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. 

• 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.

For those who are not well-versed in the economics of what putting someone in a nursing home entails, I'll break it down for you:

1. 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--
2. 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;
3. When all available assets have been drained, thereby IMPOVERISHING the person/family member/loved one, then Medicaid finally kicks in, and foots the bill. 

TBH I never thought there'd be much in the way of an inheritance, but I always held out the small hope that I'd get my little nest egg back, the little trust account set up by my nana for college, plus the matter of the 33.3 shares of AT&T stock (circa 1976), plus approximately $1600 which I was forced to kick back from four years of summer jobs so mom could hold it "for safe keeping." In the end, that little bit of justice won't be dispensed. 

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?
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)

So. Yeah. Good times, right? 

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.