In the souldark night…

To those who follow me–here and on Twitter–I ask for your patience and understanding. Please bear with me.
My weeks of househunting have been more than a little frustrating; one place offered turned out to be a scam; two places wouldn’t let unless I had work and/or filled out a credit score report. (How in the world do you get a score without a credit card? That’s what I’d like to know.) And my cash stash has been so depleted that I couldn’t even scrape up bus fare to view other places.
At the moment, I am also without a cell (matter of do-re-mi to pay the bill), so even calling the places that I find intriguing proves a challenge.
And yesterday saw me at my lowest–unable to get through to two friends (one who did not want to be disturbed as he was ill, the other whose visit I missed, and I could not let him know I was behind time).
In a perfect storm of depression, pain, and grief, I pulled out paper and wrote a suicide letter, incorporating elements of a last will into it. Not my first time writing such a note, but the first time I finished one, and itemized what I wanted to give away. It was scary, cathartic, and exhilarating, in a perverse way.

I went for a walk, later on, and wound up at AA, a sobbing mess.

Why am I writing all this? ‘Cos I need support at this time. I do. I don’t think I will follow through, but I need to know that you hear me, and that I’m not an imbecile or a freak for feeling so low. If you decide to unfollow, I wish you well. I do. This is heavy stuff.

But if you stick with me, I can promise my gratitude, my loyalty, and my love.

So thank you for hearing me out.



Sorry I’ve been away. Things have been, to put it nicely, sheer, full-on dramarama. I’m still looking for a place–and I have an eye on a studio off Le Jeune for $500, which would be great. I hope it’s not taken, and that I can arrange a tour. Cross your fingers for me, people!

In the meantime, I’m also reading, researching, and lamenting being without a phone. (My poor, poor cell sustained serious water damage. In pace…!) By this time tomorrow, however, I should be back in circulation. A dear friend of mine has given me a BlackBerry. If MetroPCS can convert it to use, terrific. If not, well, another friend has spotted me for a replacement.

On a tangential note: if anyone from the Herrera, Garcia, or Trujillo families is reading this: hey there. Your black sheep kinswoman would like to hear from you.

Sad thoughts during Holy Week

I would like to say that my best friend, D., and I could have a civil conversation on politics.
I would, at least, like to say that we could agree to differ, and at worst, that a safeword could keep the talk from degenerating into a shouting match.
Two years ago, I could have stated these things without fear or shame. I could have said the same, even with his coming out as a conservative, this time last year.
Now? I’m not so sure.
Nine years ago, my friendship with D. hung in the balance, due to differences in religious points of view. We found a way to talk it out, and agree to differ.
At this time, frankly, I find myself wondering if I even want to hang on. A sobering thought: that I have reached a breaking point, and frankly, might not cry so much if I let go.

Really–what the hell is the damage? That I don’t want to smile and nod when he begins with the liberals-are-evil spiel? That I feel humiliated, and even scared, when he goes into full fury mode over the wrongs inflicted on America by the Islamomarxosociofascist coterie? That if I criticize him, I’m the villain?

The worst of it is that he doesn’t need my company as much as I have needed his. And frankly, if I had thought a bit more, I should have begun, long ago, to put out feelers, meet other people, whether in real time or online. And I should have gone much further to reach out to people at my church–not just to see them and say hi. (Such is the clarity of hindsight!)

I feel as if I should light a candle, if only because words stick in my throat. And I am at a loss as to what I could say.

From the Silver Age

We won’t meet. We are in different camps.
Would you summon me there, insolent one,
Where my brother suffered bloody wounds,
Accepting an angel’s crown?

And neither your soulful smiles
Nor your savage vows,
Not even the thrilling, rippling ghost
Of my most ecstatic love
Will seduce…

Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966)
tr. by Judith Hemschemeyer