Adoption – the Good, the Bad and the Ugly

I was adopted. A fact, but I was never told. Spoiler! I knew. My adopted mother, a malignant narcissist, was a lousy liar. I knew when I was 11, because she was so lousy. Who gets mad when a child asks where they came from? Yeah, she had a cesarean scar, but no pictures of her pregnant? No pictures of me at the hospital? Coming home? Dad was a closet photographer. He took pictures of everything. Polaroid was his best friend in the 60’s. He took pictures of everything! And he had a 35mm camera that Mom hated. They didn’t know the camera didn’t have film. Really? For a year? Seriously. How stupid did she think I was?

She was the one who didn’t read books. I read War & Peace when I was 13 because I felt like it. People was her speed. Or the National Enquirer. She was as dumb as plywood, and as much fun. OMG she was dense.

Dad was awesome. He always rooted for me, stood up for me, and taught me I was never less than a boy and shouldn’t ever be treated like I was. Not too bad for a man born in 1919. He got that from his Dad who was born in 1882. Different mindset, and he was a renaissance man. After two wars, the introduction of air planes, cars, electricity and phones, Grandpa had lived through a lot.  He told me, when I was very young, when you stopped learning, you stopped growing and started dying. He died at 96, he knew something. I am very fortunate to have had these two men as role models in my life, and they were excellent role models for me as I grew up. I still remember what they told me, and I have lived better than half a century and have experienced my own amazement’s contrived by humanity.  Got my own cool stuff Grandpa. And I showed Dad how to use a computer. Dad learned from me.

My childhood was perfect with Dad. I will never have a bad word for how he raised and educated me. Prepared me for adulthood. He had his flaws which I didn’t know until after he died. But ONE huge mistake he made was staying married to my “mother”. A malignant narcissist is a pain in the ass to have as a parent. Destruction much? She would just laugh at other’s misery. Dad bitched at her enough about that, but he was stuck with her. Leaving was not an option. She wouldn’t have been satisfied unless she destroyed him. She nearly did more than once. Maybe even why he died when her did. I know I hate her. That says too much.

Anyway…adoption. It is normally the wisest decision, especially for a young girl with few options. Say a 15 year old in the mid-60’s with a Scandinavian mom, because they will put an end to a “problem”, especially when it reflects badly on the “mature” mother. Negativity must be avoided at all costs. That’s the Scandahoovian way. To borrow a phrase I came to know well – Uff Da!  (or Dang! That’s cold, yo.)

Times are easier, abortions are an option, it’s not just slutty whores that get pregnant. ( Mom thought that for-e-var. Why being called a whore by her was poisonous.) My Bio-Mom didn’t have an abortion, they weren’t legal then. I’m kinda thankful for that.

The decision to give up a child must be gut-wrenching. I cannot begin to imagine. You will wonder if they had a good life. If you made the right decision. If they are ok. Endless questions and never expecting an answer. Well, the child thinks the same thing. Are they ok? Did she make the right decision? I didn’t turn out that bad, because I had a good adopted Dad who did the right thing by me.

And I’ve got friends older than her. That makes me giggle. Feisty females every one. Would I call her Mom? I don’t think so. It would be weird. I’m still to locked into my 20-year old mind. Ewww? Ick? Just no. She’s too young. Maybe when I’m 60? Nah, it would still be weird. I’m not planning on aging myself  ahead of time. She’ll be 75 when I’m 60. Nah. Still weird. I could pass for younger? Nope. Too much vanity a la adopted Mom. Yuck. No way!

Not being truthful hurts the child, even when she’s an adult. Blaming that child for perceived “mistakes” her biological mother made is just evil. Hanging that over the child’s head is sick. The biological mother did nothing wrong. The child did nothing wrong. It’s a circle of love and the realization of that love that is the blessing.

A child should always know the truth, because adoption is the act of choosing a child to love and nurture. Saying that child is physically yours makes the truth that much harder to accept and handle, like medical issues. Say the child’s vision isn’t great when they are 12. Just because no one in your half (Mom) of the family doesn’t wear glasses, doesn’t work in reality. Or when that child is in her 30’s and is diagnosed with Diabetes. Because no one in Mom’s family has it would mean nothing anyway. It’s just cruel and saying it’s all my fault, or the doctor’s are lying. Not speaking the truth is a twisted mind trip. I’ve lived with that since I was 8. When I figured out “Mom” wasn’t that smart and lied when it was convenient for her.  Truth is the best choice. You don’t need to dance around it. Not everyone can do a jig. Especially with a hip replacement and scoliosis.

