Daily Archives: June 16, 2012

the day my dog was shot

this week marks the one year anniversary of my precious, sweeter-than-honey 5 lb yorkie bundle of love getting shot.  not shots like vaccines.  shot like with a 9mm pistol.

this was just one in a month-long series of events that should have indicated to me that something was very, very wrong.  it was not only that my dog was shot, but the event did not impact me the way that it should have.  i was sailing on another planet, too high to come down.

there were a lot of events like that last summer.

it’s hard to say what exactly took place that night.  looking at my old bank statements among the fast food joints, bars, liquor stores, and overdraft fees, it appears to have been a bender.  dinner out with a group to celebrate a friend’s going-away to a new job. a $30 cab fee (??) which is really confusing because this town is NOT that big and you would have to try to get a cab fee that high.  a total of FOUR trips to liquor stores.  two different bar tabs totalling over $60.

all i know is i was shit-faced drunk out of my mind and I had painted the town fire-engine red that night.

at some point, Beautiful Disaster had joined me.  if i had to guess, i’d say we made another pit stop at his bar to do shots in the back too.

i got home, somehow, with Beautiful Disaster in tow.  what happens next has been seared into my memory for the rest of my life.

i was changing into pajamas while Beautiful Disaster sat on my bed.  out of the corner of my mind, i recognized that Beautiful Disaster was inspecting the 9mm pistol that i kept on my night stand.  it didn’t really concern me, in part due to the alcohol i’m sure, but also in part because he had given me a thorough lesson on gun safety the night before.

a shot rang out.

it was surprisingly quiet, kind of like one of those party poppers (albeit a big one…).  i looked at him, confused.  my heart was racing because i was about 5 feet away from the bullet trajectory.  his eyes were wide and he had the ‘oops’ look all over his face.  but, i didn’t think it was loud enough for the neighbors to hear, so they were unlikely to call the police.

i was on the verge of a fit of mad laughter when my little dog began squealing.  i remember thinking the sound must have scared him.  i saw him hopping around on the bed.

suddenly i saw a trail of red follow where ever he landed.

plop, plop, plop

somehow my whole room seemed to be covered in blood.  it was on the floor, my bed, the walls.  i started to scream as i envisioned my dog, my light of my life, my partner in crime, my sidekick, dying.

i fucking LOST IT.  somehow between the tears and wails of agony, i managed to wrap up my little guy in a towel and apply pressure to the wound.  (thank god i love crime shows)  once he was in my arms, he quieted down.  i looked at him, and he looked at me.  i could just hear him saying ‘mom, what’s going on?’ and my heart was breaking.

‘FUCKING DO SOMETHING!!!!!’ i screamed at Beautiful Disaster, who thought removing pressure and looking at the wound was something to be done.  i think i may have told him to fuck off and to call a cab and look up an emergency vet.  i don’t really remember.  i remember yelling and screaming and crying, and trying not to imagine my dog dying, and wondering how i turned into such a shit show.

for some reason, he decided to call police.  i don’t know why.  in hindsight that was a pretty fucking bad idea.  but i was out of my mind and i didn’t care.  i needed someone with a motor vehicle at my house NOW.

they arrived shortly thereafter and interrogated us about the incident.  i was told they would give me a ride to the vet, but they just kept waiting and waiting and talking amongst themselves.  my baby’s blood was soaking into the towel.  every minute counted.  i walked up to the police and said, take me to the vet now, please.  liquid courage, indeed.

they took me to a nearby emergency vet.  (side note: it is VERY uncomfortable in the back of a police car.)  Beautiful Disaster was still getting interrogated at my house.  I remember hearing him say that he was my boyfriend and lived with me, but i had priorities and his stupid lie to the police wasn’t one of them.  little did i know he would also say that the pistol was his and then would hand it over to them.  keep in mind this is my EX-live-in-boyfriend’s gun.

upon arrival at the vet they took my dog in the back.  i looked down and saw my arms, hands, and shirt were covered in blood.  my heart was pounding.  it was very early in the morning, maybe 6am.  i hadn’t slept.  i had been scared sober but there was still alcohol coursing through my veins.  i felt dirty and trashy.  i didn’t deserve my dog.

