So here is the promised update, which, yes, took a long damn time. Why? Because I do have another life, but more importantly, SHE NEVER STOPS TALKING. She never used to be a motor mouth, but in the last maybe year? She just never shuts up. She murmurs, so you have to listen–and you have to listen, bc she gets huffy if you don’t respond.

Worse, almost all of it is made up stuff, total delusions, which are far more real to her than every day life, and which unfortunately tend to skew towards being held captive, the people all around us (there is no one here), who are going to steal her stuff and even her seat on the sofa if she leaves it untended long enough to go pee.

I can’t fucking think with constant babbling. She is worse than a television and it is so toxic and dark much of the time it boggles the mind. When we go for a drive, which we try to do every day, she is either explaining to me how every house e pass she used to stay at at or lived at or owned, and she has a house around here someplace that she loaned to a nice family who needed a place to stay and maybe they will give us something to eat if we show up. The rest of the time, any time we pass a wooded hillside (and they are everywhere), she explain how she had to escape off the mountain after she got dumped there and was held prisoner and had to crawl on her elbows to get out of there…

PLEASE. There was no mountain! There was no escape! I am am familiar with her life story. So this is all some kind of traumatic imagery but I am at a freaking loss to deal with it.

Then there is my germaphobic OCD completely crazy brother who is living with us to help out. God bless him, because we would both be dead without him. But omg, he is a bad-tempered pain in the ass who is afraid to be left alone at my house (though apparently any other place on earth is fine), so I can’t even take her out of the house by ourselves, he has to come along to anything we do or get left alone with her. And he is channeling our dad, who was a shit parent, and it’s not a pretty picture.

He is obsessed with the idea that she doesn’t wash her hands after using the toilet so she is spreading e-coli all over the house. It’s true she doesn’t wash her hands (she used to put expensive cream on her hands and didn’t want to wash it off, and the habit stuck), but she is so personally fastidious that she cannot bear to have anything on her hands, or face, or anything–it all must be wiped fully and carefully away. Aside from that, her health is great, so it’s just not that big of deal. No one is immunocompromised. It’s all a lot of bullshit.

But he now has this obnoxious, elaborate ritual of reminding her not to flush so he can go see if she pooped (since she’s forgotten by the time she gets out of the bathroom), and then he takes her into the kitchen where he badgers her to wash up and snaps at her when she pushes up her sleeves, since in his eyes her sleeve is now a festering hotbed of e-coli. He could give her a hand wipe for chrissakes. But no.

He won’t touch anything she may have touched, using one finger to grab anything. It is so insulting and demeaning it makes me want to spray him with a fire hose. He’s basically Asberger’s so he has no idea unless I tell him that anything he’s doing is driving me insane.

Plus he likes to cook. But he likes to cook basically slop, which takes him ages to elaborately make things that were once good into overcooked slop. And he doesn’t want me to cook–he prefers to be in control of everything. And he likes to have dinner at 9 or 10 pm by which time she should be in bed, blah blah blah, whine bitch complain.

But he is here and I can go away and do things, which otherwise I could not do. A devil’s bargain. It is better than when he wasn’t here, and that is a fact. But I spend most of my days in a state of rage, trying to be nice to be these people. And that is not good.

AND my massage therapist, my ace in the hole, to whom I was going to bring mom to remove some of this leftover trauma shit, DIED. Out of the blue. Like, REALLY out of the blue. So now I have no backup at all, and she made the medicine that keeps me sane and not shoving the old bat down a flight of stairs (and keeps me from having another gall bladder attack). And I am out of medicine.

Pray for me, my friends. This is some kind of turning point in my life.

Saturn is retrograde, so I am thrown back into my second Saturn Return. I am still not sure what the hell I am supposed to learn out of all this (don’t have a mother?). I think it is about self-care, since I have basically NONE, and feeling sorry for myself leads me to eat things that are bad for me. I gained 20 lbs early in this ordeal, and they haven’t gone anywhere. All the trauma work I did previously is helping me stay sane and self compassionate, but I can’t get much of anything done.

I’m writing a book, but have been stalled again for weeks. I feel bad leaving her alone with my brother (and leaving him alone with her), but I can’t get any work done here.

For my own sanity, I have to detach from all this. She usually knows who I am but often thinks I am part of the staff here (staff? What staff? It is a house with 3 ppl in it). However the less she knows me the farther away I can drift. I don’t mind her living here, I mind feeling trapped by it. I mind having to be on call al the time. I mind her getting up at 6AM. That is MY time.