Guilt is a prison we construct for ourselves. I’ve had a lifetime’s worth and I’m not done living. More to regret for the rest of my days. I’m trying to find things to beat back that regret. Right wrongs I had nothing to do with. Spread the cause of hope. All of us are born with hope and dreams. No one should diminish that. Especially one who claims to be a parent but doesn’t act like one.

Memories in reflectiom

I have led a good life.Adherence to the Golden Rule and a promise to live up to my Dad’s standard to be the epitome of standing behind your words. He was an excellent standard for that. Not just from his military history. As a human in the world.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mom’s from every kid that you had, touched or live you impacted. A mother’s compassion knows no bounds. I came to realize that through the years even as an adult.

I won’t speak too much of my own mother. There is too much influence by my adopted mother’s stuff I won’t mention on this day that we honor those women who accepted their children for what they were and would become. Who wanted the best for their children, not imposing their twisted sense of right and wrong, or the “mistakes” of biological history as teenagers.

I am a fiber addict. No, not edible fiber – string. From floss to yarn, I am addicted to it all. I have enough of this delightful fun to fill a room (and have). To learn, to create to hold in my hands an object of beauty that I created – there is nothing that comes close to that moment of personal satisfaction.   Ribbons and awards just reinforce it. I have had many over the years.  Even for beading and “scrapbooking” (expensive but not as expensive as silk embroidery, and not as lengthy to complete).

My mother taught me basic knitting. Very basic, not socks and sweater, just cast on, cast off, knit and purl. Basic. Vogue Knitting, in 1983, taught be all of that. And Interweave. I was in it’s thrall, happily. My friend Joann taught me crochet and granny squares became an afghan gateway drug. Mom also bought me my first stamped piece of embroidery and a basic book and some DMC floss (another gateway drug, still addicted). That first surface embroidery was finished when I was 9.   9! With no adult help! I did it and moved on to cross stitch. I had fabric and so many colors and symmetric stitching was easy. Kind of like the pillows created by my Grandmother or the endless doilies. My grandmother sent me a kit for Christmas, a Scandinavian needlepoint. Rows and rows of block stitching in wool. It looks loomed when it’s done. But I had a taste of needlepoint.

Dad encouraged my “hobby”.  His mother was an expert needlewoman. He knew what that meant. Dad bought me Sunset kits and Dimensions and more books on how to do it. Dad was my “dealer” and he loved it. It brought Dad so much pleasure to see me do it, it made him so proud. Seeing him smile was all I needed to go on.

Before my parent’s 20th Anniversary, I wanted to give them a gift together that I knew they would appreciate. Dad and I were at a Hoke Depot like store that had embroidery kits (something for the wived to look at while the husbands got their supplies), when I found a Sunset kit of a bouquet of yellow roses. I found the perfect gift! At least in my 14  year old mind. Dad? Can I get this please? He smiled and said yes, with no questions. Mom wasn’t there, thankfully. He never saw me work on it. I took it to school.

I was attending a Christian private school (reasons. Ack!).  They believed, and taught, what roles boys and girls , so I had domestic skills. such as cooking and sewing. I did learn sewing, and Dad bought a sewing machine and I taught Mom (haha). A skill that paid off in latter years, but I took my Sunset kit to class and did my own thing (and Mrs, Singer of the perfect name, approved. I completed the stitching, even framing, in time for their Anniversary.  Still have it. It hung in the or bedroom, over the bed, until they were both gone. It still holding up, though it was never under glass.

I have done Tish canvases. I miss her and grieved when she died because she was a heart-sister. I met her once before she died and she helped me pull the colors for 3 canvases.   I treasure every canvass I have completed since her death which was far too soon. Nora Corbett and her mother Marilyn Levitt – how many designs I have completed or will. Nora’s Fairy Idyll, one of my best and awarded “complete” got me though a year of isolation and despair. She is my totem for victory. Debbie Patrick and her love of the San Francisco character and skyline – so many houses stitched, loved and shared. Nancy Spruance and her San Francis Scenes designs. A go-to for gifts and pure enjoyment. Barbara & Cheryl and their beautiful designs of beautiful houses, especially in the South. Countess others like Silver Lining with their roses and lighthouses. Good Shepherd and the multitudes of designs for yearssss.  And all the others I cant remember with my broken brain, but gave my itch a good scratch for over 30 years, or 40 if I’m honest.