a police officer remained with me for a while, trying to get information about the incident.  i remember not giving a flying fuck about his authority or badge, and when he asked about Beautiful Disaster, i told the officer he’d have to go ask him and lit a cigarette and ignored him for the rest of the time.

can i just mention that i actually like police officers?  i’ve heard horror stories, sure.  no doubt, some people suck and they end up as police officers.  but i normally appreciate their public service.  and here i was, acting like an impudent 15-year old girl.

eventually Beautiful Disaster showed up in a taxi.  he was freaking the fuck out too but trying to play it cool.  it didn’t work.  it just so happens that he also has brain damage, of the frontal lobe variety, and apparently intense stress makes him black out.  he kept fading in and out.  when he was conscious he’d tell me i need to call his neuropsychologist, and then he’d pass out again.  i smacked him a couple of times with no luck (although it did make me feel a little better).

i called the doctor he mentioned during one brief period of lucidity.  the doctor wasn’t in but the guy i spoke to told me i needed to bring him to the hospital immediately.

i was freaking the fuck out AGAIN.

my dog was in the back of the vet, SHOT.  they are telling me that i need to take my dog to a different vet with a surgeon on staff.  suddenly the seconds are ticking again.  the front desk lady tells me she will call to let the next emergency vet we are coming.

Beautiful Disaster is in the front, who might be having serious issues with brain damage, and i have explicit instructions from the hospital’s neuropsychology department to bring him in NOW.

i’m calling a taxi and calling 911.  the fire department and ambulance show up.  by this time, Beautiful Disaster has stumbled outside.  he’s vomiting and passing out, interchangeably.  i am feeling like i’m on another planet.  i felt 100% alone, because i thought no friend deserved to deal with this level of bullshit.  i made my bed and needed to lie in it.

Beautiful Disaster is telling the 5 firemen and EMTs to fuck off and he’s not leaving the vet.  he’s repeating over and over again that my dog is his priority and he’s going to save the dog.  they force him to sign a waiver that says if he dies they aren’t responsible.  it turns into a pissing contest among the men.  somehow they have all formed a semi-circle around me.  i light another cigarette.

the next cab is taking forever.  i called back the cab company twice and eventually called another one all together, i think.  after what feels like a fucking eternity, the cab arrives and Beautiful Disaster and I head to the second vet.  he’s begging me to talk to him, to forgive him.  he’s apologizing non-stop.  i don’t give a fuck.

we walk into the vet and the strangest thing happens.  i tell the front desk the situation.  and i start laughing.  hysterically, with tears.  and i’m trying to say, but wait, no, no…i don’t actually think this is funny at all.  i can’t figure out why i’m laughing.  i decide to let Beautiful Disaster handle it.

they tell us that the previous vet never called them and that they don’t have a surgeon either.  the clock is ticking again.  i’m ready to curse the previous vet, who did virtually nothing, including NOT calling the vet they told me they had called, and still charged $500.

thankfully, the cab is still outside, or nearby, or something, where we don’t have to wait long.  we head to a third vet.  by this time, my dog is not looking so good.  he’s weak and quiet.  i’m getting ready to cut a bitch if i don’t get somewhere with a fucking doctor who can help.

we arrive at this giant hospital-looking vet.  i knew this was going to be the place.  they take my little champion in the back, and i sit in the little room, waiting.  eventually i start to nod off.

Beautiful Disaster is off doing something.  getting something to drink.  calling his family to tell them what happened.  calling his lawyer, who is now somehow also my lawyer in this situation, if it turned out that i needed one.  he’s trying to figure out where to get money for the vet bill.  he’s calling relatives asking for money.  finally he shows up to the room where i am with drinks, cigarettes, a stuffed animal, and a bunch of other shit to cheer me up.

he tells me he’s going to need to pull the money out of the settlement he received when he was hit by a car (hence the brain damage).  for some reason, he’s telling me he needs to transfer all of it into MY account, and then transfer it back out to his own account.  i don’t get it but i don’t really care.  i just want my dog taken care of.

the thing is, this settlement is non-trivial.  i mean non-trivial in the sense that i could fully retire along with the rest of my family, non-trivial.  lots of zeros.  i’m wondering why the fuck this kid wants to transfer all of the funds to me, even for an hour.  i mean, i’m not going to steal it or anything but it just seems incredibly risky.  i admit, i was satisfied at the prospect of saying i was a millionaire for a day.

