The last cry for help

On the road again…

The last year was without a doubt the hardest year of my life; mentally, financially, physically, and emotionally. What I’m sharing is going to be very blunt and personal.

Around mid March, I started a new job I really liked. My manager and coworkers told me I was doing an amazing job and they all loved my sense of humor. During Veterinary Receptionist week, the clinic showered us with gifts and a s’mores and nacho bar during the week. They made us all feel genuinely appreciated.

Three weeks into the job, Shadow’s health began to decline. Everyone bent over backwards to help me during his illness, then comforted and supported me when he crossed the rainbow bridge. I knew then that those were the people I wanted to work with the rest of my life.

On April 27th, I received a short email from the practice manager that said my services were no longer needed and that I was terminated.

My coworkers were as blindsided as I was. They were tracking me down on Facebook to find out what happened. It seems only the practice manager knows why I was let go. So I, of course, started to tear myself apart to find out what I did wrong. It took some convincing by my brother, but he reassured me it had nothing to do with me.

A week later, I was on the phone with my dad catching him up. I was telling him how my PTSD symptoms were getting bad when he scoffed and asked “What do you have PTSD from?” It was a very weird question for someone who has known me almost my whole life, except for a decade or more when I didn’t communicate with him because I was still processing the abuse I suffered as a child at his hands. It took many more years before I sought help and was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder, major recurring depressive disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, C-PTSD, and ADHD. It has been almost 20 years since I let him back into my life after given a blanket apology. I guess I should have asked him to be more specific.

So, to answer his bizarre question, I told him it all started when I was very young and he was an alcoholic and drug addict that kidnapped me from my mother when I was 10, and beat us kids with a belt, would punch holes in the walls, took us to a church that was actually a cult…he scoffed again, and confidently declared “None of that ever happened.”

That was truly the only time I have ever been stunned silent. He went on to say that I needed to stop seeing a psychiatrist because all they do is toss mental illnesses up in the air so they can shove pills down peoples throats for a profit. If he had been paying attention these last 15 years, he would know I’ve only seen therapists, never a psychiatrist. He told me I needed to immediately stop taking my medications, get a therapist, start going to Narcotics Anonymous meetings and get a sponsor. He was projecting so much, I felt like a white sheet tacked onto a wall.

My mind was reeling, I had no idea what was happening. I told him I had to go, that I couldn’t process what he was saying and that the conversation was confusing me. That’s when he hung up on me.

Completely stunned, I had to call my brother, sobbing, asking for a reality check. Did those things really happen? Yes, they did. My brother even talked to my dad the next day, who recounted our conversation to my brother exactly as I told him. My brother had to tell him that it did happen, and I hadn’t even gotten to the worst parts.

Apparently he believed my brother, the golden boy, and he was shocked at not having any memory of those things. He told my brother he’s “going to have to do some research and see a doctor” to find out why he doesn’t remember those things.

Unfortunately, he does not have enough time left on this earth to figure his shit out and make amends for the years of abuse.

Finding out he’s been gaslighting me for over two decades ripped a new hole in me so wide, my doctors have now added lithium to my menagerie of medications.

In less than a month I lost my sweet and spicy little Shadow, a job I wanted to eventually retire from, and any form of relationship I could ever have with my dad.

After filing for unemployment and getting food stamps, my doctors advised me to file for disability. That was a lot of work, but my part is done. Just waiting on the government, and I don’t have much faith in that either.

I won’t survive here more than another month. I’ve decided to move to MI to be close to my mom and my brother and have a stable supportive environment with their love and help. They want to help take care of me and i am in critical need.

One way or another, I have to be out of my studio by July 5th. I’m hoping to raise enough money to move my stuff to Michigan with me. It’s going to be $2500-$3500. I’m selling whatever I can part with. If I can’t raise enough to move, I’ll have to pack what is most important to me in maybe five or six boxes that will fit in my car, and give the rest away.

I know attachment to material isn’t a priority, but most of the things I have, I take with me everywhere to normalize my new environment. It’s a self preservation system I developed over time because I have moved so many times in my life. My system goes into shock when I move, but when I have the familiarity of my things put up and around me again, it’s a little easier on my brain.

Right now, I’m just trying to survive each hour as it passes. I’m going through everything I own; what can I throw away? What can I donate? If I can only bring 5 boxes of stuff, would this be worth the space? Who wants my houseplants? Will someone adopt my fish? How many more times can I physically and mentally endure this?

It’s taken me weeks to post this. Having to beg from my friend and family, or their friends and family, makes me feel every bit the fuck-up my father believes I am. Just let me make it one more time. Let me just get to my family.

If you donate, I hope I can pay you back in art. If you’d like some bang for your buck, I’ll be posting things on Facebook that I can’t take with me. Just tell me what you want. If I can’t raise enough by 6/23 to move my stuff, you’re all welcome to come by and take whatever you want.

This is it for me. The last push. I literally can’t live like this anymore. I’ve been suffering psychosis since that last conversation with my dad. My doctor put me on lithium. I still don’t feel any different mentally, and now I wet the bed.

over and out.