But one person – one woman I met, took a class from, inspired me to try something new, and “tiny”, you revived my passion for creating again. Maureen Apppleton. You creativity, passion for the art, committing them to paper for others to create. You are exceptional! From Violets [in (or scissor fob) to Bird of Paradise Scissor Fob. through all the rest that have given me hours of stitching joy, and nearly drained my checking account, I have enjoyed each and every one. You brought me my Heart’s Content. Even if they were tiny designs on 32- or 40-count silk. My visions has gotten more challenging, no thanks to Retinopathy and it bitch slapping me again with a new aneurysm in my right eye this time. When I get my hands on my stash in storage, I will pull out one of my WIPs and get to it, however slowly. I can do it! You showed me how.

Then there are the knitters. Hundreds of designers. Some I have met and had the honor of meeting, or the honor of enjoying with fellow knitters. A few stand out – sock knitters specifically.  Ann Budd, Nancy Bush and Stephanie Pear-McPhee. I was the sock-queen in my knitting group, having completed over 150 pairs since 2005. I am a sock yarn addict, fed by Ms. V. of Lime & Violet. At least my name starts with a “V” Eliza. At least in English. And the span of pod-casters that renewed my knitting life. Knitting gave me a complete community that I didn’t have before (Ravelry: solslett). Just as EGA gave me a close family of women and friends who loved embroidery.

Fiber has been a constant in my life, it built my life and became part of me, part of my identity. It takes a village to support a portion of humanity, because we con’t do it on our own as individuals. Not day in and day out through good, bad and near devastation. That is what craft has taught me. Crafting is still seen favorably, but it depends where you are. Here, needle craft is seen as a hobby, something that takes no skill and makes no money. I beg to differ. Think of it’s history throughout the world? It is viewed differently in Scandinavia, but they still have National Costumes requiring an expert hand to recreate. An expert to design and create clothing to be worn after expert hands take the time to knit them. We don’t have that here, we don’t “need” it. How much have we lost through modernization,  machines and technology. Seeing a woman knit brings us joy and awe, especially if she’s older. Just awe, or shock, when she’s not.  I can’t tell you how many weird looks I got when I would knit a sock with 5 needles on the commuter train! It gives a chance for conversation and sharing your love, but now much to change minds.

Think about it the next time you see a stitcher, a crocheter, a knitter or someone else sharing their love in public.  Happy Mother’s Day. There are plenty of them who know what I talking about.

https://www.gofundme.com/wants-to-live

 

Facebook love, not FB but my peeps

Listen up FB people. This is more about you and what you have meant to me. My beloved people.

First and most recently, though we go back a few years, Tammy L., an angel and may I saw my guardian angel. You gave me information and a path to follow towards my goal of independence.  The Oaks is a beautiful complex, one where I could be safe and happy with my own pile of useful crap. Thank you. Thank you so much. I know now what I need to do. The calls have been made to get me to that goal. It’s sure hell of a lot better than a shelter in Richmond. I’m the wrong color and I drive an old car, but it doesn’t look like it. Dad would be proud but a gang would see a white woman driving that? She gotta have money. I lived in Oakland. I know what to expect and I don’t have “protection” anymore from one of the head’s of one of the rings through a family association. West Oakland was a rough area then, especially if you were white. I learned that through my friend JJ. Beautiful Creole woman from Louisiana, hell of a good Southern Cook, who gave me appreciation for how the other half lived in the Flats.  Who gave me the appreciation and the lesson we are all human beings first, regardless of the skin color we are born with. I loved her as much as I love you. Good people have been blessings in my life that I will never forget or fail to appreciate.

Melissa H. – Flicka! My Bakersfield bomb, in attitude only. You have been there for me through good and bad, and with your family, a Godsend on more than one occasion. Pack you knives in your hair and have my back during month-end or moving boxes (and storage units and all packing troubles and attitudes). You are one of my Bestie’s regardless of anything or anyone. You have kept doing your thing, even when I failed to appreciate it as much as I should have. And then there is the mixologist extraordinaire Tim, or your workhorse of a son Nic, even your little doppelganger Tori (she is, that mouth!). For all they have done over the last few years – you have my gratitude always and I will have your back whenever and however you need me. Parts of my brain are dead, but not the parts who remember what you have been for me.