it never happened though and he ended up telling his grandmother how much he loved me and that shooting the dog was his responsibility and he wanted to cover the vet bills.

the vet came in and said, luckily, the bullet wound had only punctured tissue.  there was no damage to bones or organs.  they had cleaned it and wanted to hold my little guy over night for observation.  i would probably be able to pick him up the next day.  i couldn’t believe it.

they also said we could call to periodically check in to see how my dog is doing at any time of the day.  Beautiful Disaster called every hour, on the hour, and sometimes in between.

when i got home, i looked at the wreckage.  blood spatter covered everything.  my arms were still spotted with blood.  i was so tired, i just collapsed on my bed, lying among the dried spots.  i fell into a deep, deep sleep.


In Search of The Least Destructive Self Destruction

I’ve been thinking about self destructive behavior a lot lately, mostly because I don’t have very much and it is starting to get to me. I quit smoking a little over 3 years ago (smoked for nearly 20 years- started young), I don’t do recreational drugs anymore, I never cared for alcohol and I try to stay fit. Unfortunately I know that I am hardwired for self destruction and it’s starting to wear me down.

I have always struggled with my weight. I am a “fat kid”, helpless in the face of processed carbs and sugar, religious in my glee over combinations of butterfat, sweets and salt. I lost the bulk of my childhood weight (about 100 lbs) and have had an on-again-off-again love affair with 30 of them for the past 5 years or so. I binge. I eat for duration. You would not believe the amount I can put away (in secret, in private). I hate myself when I do it and I recommit to eating sanely and then I binge and hate myself. It wasn’t until recently that it occurred to me that binging is my only means of self destruction these days.I don’t do fad diets anymore and I have good healthy eating habits… when I can beat back the daily, hourly waves of desire to just drown it all in cream cheese frosting and Wheat Thins.

I don’t buy it any more that we are supposed to make healthy decisions most of the time. The chemical grooves we have worn in our brains since childhood are built for pain and chaos just as much as they are built for elation. BI-polar people… BI. I can’t shake the notion that I am spitting in the wind when I try to fight against my desire to be unhealthy, to be destructive, to restart the cycle of pain/recognition/change/growth.

So I am beginning to think that rather than cut off one pathway and watch the desire gush out another, I should just find “healthier” ways to be self destructive. When I was young, I was a cutter – purely surface and I always kept it to myself. Later on when I was single I sought oblivion and some means of self destruction in sex (the likes of which are no longer an option in my marriage). So I wonder if I shouldn’t return to cutting when the desire to sabotage myself becomes inescapable. Stuffing my face and gaining back those 30 pounds is just an effort to still the restless scream in my head that says “I want, I want I want!” and to finally say “YES” to something that isn’t good for me. Every day I say “no” to smoking, “no” to deviant sex with strangers, “no” to getting off my meds, “no” to quitting my job, “no” to depression wanting me to ruin my relationships, “no” to suicide, “no” to running away, “no” to becoming a junkie, “no” to checking into a hospital and just curling up for awhile, “no” to spending all the money I have and more and on and on and on. If I don’t find something for that part of me to say “yes” to, I stop being in charge and it takes over and says yes at will. Or I simply stuff my face and gain 30 pounds and lose confidence and feel like an ugly toad which feeds my desire to stay home, stay shut in, withdraw… yeah…

So now rather than trying not to be self destructive in any way, I am looking for the safest, healthiest method of destruction because I am so tired of fighting and I always lose eventually.


Panic-0, Morgue-1

I came so very close multiple times yesterday to totally backing out of going to see that band. I was so panicked, especially braving a crowd on my own, it just didn’t seem worth the agony.

But I bullied myself and well, vodka helps bolster the confidence, so I went.

And the band remembered me from the other shows and talked to me. I sat at a table with the drummer’s gf and we laughed it up.

Of course, my first ex husband was there, drunk as a skunk, trying to hang all over me and whining that he wanted me back. Um, I believe the substance abuse was why we got divorced in the first place 12 years ago and he hasn’t changed, so.  Hells NO!