And yes, i do love her–we were so close for so long. It’s heartbreaking to see this happen. It’s terrifying to think about what’s going to happen to me. I do hug her a lot and love her a lot. But it would take 24/7 hugging and I don’t have that in me.

What do I want? I want my mom to be and feel safe and happy, warmed by love. I want to feel footloose and fancy free, grounded by my home but able to move easily in the world. I want to get my work done and feel good about my accomplishments. I want my concentration, my focus, to bring my gifts to the world and help others find and treasure theirs. I want to dance and enjoy life, visit with my friends, and meet cool new folks who become part of my circle of joy.

The GF is still hanging in there, and thank god for her. The BF is still hanging in, though I rarely hear from him. He is planning to move here after he retires. That’ll be interesting. I’ll keep you posted…

Thanks for reading. I appreciate your time and thoughtfulness.

May we be free from suffering. May all beings be free from suffering.

It just got stranger…

So yeah, I’m still here. Only now my brother is here, too. Oh Jesus. So I have my demented Mom and my cranky, germaphobic brother who is afraid to be left alone in the house. I’ll be back in a bit.

The GF thing is going pretty well. She’s a gem. Even helped me take care of my demented Mom.

Dementia, on the other hand, SUCKS. I mean it’s bad. I have been care taking my Mom 24/7 since the fall. Oh. My. God. Please do not make me go through this. Someone just shoot me. The anxiety, the paranoia, the stubbornness, since 9/10 of the time she has no clue where she is or who anyone is. I mean, she can’t remember anything, so maybe it’s not so bad for her, but it’s a pretty piss-poor quality of life. When she’s in a bad mood (read: constipated), she rants that she wants to die. Frankly, that would make everyone’s life easier, and when I was a kid she always said she would rather die than be helpless (and actively planned to off herself when the time came), but it takes a lot of effort to die before your time, and not being able to remember anything for 5 minutes does put a damper on one’s ability to carry out plans. Oh, wait, she can remember her delusions just fine, and will insist upon them for months. But I digress…


Maybe if I were a better daughter and sacrificed my entire life to find fun things for her it would be better, but I have a job (thank god I don’t have to show up very often), a business, and am taking a couple of online classes. My plate was overfull before she came along. I cut back in the spring, so now I’m broke AND overstressed. Plus we are out in the sticks at my house, and there not very much to do there, no matter how good of a daughter I am. So I play a lot of music on the stereo. She likes music.

My brother came for a week so I could have a vacation. I went to NYC and attended a couple of workshops. I need a few more breaks this summer. I can then maybe manage the fall. But that’s it. So that’s my story.  Not sure how to move this forward. She would despise any kind of nursing home. It’s a dilemma. For me, it’s about overcoming resistance and doing art anyway, despite not have a single moment to myself to think or do anything. In that way, I am losing this battle. My brain goes on strike, being in the room with her ALL DAY (and she wants me to sleep with her at night, too). So I don’t know how this will pan out, but I have my work cut out for me, that’s for sure.

The Definition of Insanity….

…is repeatedly doing the same thing and expecting the outcome to be different.

The scene: I have avoided not just the place where he works, but the entire town, for 6 weeks. Yesterday, I went there, with my MOM. He is, of course, there, on the sidewalk. He wears lime-green tie-dyed overalls with no shirt. I hate tie dye. On him, it’s hot. I laugh. “Someone should just take a picture of you every day,” I call. He comes over, takes my hand, kisses it, looks directly into my eyes. “I’m R___” he says.

“I’m Nuria,” say I. “And this is my Mom.”

He takes her hand and kisses it, too. Turns back to me. “I am straight,” he says. “And I am married. To ___. We have an open relationship.” He gives me a rather hard look. “I was a little put off that you only wanted to date me if I was single.” My mom is goggle-eyed.

“It’s easier,” I say. What else can I say? He is holding my hand. I am melting.

He nods. “I would love to hang out with you and get to know you.”

“Yes,” I say. My eyes slide down his skin to where it disappears under his clothes. He is tan, and lean, wiry, strong. I want to eat his entire body.

“I’ll call you,” he says.

“Yes,” I say. He gives me another kleig-light megawatt soul gaze and we part company.

My Mom and I continue up the street. “Forget you heard that,” I say. And she is just old enough that she will, thank God.

So, part of me is like, hahahaha, HE SAID YES!!!

The other half is like, fuckety fuck fuck.

Because, here’s the insanity part:

I have dated (more than) my share of married men. Somehow, there is always drama involved with that. You go in with the calmest intentions, you make sensible agreements, and lo, in about 15 minutes, people are freaking out and keying your car. This man is married. Excuse me while I scream hysterically.