To my other friends who encouraged and helped me, were there to remind me I wasn’t forgotten -thank you each and every one of you. I may of had a stroke, but I didn’t become different, I didn’t change, I didn’t stop being a good person thinking of others always before what was best, or desirable, for me.

But there is someone else I need to give kudos to. My friend, my mentor, my salvation – Diana CaXXX or ChXX or whatever last name you are using. You are still Diana, even with a brain injury, even after everything you have been through. You have taught me so much, again, how to be a personal success. How to not let defeat stop me. You are still a New Yorker, it’s easy to remember you drove a Taxi while in College stored a piece under the seat for your protection, how tough you still are. Everything you have done, I wouldn’t know how to cope with life if it weren’t for you. Though we are more equal than in our past lives, I will never fail you again and I feel like I did. Nothing you can say can change that, That’s just me. I regret I wasn’t there for you when I could have been. I won’t let that happen again if I have the ability to prevent it. You saved me.

Those years at Pac Bell, even that “experience” with AllRadio (if only we hadn’t had such “difficult” partners to work with), through all the experiences and jobs, you were and are my mentor. Everything I learn from you has brought me success, even just living now. You have filled me with joy, with strength, with indelible ink written to my soul. You are awesome in every way. And that trouble within your lung? You’ve got this, and you are not alone. I am not going any where, just a few miles further away. Still got the ride and I travel. xoxox

That’s it for now, but I had to say what these folks have meant to me, especially the last 2 years. I have to appreciate those who recognized. by word and deed, their actions to keep me in balance. I’m not forgetting the other’s. You know who you are and thank you every single one.

Lost and alone

I am alone in this world. I have friends close by and very far away, but I have little family. I was adopted and they were Norwegian. From Norway, where their family still is, comfortable in their homes and their lives, but only a very few give me any thought. That has been made abundantly clear.

I am here in the Unitrd States, where I was born and my biological parents were born. They were still children when I was conceived. They were in High School and they weren’t Seniors. My mother was 15 when I was born. My grandmother encouraged her to give me up for adoption a few months after my birth, probably for the best.

I have had a good life. My adopted Dad was the best, even though he married a narcissist. She ruined a lot over the years, even denying him a well paid career as a Ship’s Captain. They argued often, but I never heard him complain or blame her. I wasn’t aware until I was 20 that she was a consummate liar and conniving bitch. I knew I waas adopted, because her lies were that bad, but I didn’t fully comprehend how far back her lies went, or the depth. She made sure Dad wouldn’t be a father to his own biological son. I didn’t know about him until I was 51, both my parents were dead and a cousin found me on Facebook. Mom’s family just dismissed it, just like she had. He had a different mother, her predecessors. Dad’s 2nd wife. That was the other shock. Dad had been married 3 times.

So much to process for me. Alone.

I was with my ex-husband for 30 years. We were married for 15 yeas by the time the divorce was final. I paid for the wedding so why not pay for the divorce? I tried, even though my former best friend thinks I didn’t. We tried therapy, j\his choice, and that was a sex therapist and couple counselor. My ex lacked empathy. Real, actual intimacy. Empathy plays a huge role in that, and he couldn’t. He could show empathy for the loss in someone else’s life, but not in his intimate sphere. He couldn’t show any towards me if there was something else, like work or his Buddhist practice.

There was a day, a few months after my Dad died, that he was donating time on a sgift at the Community Center and he assured me he would be home right after. He would be home between 1-3 pm. I asked him if he was sure, he wouldn’t take an hour or two to chat with others? No, he would come home right away. Promise. My car was dead in the driveway, so we had only his car. I would be stuck at home until he was back. I had errands to run, a sewing machine to pick up after servicing, and they had specific hours including being closed on Sundays. He got home after 4, they closed at 4 and were 1/2 an hour away. I was pissed. He hadn’t used his cell phone to call me. He saw someone he knew and hadn’t seen for a while and time got away from him. Again.

He made at offhand comment, once, that my boobs were drooping. I wasn’t a young woman by then. I was in my late 30’s and I never had “big boobs”. I wore a B cup and was self conscious over their size. I made an offhand comment, once, that he his chest was nearly concave, probably because he was so thin and did exercise to keep “thin”. He lamenmted constantly his waist kept expanding. Like 29″ x 34″on a 5’10” frame was so sexy for a man hitting 40 who wouldn’t eat meet because they were mammals. I had a B12 deficiency and using monthly injections so I woudln’t have seizures because my brain was deprived of a needed nutrient, and I was diabetic and hypertensive. I just needed to exercise and I would be fine is his eyes.

