, harkening back to the summer of 2008 with dad's final health crises and hospitalization.
He ended up in the hospital 1-2x towards the end of July, was in and out in August (went home, sold his truck, and re-homed all his birds and his sister came down and got his dog), and back into the hospital he went, and soon thereafter was the surgery at the end of September, and by the end of October he was gone.
So, my 40th birthday in 2008 was the last birthday dad was alive; and now I'm wondering if my 49th birthday will be the last birthday where mom is alive.
Everything else (i.e. the bullshit with my sister) all seems so unimportant right now.
- She thinks my sister is conspiring to keep her in the hospital against her will;
- She wants me to contact this guy Bob, who is a retired cop, who is a friend of her brother--when I pressed her "Why should I call Bob?" She replied, "I don't know."
- She doesn't feel well, she's out of sorts, doesn't feel like herself;
- She feels like she's going to die in there and that will be the next thing I know;
- She feels like her house burnt to the ground and no one told her and she's staying in the hospital because she has no where to go;
- "What has happened to my life? I've never had complaints about my life before, now look at what a mess it is."
- Is her glucose impacting her memory & mood (I'm sure it is, to a degree);
- Is there something else going on? (TIA, mini stroke, or did the fall hurt her brain too?);
- Is this her trying to garner sympathy or otherwise manipulate me?
Of course, given this weirdness with my sister, it'd be all too convenient for me to jump to the conclusion that she's going to keep mom from going home; however, I'll give her the benefit of the doubt here. Even my aunt heartily concurs that this isn't the case.
I then brought up the fact mom wanted me to contact Bob (I guess to report it--she lost her thought process before she could finish that sentence), and seemed almost to wake up when I asked why should I call and she replied, "I don't know."
Her glucose continues to hover around 200-220. The food she's being given to eat is not only gross, but it's also not conducive to someone who is diabetic (i.e. not a lot of lean protein or steamed veggies, the fruits aren't low glycemic (when I was there it was canned mandarin oranges--and I don't care if the can says "sugar free" oranges are not good for people with diabetes. PERIOD.), and the bread is standard white, fluffy high glycemic index bread.
The problem not just is in the food that's provided, but also, she's not eating. And that's having a result too.
Another "gem" that came out when I spoke with my aunt was how mom wanted her to go back to mom's house to get mom's supply of vicodin, put it in a baggie and bring it back to the hospital. Of course, my aunt refused to do this!
My next step was to text my uncle T in Florida, to see what he could tell me about whatever conversation he had with mom that involved his friend Bob. I said, "Being in law enforcement myself, I know enough that if mom were to report anything to anyone, it'd be a cop from the local PD, not someone from northern NJ."
So we hurry up and wait. And it's a weird kind of waiting. I am not sure if I elucidated this previously, but the timeline here is kind of eerie, harkening back to the summer of 2008 with dad's final health crises and hospitalization.
He ended up in the hospital 1-2x towards the end of July, was in and out in August (went home, sold his truck, and re-homed all his birds and his sister came down and got his dog), and back into the hospital he went, and soon thereafter was the surgery at the end of September, and by the end of October he was gone.
So, my 40th birthday in 2008 was the last birthday dad was alive; and now I'm wondering if my 49th birthday will be the last birthday where mom is alive.
Everything else (i.e. the bullshit with my sister) all seems so unimportant right now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)