All I want is someone to enjoy sex with, to feel beautiful with, to touch and cuddle and get off with on an occasional, sustainable basis. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Then there is this Don’t Ask; Don’t Tell thing. Frankly, it makes me feel like I’m keeping secrets. I hate that feeling. And if this guy would have a convo like that in front of my mother,  he obviously has no sense of shame. People will talk. I’m more worried about other people spilling the beans (on FB, for example), than I am about myself.

But I am also worried about myself. I am worried about my own sense of guilt, because that’s a real danger here. If I feel guilty about what I’m doing, there is a MUCH higher chance of something going nastily wrong. One can easily create misery and drama where none need be.

And I’m worried about my sanity. I want my life to be fun and engaging, a creative adventure. Period. And I love my man. I want him to be happy.

I just can’t stand the loneliness, the isolation, the sense of futility.

So how can I remove the conditions that create feelings of guilt? How must I conduct myself in this upcoming affair? Because, let’s face it, I am unlikely to walk away from this. I want him. I do not meet a lot of people whom I find attractive. Like none. So finding a way into this that is ethically and morally clean is of the utmost importance.

A talk must be had with R. I’d like to know just how this so-called “open relationship” works, its history. And I am going to visit my man next week for a couple of days.

I will know when I get back.

Drift again

She is indeed his confidante. How totally random is that? And she’s completely trustworthy. So it’s all good.

What’s better is that I got to deal with the fear, coming to the Oh Well stage all on my own: Oh well, whatever he said, it can’t really hurt me, and if he really is a jerk, I never have to speak to him again. But it’s nice to know the guy is okay after all.

Drift: There is another possibility…

And that is this: I told one person what I did–someone I knew could keep their mouth shut, who lives far away, and was not going to judge me. Maybe the friend who FBed me was his one person. Because frankly, if he is involved with someone, he’d have to be an idiot to go around advertising the fact that he got this proposition. So I will sit tight until I hear from her again and sort this out.

Drift: the update

So I get a wall post on FB today, from someone who lives far enough away I never see her: “I hear you met my friend …” and a ❤ heart at the end.

And I am, like, shit. Too bad your friend is a total blabbermouth. What did he do, go to a July 4th party and tell everyone there I hit on him, showing my card the whole while?  How else would this totally random connection occur?

What the hell is wrong with people? Why do I even try? Silence is the best policy. This whole state is one small town. No wonder I don’t have any friends.

On the other hand, at least I know the guy’s name now. Oh, and he’s a musician–hence the flash. But he’s not on my happy list at the moment.

My boyfriend can’t get it up

My boyfriend can’t get it up. You might wonder why he’s still my boyfriend, and sometimes so do I, but not because of that. The truth is, he’s a sex god. How narrow minded you are, to think only a hard dick can be a sex god. No, he is so hot, one look and my body melts. More orgasms than you can count. He’s that good.

Unfortunately he does not understand this. He, too, is convinced that a hard dick (preferably huge) is all that counts. He’s also balding, overweight (I don’t care), and convinced that his dick is too small, even when hard (it’s not), which probably has a lot to do with why it doesn’t get hard. Size matters, but not as much as other things, like, oh,  skill, for example. Trust me, I’ve dated younger, slimmer, hairier guys who were hung like a horse, and they were completely useless in bed.

It all started out so nicely, so hot, so rich, so good. And then… He was too tired. I was masturbating before he got home because I was so horny, but he was too tired. He hurt his shoulder. I was understanding, and restrained myself. Mistake. The second year I had a drug reaction and gained 10-15 pounds. he had a lousy summer and became seriously depressed.

Not fun, living in one tiny room with a seriously depressed guy who (you are pretty certain) thinks you look repulsive. When drunk, he said we should let the whole thing go. Sober, he did not remember saying this and denied wanting to end it. I stayed. Mistake.

He tries Viagra; sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. When I’m not around is when it tends to work. Oh. No, I don’t feel completely shitty about this. So now I am dating a totally hot sex magic god who so doesn’t want to fuck me, he can’t get hard on Viagra (I’m beautiful, by the way).  I hate the Viagra because it becomes all about the dick and not about me. Getting laid with Viagra is worse than without, b/c he just gets his rocks off, and where are all my orgasms?

He comes to stay with me, has no job; I employ him. He has another lousy summer, stays at my place depressed out of his mind. I am understanding. I give him money. Mistake. I am now buying his smokes and basically supporting him and he is depressed. I am not getting laid. there isn’t even any Viagra around. I tell my therapist; she says, “So he has a mood disorder. But when you talk about him you look younger and it’s the only time you smile.”