We were driving home after grocery shopping one day, and I asked him where I was on his priority list. I was 3, maybe 4. His Faith was first, work was second and then me. Not in the Buddhist list of priorities. Another time we were talking, the fact I hadn’t converted reflected badly on him. What? He knew what I beleived in. Had known before we started dating. Now, more than a decade plus later, it was my fault that his hours of chanting didn’t make his world perfect? Maybe I had read enough about his choice of Buddhist faith that I knew the basics and pretty much was “that”, that I knew I supported him and did enough Buddhist practice to know he was a Buddhist by perceived actions only. There is a difference, kind of like an agnostic and a Christian. It is how you treat every human, not just those that you think are worthy.

I wanted children. He knew that. It wasn’t the right time for years. We didn’t have enough money, we didn’t live in the right house, and then I was too old. We found out when we were in our early 40’s he couldn’t produce sperm. He could ejaculate, but it was without sperm. He had taken a hard hit on the bar of a girls’ bike as a child. That caused a stricture on his urethra blocking their escape. That stricture had been a problem for years when he urinated, but he had been to the doctor and they couldn’t find anything. I told him, “Take the doctor with you to the bathroom and SHOW HIM.’ That did the trick. He eventually had to have surgery so his bladder wouldn’t explode. And that sperm thing was identified. Sex didn’t feel the same for him, what sex we had that didn’t involve pornos – on his own or actually including me. Damn, the amount of crap I had to delete he got through Napster. That shit kills networks if you don’t monitor, which he didn’t. That was my job, and cooking, and laundry, and making sure all the bills got paid and being the primary wage-earner. So many hats I had.

After his surgery, I proposed adoption. No, we couldn’t risk it. You never know what you will get. What? I was adopted you heartless bastard! I didn’t say that. I was too hurt, too devastated.

I brought it up in counseling.  I cried, because it still hurt so much. He stared at a spot above the therapist’s head. He had to ask my ex to hand me the tissue that were next to him. He did so soundlessly  and without emotion. The therapist asked him how he felt hearing this from me? I can’t remember what K said, but it was along what I had heard over the years. He was a loser with no marketable skills, etc. That loser mentality, the Martyr, was his constant go to.

What he wanted from the therapist was a quick fix. A pill or hypnotherapy. I spoke to the therapist separately on the last time I went to him. He said I had given him more insight to K than K had said himself or had shown interest or awareness to improve. He told me I was his crutch as much as Buddhism. There was nothing I could do if he didn’t want to change or be aware of his failings. He said, which he hardly ever did, to divorce K.  To do that for me, because I wasn’t on his radar. Nothing would change if I stayed, and if I left he would just go on and see to his own needs. Just like he had before he met me.

My Mom had Alzheimer’s. When she fell and pulled out her hip implant, he blamed her for her lack of understanding. For causing him not to get a full nights sleep because he had to take me to the airport. When my Dad was dying back in 2001, he never went with me on those drives to So. California. He saw dad at Christmas before the strokes, never during the weeks of hospice when I went every other weekend. He complaned about the hours I worked, but as a Contractor, of I didn’t work I didn’t get paid. That was a theme for us, repeated when Mom got sick or did something or had a carcinoma tumor that had to be removed on an emergency basis.  She was needy and difficult. She was old and I was her only family. Excuse me for caring, Mr. 180lbs of Dead Weight. No empathy. No compassion. No humanness.

There was one night where I had had a night-terror and my knee collapsed due to stepping on the dog and me forehead connected with a dresser and I was bleeding all over the place and freaking out. He did take me to the ER. They wouldn’t let him in the room because he might have been the cause. I told them,”It was me. Only me. “I sleep walk on rare occasion and the dog was in the way. I fucked myself up!” As if he could. I got 14 stitches and a brace for my leg and was sent home. I was warned I’d have two shiners, probably. A few hours later, he got up to go to work. I indeed did walk up with two black eyes swollen shut. He arrived before Noon, but those few hours put him out of race for perfect attendance and he lost a free vacation day. My fault, because he took me to the hospital. IT was 3 days before I could return to work. My Boss told me to stay home until I didn’t look like a war casualty anymore. I can back after the weekend looking the walking wounded. That happened before we were married. Should have seen the writing on the wall like graffiti on a train car.

