So I can't sleep. I've got so much work to do for school, so many deadlines, so many voices begging for help and clarification that they all start to blend together.
Meanwhile, my step-dad, as some of you may know, is very sick. He signed his health over to $cientology and doesn't have the medicine to treat arthritis, rhuematism, or epilepsy. He recently has a seizure that left him unconscious until a neighbor found him. Where was my mom and why did she leave a near 70 year-old invalid alone? Because she was in NYC being a $cientology missionary.
Meanwhile, Falwell died, to my delight, and all the rage I've had for him, Billy Graham, the Promise Keepers' McCartney, etc. has come out in deliciously Sadean ways (See GC's blog), but I don't feel any better. It's because it always falls on deaf ears. I'm eternally the Boy who says that the Emperor is Wearing No Clothes, but even my family members who have NOT become pod people don't really understand why I have rage rather than compassion.
Now, my step-dad may die soon. It's bound to happen some day. I should be full of sorrow and available to support the very family that sold me out to the kind of hate that Fallwell represents, but I only feel rage. Sorrow and remorse becomes rage and then rage even more at having all emotions defer to rage. I probably won't go to the funeral (my step dad's) because I would only end up pulling a Bobby from Twin Peaks, pointing my finger at them all and crying, "You! You are all responsible!" It would be a debacle. Best to stay away.
So here's a toast to the death of Fallwell for whom my rage can at least be unambivalent, unmixed with the complex feelings one has for family, especially the pod people part of the family. Clickety click goes the Scotchy Scotch, a swallow, and another restless night seeing ghosts in the corner of my bedroom.
6 comments:
Blech, b. I'm sorry to hear about your step-dad. That sounds very sad and infuriating at the same time, a toxic emotional cocktail and certainly the kind of thing that could keep you up all night. The good news--yes, there must be some of this--is that summer is imminent. That time of relaxing in the sun, away from all that exam preparation and teenage hysteria, is extremely fucking nigh.
I think two straight weeks of sitting out in your backyard in your boxers and a white t-shirt, while pounding cans of Genny Screamers is what is called for.
I would only add, to the comments above, that investment in a kiddie pool to fill with ice and sundry beverages be added to the backyard scene.
That way you won't have to go inside as much.
Sweee-EEETT!
and firecrackers. clearly you need firecrackers.
I'm right there with ya--a balance disorder, and now my hands and forearms barely work either. How am I gonna write my diss if I can't type for more than 10 minutes at a time? And I can't even indulge in Genny Screamers.
Sigh.
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