He has the most beautiful voice and he makes me laugh and his hands are magic, but he won’t touch me. He’s not interested in my breasts and he doesn’t like to kiss. I love to kiss. He feels so bad about his body (or maybe mine), he turns the light off when we make love.

But he didn’t used to. And I am not getting laid.

I tell him I will not give him any more money. He understands (he really is not a mooch. How the fuck did I get here?) I go back where I live (we lives thousands of miles apart). Sometimes we talk on the phone. He is broke. He has let all his credit cards collapse and phone get turned off. He has only a 10 cents a minute cell phone. When I call him he has no minutes or his phone is on silent. Sometimes he doesn’t call me for days. Like 10 of them.  I am not getting laid AND I am worried. I say I need him to email me every day, write to me for at least 10 minutes. He starts, then skips three days. I tell him he will email me EVERY DAY or I am done.

I am still not getting laid.

Why don’t I…

What is it with resistance? What is it with talent wasted? Why, if I am good at something, value that thing, and want to expand it, am I so helpless in the face of my own — inertia is not the right word, or maybe it is. Inertia is the tendency of a body at rest to remain at rest, and one in motion to remain in motion. I remain at rest. Terminally. Maybe it’s ADD. When I suggested to my therapist that maybe I had, like, shadow ADD, she laughed at me (seriously – she laughed). Shadow? she chortled. Honey, you have full-blown ADD. You are the poster child for ADD!

Well, fuck. She thought I should get tested and get medicated. She insists there are very high-level medications now that target specific areas of the brain. She says some areas do not grow up, do not develop at the same rate as others. Children have a lot of success with the new meds; once they “get it” about how it feels to be in sync, the adjust, and they re-integrate, and the are OK (or at least that’s what I think she said).

So why are all the ADD kids I know drug addicts? Maybe she has a special line to the hot and new in the medical world. She treats kids more, but she’s an art therapist, so I like her. (As soon as I have insurance again, I will go back.) My homeopath laughed at getting tested. What do you need a diagnosis for? he said. So they can give you Ritalin? Clearly, he is on the same newsfeed as I am. Maybe I do want Ritalin (I know I don’t; just sayin’), maybe I do. I remember speed, back inthe drug days of the 70’s. I loved speed. Unfortunately, Speed Kills is not just a bumper sticker; it is a harsh and vicious reality. No, speed is deadly. But something about that experience feels perfect.On the other hand, i cannot do any kind of sedatives. I hate them. I feel like I am underwater.

Most of the time I am so tired I can’t do anything, so I just watch as the crap piles up and falls over and think, wow, that’s falling over. Maybe I will sort of stack up the pile a little better. But that’s about it.

So, dancing? Ha. Writing? Well, arguably, yes, I am writing now, and I am doing nanowrimo, so I am better off than I have been, but still: Ha. This blog is my free space, where I can say whatever the fuck I want because it is not connected to me. My name is not on here, so fuck you, you don’t know me and if you don’t like it, don’t read it.

There. I wish I had the courage to put my name on here, and sooner or later i will, because face it, I am a big showoff, but for now, I can experiment in peace. And I like it being on this blog, where other people can read it and find it it they need to, so it is public, but private, because no one knows me, or my family, or my friends. I don’t have to worry that so and so will take offense at something I say. They will never read it, and if they do, they can’t prove I said it, so HA!

Even in my fiction i worry. I can’t talk about what i really want, what’s on my mind, because those people who are on my mind might be hurt by things I say.

So anyway, back to my problems, because hey, this is all about ME now, isn’t it. Or maybe it’s about you, maybe you have this problem too; in that case it’s about us.

So maybe all my problems would be solved by medication. I like that idea; it’s easy. No work on my part. The homeopath and acupuncturists have actually improved my situation with medication, but there is a crucial difference. I Dislike the the thought of taking something every day, a symptomatic remedy as opposed to a cure. My acupuncturists and homeopath, they are making me truly more well through transformative medicine. I am all for this. And I used to be worse. This is better (I am writing, am I not?). But there is still so far to go.

And dance, what I really want to improve, is moldering. Time is not on my side. Time is a sword in my side. Dance has a short shelf life. Indecision cripples me, inaction cripples me (literally). Illness cripples me and I can’t seem to shake it. It’s getting harder. The voices say, just give it up. You never practice. You suck. But I don’t suck, and I know that. I don’t practice either. I know that, too. What a vicious circle. Would ADD medication help this? If so, give me some. If not, give me something.