I have been alone for years, but I found the strength to move one, move beyond it. That was usually through work. But I don’t know what to do now, because this brain injury has locked out the access to what I did. I have to relearn it. And I am screwed. I am running out of time.

I am technically homeless.  I am housesitting, but that ends next weekend. I have no money to move, but I have too much to qualify for help through the County. I will die if I have to live in my car. My health is in a delicate balance that could go south very quickly.

I have retinopthy. That became a forefront issue again this morning. A vein in my right eye failed or exploded this morning, causing visual obstruction in the field of vision in my right eye. Nothing will correct it overnight or in a few days. Just monthly injections for months. I just concluded nearly a year of injections for my left eye. It’s hard to explain what it’s like. If I close my eye, I can see the outline of an animal face. The sketch. When I open my eye, it a pattern of swirls and lots of pinprick debris. It’s messy, but I can see through it. I’m not blind. Yet.

And I have to find a job dealing with this now. What else, God? How much more before you’re done testing me? How much more do you think I can take? I’m done. I can’t take anymore. I am defeated. I have no pride. no ego, nothing. There is nothing left. No one’s listening.

I have a GoFundMe page. I linked it here in posts frp=om the last two days. I had a stroke, but I didn’t loose my home in a fire. I am struggling with a brain injury, but I don’t have a family member with a life threatening emergency. I am alive and I grieve for all those who died due to violence. I am alive but failing. I didn’t get the care I needed for over a year, but I have it now so I’m fine? I am not and I have no idea when I will be. People just exect me to be because I can write. That hasn’t been lost, it just took a while to come back. I need a chance to come back.

 

Despair

This the word that has become my world these last few months. Overwhelming despair as I face a life sentence ending with the death penalty. It would be welcome at this point because a normal life isn’t something I have any hope for.

Had I known a year ago what I know now, it may have been different, but lack of social and government education isn’t an excuse. You need health and money for that, and I have neither. I am alone and running out of resources.

So often I hear “I’m sorry”, “call this number”, “maybe they can help”. It’s more closed doors or more paperwork and endless wait-and-see. My stroke shouldn’t be a death sentence. I’m 52 and I have no family here in the US. No close family, just a few friends and the knowledge of biological sisters.

I’ve cried so much the last few days. Praying to God’s for help and guidance and His help, pleading to my Dad for strength and the hope he’s looking after me. It’s probably pointless, but I still continue to hope.

I need help and I don’t know where else to turn. Dad’s family still cares, even though we have been intentionally estranged for decades, thanks to Mom. I am hoping to see them again someday, but that looks unlikely. Without hope, what do any of us have to live.

https://www.gofundme.com/wants-to-live

 

Homelessness

Homelessness is a curable illness in our society. It isn’t just mental illness. It isn’t just drug issues.  It is poverty. It is life out of control. It is due to the fact that now every person can make enough to survive. And how most people don’t take the time to listen, because “we” have busy lives or “we” can’t do anything about “their” problems. They’ll figure it out. Someone else will help.

But there is homelessness. I know. That is what I am facing. What a dear friend faced for years and I didn’t know. The guilt I still feel overwhelms me fairly often, because she is still my mentor. My dear friend, and I could have helped her. I could have given a place to stay. It would have been tight and sometimes uncomfortable, because my ex-husband was “helpful” when it was convenient and he could get Buddhist points. He had empathy problems. One of the reasons he’s an “ex”. Good guy only goes so far in the real world.

I have an anoxic brain injury. Should I expect to be homeless? I did nothing wrong. I was just living life, trying to be a friend, a business partner, trying to start my life over again. Then we participated in a Christmas Faire in Sonora to showcase our business and the day after we got back from that successful show, I had a stroke. Drove myself to the hospital, because ambulances are expensive. I was in the hospital for 3 days. I don’t recall much of what the doctor said, other then I had had a stroke. My life ended that day.

And I came to realize that people don’t understand stroke. Especially when you’re 51 and you have one. And the overwhelming loneliness of having to do it alone with little help. The County doesn’t help, especially if you have a little money in the bank. They don’t care that is all you have and when it runs out, you have nothing. If you have no money, they may help you,but if you own a car you could sell it for money. I could be a hooker too, but that illegal. Besides, I would be lousy at it. Probably raped or killed and never making a dime.

