Daily Archives: August 23, 2013

When my mother called from America to give me the news (I’m in Israel trying to be spiritual), I was in the middle of a scrumptious Sushi dinner (kosher of course) with my gay boyfriend.

She begins with, “Um, I don’t know quite how to break this to you, but I have some kind of bad news for you.”

Well, at least it wasn’t bad news about people, or else she would have used her special terminology for that.  So I knew it must be some material thing.

“So,” I said, finishing my mouthful of rice and raw fish, “what’s going on?”

“Your can was stolen,” she says resolutely.  I burst out laughing.  My car was stolen.  OK, Universe, what else are you going to fling at me?  I already found out with an unpleasant bang that I have bedbugs (yes, BEDBUGS, ugh), and that is foremost in my mind right now, since I am phobic about creatures climbing on my body at night when I am sleeping, sucking my blood.  FUCK.  Compared to that, having my car stolen is a laughable piece of cake.

I mean, WTF?  It’s only a piece of metal and plastic and assorted other material junk cobbled together.  Yeah, yeah, it’s only two years old.  Big fucking deal, I have about $6,000 in equity on it, so it it gets totaled I’m in the black for a down payment on another one.

Oh.  I haven’t told you the story yet.

OK.  So when I go to Israel, which is several times a year, my dear cousin is kind enough to let me park it in his apartment complex lot.  It’s a big lot, and nobody ever objects.  And his apartment complex is in a nice neighborhood with a low crime rate, so it’s safe enough.  Or so I thought.

But.  Some scallawag criminal type had the forethought to steal a dealer tag, take off my wonderful vanity tag that says AZAMRA, which means “I shall sing” in ancient Hebrew, from a psalm by King David composed 3000 years ago more or less, and put his nasty dealer tag on instead.  So this ain’t no random joy-rider.  It’s a professional, is what it is.  And how the dude gained entry to the car is a mystery.

OK.  Next scene: either this same thief, or his designee, gets totally shitfaced drunk in the middle of the day and decides to go somewhere via the high-speed beltway around the city which will remain unnamed.  He’s cruising in the passing lane when he PASSES OUT and the vehicle (MY vehicle) rolls to a stop, blocking the passing lane.

A random ambulance in cruise mode happens to come along and sees this vehicle stopped in the passing lane and decides to investigate.  They pull up alongside and lean on the siren.  The driver of MY car wakes up abruptly and STOMPS on the gas, resulting in a game of caroms, bouncing off of and sideswiping FOUR different vehicles before crashing into a police cruiser that had blocked the road up ahead.

Said policeman gets out and makes the guy, who is still alive and conscious, blow for alcohol level, and the guy blows 0.5!  That, my friends, is officially incompatible with life, except for professional drinkers whose livers are all tuned up.  So of course the dude is now in jail.

Unfortunately, two of the people he hit are in the hospital.  I know nothing about their condition, but send them healing juju and apologies that even though I personally had nothing to do with it, it WAS my car after all that plowed into them at high velocity.

Now I’m dealing with the intricacies of trying to manage a car theft and subsequent use of the car for criminal activities and vehicular battery, and the fact that my car is impounded in a police car pound, from 6,000 miles away.  My cousin is acting as my agent, which is a good thing for me but a pain in the ass for him.  Many questions remain unresolved, and I wonder if answers will bubble to the surface as the facts unfold.

Strange things have already happened, such as, when I called my insurance company to open a file and give them the police report, I discovered that a certain attorney (for whom? the crook? an ambulance chaser?) had called it in and a case was already open.  I didn’t know that unauthorized people could get access to one’s insurance company.  Well, now I do.

At least this has lightened my mood up (except for the people who were injured), because it seems that just when you think the Universe is out to get you (bedbugs), you find out that….the Universe is out to get you!  So I may as well give over being depressed and find something to enjoy, because you never know what’s going to happen next.

Ever have a day that kicks your ass emotionally? Where the stressors just keep coming and you are grabbing at your hair and burying your face in your hands and wondering whose Cheerios you pissed in to deserve such a shitty day?

That was today.

It started out well.

Then it just went to a bucket of suck.

For the first time in two years, we came face to face with the sperm donor at a store. I feared that day, unsure of my reaction, whether I’d scream or cry or try to perform a lobotomy on him with a rusty spork.

