So I wasn’t an abusive husband, and I haven’t been an abusive parent. Not by the standard terms anyway.
And I don’t abuse myself, I don’t drink, smoke, or take any non prescribed controlled substances. I don’t cut myself. I don’t starve and binge. Well, maybe I binge, but that’s not a new thing. I’ve always self-medicated with food.
But I feel like I’m abusive to myself, and to those who love me, because I’m neglectful. I just realized this morning that I’m out of Celexa. No big, I’ll just go to Walgreens and get it refilled. Oops, no refills. And I haven’t gone to the doctor because I have no insurance and he wanted me to start taking Lipitor because my labs indicated high cholesterol and Lipitor’s too damn expensive when you don’t have insurance so I never did go back for my follow-up labs.
Do you see where this is going? I’m in a corner that I’ve painted myself. I have to either go back to the doctor and face the music (and pay cash for an appointment) or just get more depressed.
And if I get more depressed, I’ll just sink further into this hole. Mom’s gone, so I’m rattling around this house by myself. Iris is visiting her grandsons. Nobody’s around to keep an eye on me.
Today is March 4th. Get it? March forth. For about a minute I thought about getting on here and making one of my bullshit declarations to you, my fervent readers, about how today I’m going to march forth and start taking care of myself! I’m going to make that doctor’s appointment tomorrow. Get my meds straightened out. Get a job, even if it’s at McDonalds. Pull myself up etc. etc. fucking etc.
How many times have I made those promises? To myself, to God, to you. Remember Project 2268? How’s that going?
I feel like — and please don’t think I’m taking this lightly, because I’m not — but I feel like an abusive lover who keeps saying, “Oh come on, baby. I can change. I’ll do right by you. Gimme another chance!”
I keep making those promises…to God, to my family, to you, to myself. How long?
The truth is, I’m closer to getting back to California than I’ve ever been. There isn’t going to be gobs of money from Mom’s estate and selling this house eventually, but there will be some. Along with getting a job here, probably getting somebody to rent a room or two in the house until we’re ready to sell it (a roommate, holy stinkmuffins, I swore I would never have another one of those), this is doable.
Unless I fuck it up. And sweet mother of kryptonite am I ever capable of fucking shit up.
Self sabotage, self abuse. How long? The fact is that I have every intention of marching forth and doing all those positive things that I listed earlier. But will I?
C’mon, Joe, gimme another chance!