That is the face of homelessness. Desperation while still clinging to life. There was a vet I saw at a freeway off-ramp in Banning. Little more than a truck stop on the wa to Palm Springs, but Mom called it home. When I would go to my storage unit (my stuff in Mom’s house? It wouldn’t fit in HER house.), I would see him. I stopped and talked to him a few times, gave him what money I had. I heard his story. He lost the lower half of his left leg to an IED in Afghanistan. He lived with his disabled sister. He was begging for money on the off-ramp because their prescription drugs were costly. His sister needed a helper because he couldn’t do everything he needed.   His brother-in-law had left. She had two kids in High School. They were trying to keep a roof over their head. He was having a hard time finding stead work as an amputee. A lot of places said they would help, but their insurance costs, etc. I could get work 45 minutes away, not something he could do. His sister’s car was a stick and he hadn’t been able to master the clutch. They were a paycheck away from being homeless.

The local Boy Scouts did food drives on a regular basis to help the local food bank. I donated bags of healthy groceries. Everyone deserves a hot meal once a  day, especially kids. Mom often scoffed at my generosity. “You need it more than they do. They have to learn to take care of themselves!” I didn’t learn compassion or charity from her. She was a selfish bitch. Couldn’t even spare a $1 if someone was begging outside of Carl’s Jr. “They’ll just use it for drugs!” Not always the case, but she was always right. She wasn’t always that way. She changed when I was a teenager. Everyone was out to get her then.

I took care of her the last few years of her life and she physically abused me and accused me of horrible things like stealing her house and her money. She put me through hell for decades, but I took care of her because I promised Dad. Had I known the depth of her lies and deceit, she deserved to die alone. I gave her so much, so much time and money, so much more than most kids do for their parents. Everything was never enough. There was always something more I could do, in her mind. I was her property, never a daughter. Just her possession.

There are many reasons for homelessness, but in our society we have to make it that person’s fault. They are at fault, Period. They did it to themselves. They don’t want to “get better”. What if they want to? What help do you get then? Nothing that I can see. So many programs with their lists to qualify for services. Fill out this packet and if you qualify, we’ll send you a letter. Drive to the next place. Fill out another packet and are you trying to qualify for another program? If you qualify and don’t get approved for that program, we’ll send you a letter on the next steps to get you registered. Stop. Rinse. Repeat. It’s endless. And if you have money in a bank account, even $100, you won’t qualify. And no one listens. Just a form where they give you a number. It’s human prison without the lock up every night.

This isn’t everyone’s experience, but it happens. Too often. When I have a 5 year old asking me for money with Daddy just a few feet away doing the same thing, why should I have any hope? I want to change things, bring more awareness to this plight, the difficulty in taking care of the elderly as an adult child. I want to write a couple books outlining my experiences dealing with her end of life and what ma become my end of life. I want to live. but it’s getting too hard. I am so scared. I just cry now. That is something I have done alone for nearly 20 years. I’ve gotten good at it. I can do it noiselessly.

https://www.gofundme.com/wants-to-live

 

 

 

Struggling

I wish I could be upbeat, but I have nothing to be upbeat about. My life is in the toilet. I’m looking up at rock bottom.

I have the opportunity to rent an apartment, if everything works out. I am nearly broke. The house sitting gig ends on May 20th, and I have no where to go. No place to sleep. No where to eat. No where for anything. That is pretty depressing.

The legal firm representing me for my Social Security claim has processed a additional claim for Social Security Disability which I will have a greater success in securing. Hopefully. My medical care has been dismal. At least until January when I finally met someone who actually heard me.

I am really praying and hoping this happens. I am so tired of not having a place to live that is mine. It’s been 5 long years. I even miss that rat infested hellhole old house I lived in with Kevin, and we lived there for 20 years. Just having my things around me, memories, my comfort items like my couch and the dining room table that I shared meals with Dad – many good and happy memories. And my needlework that took decades to build, to create. I miss doing that work. I hope to do it again, if I ever have a place to love again.

My creativity has left me. I have no desire to create something new when my future is unknown. Well, not completely. It’s very dark right now with no hint of daylight. That is depressing in of itself.

I will include a link again, just in case. I need all the help I can get. There are still things I need to secure like electricity, water, garbage, bring my auto insurance current. Little things. I’m poor. I’m doing what I can by the skin of my teeth.

https://www.gofundme.com/wants-to-live