Oddly, I felt nothing looking at him. I even said, “Say hi to your daddy, Spook.” She looked right at him and didn’t recognize him, and lest I be accused of trying to alienate her affections, I felt compelled to point him out. He mumbled hi to her and gazed at her with what I suspect might have been actual affection. Or is it wishful thinking on my part? He didn’t kneel down to engage with her, didn’t hug her, didn’t even smile. But he did look a little sad. Then again, he looks like he is dying or something, not healthy looking at all.

Then he asks, “Are we going to talk?” I said, “I’ve been waiting two years.” And he said he had too, and I pointed out he never gave me his phone number. Then he insisted he did. I quoted our last phone conversation in which he said he wouldn’t give me the number til after the court set up visitation. He said no, he gave me the number and I’m the one who should have called him to initiate discussions.

It became obvious in that sixty seconds that he has not changed an iota, he still can’t take any responsibility and is putting it all on me. I mean, that takes some balls. You walk out, you don’t contact me for a year, you don’t send your kid so much as a birthday card for two years…But I’m the one who’s supposed to contact him,  with a number he never gave me, and I’m the one responsible for getting the divorce.  To my credit, I simply let it drop and walked away with my kid, determined not to be engaged into an ugly scene in front of her and all the people in the store.

I felt nothing. Then he spoke. Now all day I have been beating myself up, wondering if he did give me his number and i was in some sort of mental fugue. I know better, but he seemed so certain he gave me the number and I am so certain he did not. There was never any way to win or even compromise with him, and that’s not changed.

Came home to five hours of bickering destructive brats from hell. I sent them home, they’d come back. I am getting where I cannot stand those two girls. And now I live in fear of their mother coming to kick my ass because I wouldn’t let her snowflakes set the house on fire and that’s mean.

I hate what my life has become, I miss being a loner, not having these kids in my home destroying my stuff.  I just want my fucking quiet little life back. But these kids just won’t fucking listen. I have even locked the door and ignored them…and they pounded and screamed for over a half hour.

Sad thing is, I sent them home at 7pm…and they came back at 8:30 pm, by which time spook had zonked out.

Now my head hurts, my back hurts, my brain hurts, and I am thoroughly demoralized, stressed, and depressed. That last one, though, is to be expected, coming off an anti depressant, duh.

Tomorrow I have to go get blood drawn for a lithium level. I loathe going to the hospital lab.

My nephew’s birthday party is tomorrow night and he doesn’t give a shit if we are there, but we’re going to have to put in an appearance to avoid a fucking family war. If we don’t show, my mom will go on a tirade. (She went off on her insurance guy the other day for canceling her policy and it was because she didn’t pay it!)

I realized today that the reason I am so comfortable with kids is they are not emotionally complex. They don’t have ulterior motives. They say what’s on their mind. They hate you one minute, the next they love you again. Kids are simple. They are pure.

Adults are such clusterfucks of emotional damage I can’t cope.  My failing, sure.

But I can’t find one single person in this town that I have much in common with. The local pastimes are getting wasted and smoking dope while being attached to an X Box or smart phone. Those things are not my things. Most of my things don’t require another person involved because I am such a loner. It would be nice to have someone to talk to, though, about this bipolar and anxiety crap. We have a mental health center and yet I can never meet anyone who will admit they go there because they have problems like mine. And if I did, no doubt they’d just want me to join in on pot and booze a palooza.

So I am by myself,basically friendless. I have acquaintances who possess all the emotional depth of a rain puddle. My one true friend is separated from me by an ocean.

And this just makes me feel like a bigger loser, but I don’t know if it’s because I really do want to have a friend or two, or if this is societal programming telling me I am defective because I won’t just assimilate and accept what I can get.

I am almost hoping my lithium level’s low so she will increase it. I am not numb enough. I also demand a pill to shut off the nagging little thoughts that stampede through my brain and won’t be deterred no matter what little therapy trick I use to shut them down.

Has anyone ever heard of Lyrical being used for anxiety? It hit me earlier when I saw a commercial. If it can quiet the impulses for fibromyalgia pain, then it would stand to reason maybe it could quiet an overactive central nervous system full of panic. But then again, my anxiety level is just so out of control these days, I am grasping at fucking straws. I’d go lick psychadelic toads if I thought it would help.

Now I am going to try to sleep. Funny how every night when I lay down for that purpose…my scumbag brain decides it’s optimal to kick in and keep me awake with swirling thoughts.

I want a new brain.