He’s a sweet enough guy, if a little bizarre, and he did worship the ground I walked on (which was why when the Donor would claim to worship the ground I walked on, I was like NOT EVEN CLOSE< MOTHERFUCKER.) but if he hasn’t cleaned up his act in 12 years-and they had to cut him off at the bar so he obviously hasn’t- well that just makes me sad for him. Though he did agree we both made mistakes and it was not all my fault or his. I can agree with that. Maybe emotionally he has grown up. I don’t even know why I am talking about him, maybe it was a trip down memory lane, cos not all of it was bad, we were together 7 years.

Oh, well. Poor guy.

Anyway…I survived and had a decent time. Amazing what some vodka can do to make you sociable. I had a couple of drinks then switched to soda the rest of the night, I was proud of myself for such restraint.

Today has been hot and sweaty. Dad and his woman kept Spook last night and have her at some civil war reenactment thing today to see the horses and such. So I am sweating my ass, but I’ve gotten a little house work done at least. I went out into the petri dish and wow, I do not like it one bit. I saw the donor outside his work with his tartlet and thought, “shouldn’t seeing them together hurt me?” Because it didn’t. I’m just like dead inside aside from the anger.

I hate leaving the house.

So…maybe the vodka helped (yes, I know, bad Morgue, bad!) but the panic did not prevail for once, I did.

Rah rah rah for me.

 

 


Golden Afternoon

Wow, it’s almost noon!

First some awesome news! I got an award! :)

http://bipolartype2.wordpress.com/about/appreciation/

I will be keeping an eye on your blogs to see who I can pay it forward to. :)

Now for an update of sorts….

It looks like my birthday at the casino will have to be canceled… there is like a 95% chance this will happen. My bestie is coming home from the hospital today, and I will be going to spend the night with her tonight. But, Apparently she is not to drive because she is on percocets.  I don’t drive unless it’s here in my town, because we have a van (and she has a small SUV) and I have horrible blind spots and am paranoid that I will get in a wreck. And besides that, I have no idea where this place is, and I don’t do GPS well. I told her sister I was going to cancel, and well, she is letting me tell my girl about my decision…. This is going to be a fight! LOL Really, it is, hopefully I will win and my friend can worry about healing and getting on the mend instead of making me happy by doing my birthday shindig. Because really, by going at this point, would not bring me much pleasure… I would be too worried that she was not comfortable or in pain and not telling me about it. I remember when I got my galbladder removed, It took me about a week before I even felt some resemblance of better… But I was also taking care of 4 kids so…. we will see.

Now here is a topic for you!

ROUTINE!

A high school friend of mine posted on her facebook about what do you do when you don’t have anything planned for the day? I immediately got to thinking… If I don’t have things planned out, I am no good. I feel very vulnerable and erratic.  Not safe at all. How do you guys feel if you have nothing planned? Do you take it as relaxation? Or are you like me and freak out?

I used to be very easy going, and go with the flow… That is the California lifestyle in me… But I have found that since being diagnosed, I need routine, I need structure in order to feel ok. It’s like a cozy blanket being wrapped around me.

So Hard to Say

Posts like yesterday’s shouldn’t be so hard to write, I want to think. And yet, they are, and I know why. I think my family mainly steers clear of here (one person having told me that my blogging is stupid… oh… kay?), and in that, it gives me more freedom to express myself and say what’s on my mind. But I need them to know these things and hope they care enough to read and take it on board. But if they did actually make their presence around here known, I would immediately feel pressured to sit on what I’m feeling and to not express it all. I’d start putting their feelings ahead of mine, thereby allowing them to tell me that I am not valid, nor are my feelings. It’s a bit of a mess — I do my damnedest to respect the feelings of others to the point where I imply that they are correct in acting as if what I feel is irrelevant. Yet, I don’t want to step on their equally valid feelings, s there’s that whole catch-22. We’re both right, we’re both probably wrong, and I’m always the one that gets stuck being the ‘bigger person’. That’s what happens with a fuller-than-average awareness of consequences — you learn to ‘lose’ to save the day.

So is there an easy solution to this? Not that I’ve found, else I’d not feel so wary about being honest about what’s going on with me. I don’t wish to be the center of attention, I don’t desire to stomp everyone else down… I just want to be treated like I’m valid. Perhaps my continued efforts in establishing firm and clear statements of how I am doing will help, but it’s still a lot of energy and spoons for a risky level of return.

For today though… I feel sick, so I’m going to get back to enjoying myself and trying to take care of myself. ‘Cause that’s usually a good thing to do indeed.

<3