Jacqui (jacqui) wrote,

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A Big Black Hyland Depression

I'm so depressed. I can't believe just last night I was nervous and stressed and excited about going to Burning Man and now I feel like it isn't going to happen.

I live for your comments and when there aren't any I'm devastated. I feel like I should be chipper and positive and fun to read here, but I know that's ridiculous, because what kind of journal would this be if I only write upbeat things. It's just that I'm so sick of having this stressed
out problem filled life, when on the surface, if a stranger looked at me, they'd think, "What the hell is your problem? You have so much, you're so lucky, stop complaining and get off your ass and work harder to make things better. There's nothing wrong with you. Exercise. Diet. Get a job." But how can I explain to someone who doesn't understand what it feels like to suffer from depression and ups and downs and be in fear. It just sounds like I'm being the biggest baby. I mean there are four people right now just outside my door who would give anything to be in my position. Coco, Esther and her two children Eduardo and Andrea. Well, I don't know if Eduardo would want to be in my position but I'm sure he wouldn't mind being here legally so that he can plan on going to college and know that he has a home to live in and enough money for food.

My Mother is playing money games with me as usual. I play them back so I know I'm responsible for the screwed up situation I'm in. She canceled her credit cards and reneged on her offer to pay for our motor home ride to Burning Man. I know it's my fault for putting myself in this position. It's just that it's such a big huge trap and not even remotely possible for me to extricate myself from, for the foreseeable future. See, I have this rigidly controlling dictatorial, eighty-four year old mother, and a ninety-one year old father, who eats mashed food and wears diapers, and I have let them pay for everything for us for a long time. I used to be normal and had a good job that I loved but then I got pregnant and quit and couldn't count on my husband and then Mom stepped in with this house remodeling idea. She would pay to remodel our home so that we would have this wonderful, creative, roomy, ideal living space. She would pay for my, (yuck I hate to say husband now it give's me the shivers), husband's contractor's school, bond, license and weekly salary and everything else involved. In the end he would wind up with experience and a career and we would be set with a beautiful new home. What an offer, who could resist something like that. Except that our relationship was under major strain and was breathing it's last dying breath. My ex was running around with a stripper behind my back and stealing money from the house fund to pay for her, and I was deeply involved with another man. It was hell and in the end Robby couldn't stand up under the strain and ran off, leaving me with a half completed poorly constructed nightmare of a house that I had to finish with his crew of ex cons.

Long story short, I'm still here, trying to figure out how to lose enough weight to be a fat character actor again and keep the boat afloat here while being buffeted back and forth by the weird angry winds of my life.

Then there's my father. The one who alternated between loving me and threatening me. Who didn't know how to relate to a girl let alone a young woman, filled as his poisoned mind was, with Madonna Whore type classifications of women. He doesn't slap me or shove me or push me up against a wall anymore. He doesn't make me pee my pants with fear. He doesn't tell my mother all of the mean little things he thinks about me that she used to betray him by repeating back to me. He doesn't complain and tell me I should go to the library, when I need money for school books. He doesn't tell me I don't have a good enough "figure" to be an actress.

He doesn't say nigger this and nigger that anymore. He can't watch golf or football on television in the other room, while we open the presents on Christmas anymore. He doesn't buy guns and write suicide notes or hang with the boys or have those wink, wink, massages, that for a long time made him think that he had AIDS. But he still gets out of having to go to mass, and he still yells at me every once in a while when he feels like it, and he still scares me to death.

Will he love me, won't he love me, will she? Are they sorry they adopted me, do they want to send me back again today? "One day I'll be a very wealthy girl, and men will want to marry me for my parents money." One day, one day, one day. Stay here in this half built house that took four years of my life and broke the back of my fragile marriage and wait. For what? Who would want someone like that? Get more cats, buy more things, become more entrenched and more dependent, eat over your sadness, loneliness, and despair, then have things whipped out from under you, whenever you dare to live outside the narrowly defined lines, in their stifling, wealthy, attractive, young, Christian, whites only world. Except they aren't young anymore and they were never really attractive, unless you find beauty in shallowness, fear, and conformity.

So my parents are way older than I am. In addition to that they are both only children, whose parents were only children, so they don't have a clue how to be with children, and they forgot almost everything about their childhood's that would ever have been useful in fluffing up any amount of empathy from them. Children should be seen and not heard. I'm glad my father took that strap to me. It taught me to love him. I walked twelve miles to school in the snow. In California?

They are very wealthy. They live in a multimillion dollar home in the most expensive neighborhood, in one of the most expensive cities in the world. They are conservative, uptight, racist, anti-Semitic, closed minded, bigoted, lapsed, holier than thou Catholic, golf playing, country club joining, judgmental, line towing, kitchen cabinet member, rabid Republicans, who don't dig people like me.

Oh what's the use, I don't have the energy to explain it all. I'm just lonely and frightened and depressed, and sick of being a broken hearted puppet. I miss my false world. The one that said best friends and husbands can be trusted and won't betray you. People don't just blow in and out of your life. Families and friendships don't just come apart in your hands like wet sand on a cold windy beach. Adoption reunions are beautiful, everyone cries and hugs and mends the wound on national television. Sickness, loneliness, poverty, heartache, failure, tortured broken dreams, acne, fat, ugliness and aging, these things exist out there somewhere. Maybe on the news. You can avoid all of it if you just don't watch. Pretend not to care about those Russians who drowned in that submarine or the little girl who is chained to a bed her entire life and forced to shit on the floor.

This is one of the many lovely things my Mother said to me today, "Hmmm, all your doctor's are Jews. Why do they all have to be Jews? Well, I guess that's all right. There's nothing wrong with it. I'm just saying." Can you imagine saying this to someone whose lover is Jewish? Never mind that she tossed out all of her usual, "You're crazy! You're sick! You should be locked up," crap. Nothing new.

Whenever I get hopeful and think, thank God this hate mongering generation is finally dying off, I'm reminded that there is a whole army full of proud, white youth, in Orange County, just waiting to get in line right behind them. Ra ra ra, the fucked up, miserable, paranoid, war mongering, secret society, One World Order running, seriously twisted, ancient control freaks, shake their fists at us, shouting that the best of times lie behind us. Yes, the depression, and the war years were the best, and our generation is selfish and lost and will never amount to anything. Well, then maybe someday, when they can no longer hang on to the last vestiges of control, destruction, suspicion, and ignorance, with their brittle, yellowed, Howard Hughes like talons, we will finally be able to rest this ravaged, dying, planet, from their greedy hands and attain some approximation of happiness. But in the mean time buck up and make the best of it, and stop yer whining!

I don't know if I'll be able to get the money together to rent the motor home, and pay Coco and Esther, and pay my loans, to keep people from seizing my building and possessions, and get stuff together in time to be creative and have fun and be free for just one fucking week of heaven in the most inhospitable climate I've ever known. Scared, sad, freaked out. What kind of pill can I take for this. Need help.

I think the recent Lorraine fiasco coupled with my birth mother's total cruelty via a letter of rejection on my birthday, compounded by mother's hitting me with the car, really out me over the edge and it just isn't as easy to get back up this time. Never mind that it's only been about three days since I gave up my diet pills.

Do you know there were actually nine things that came up on ebay when I typed in Big, Black, and Blob, 1269 for darkness and 5423 for depression?
well, at least I have forty dollars that Esther loaned me, so I could go to a movie and eat something sugary and soothing and there's always sex if my Scott will have me. I could always take an online IQ test and wish it was higher. What do tears look like in the language of smileys?


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