Extra, Extra Content -- DELIBERATE BETRAYAL

"It was easier for you to do all the things you did, because you never really trusted me in the first place. However I felt the blow after blow of betrayal to my psyche, injuries that only you could inflict, because I continued to trust you." – Anon

Bill – and this will be the last time I ever address you by name, and hopefully, address you period, as with this, the boil is lanced, but, I dislike you, no, loathe, hate, despise you, that much – the above quote pretty much sums up our marriage. I may have been a stupid fool, but I believed in you and expected the same in return. We tend to look at the world through our own prism; if we're kind-hearted and loving, we expect the same in return, regardless of the circumstances.

Anyway, I wanted to wish you a very, very happy ex-Anniversary, on this, October Ninth, year of our Lord, 2013. Enjoy it, you philandering, lying hypocrite. D'you remember your very last words that you ever spoke to me, after you asked me for your cell phone bill in late October-ish, November, of 2004, when I said I didn't have it? “You're a liar.” I, of course admit now, that I had it, and had called Andrea Tapiocahead in Maryland and informed her that I was your then wife, because you, not being omniscient, could never have known otherwise, no? I also told her that if you treated me this way, you would eventually treat her the same way! Ain't that great?

What I should have answered, but was oh, so very, very sick with Congestive Heart Failure, blind in one eye that was caused, not by my drinking, as you so sanctimoniously loved to tell me was bad, which yes, it was; that's what alcoholics do, when they're offered a beer by their then-boyfriends, whom they have trusted for a year or so, but by anemia, failure to thrive (childhood – I found out by getting into my old hospital's system, but I don't leave tracks; it's depressing to find out that the deck is that stacked, BUT, (deep breath) by stress and the fact that I had had ulcer surgery, and really, really neglecting my B-12 shots. I SHOULD have said to you, after you said, “You're a liar,” “Well, at least I'm not a philanderer.” So laughably ironic and sad; or as the late, great cellist Spencer Mcgee said, “Sad and an asshole.”

Where did things go wrong? That week I spent in Tampa right after we moved to Charlotte and I had contractual obligations to fulfill, in December, 1999? You were perfectly content to let me stay alone in that house on Annie Street all by myself, with no phone, no protection, and when I asked Herb if I could sleep on his couch, he said “yes.” Yet, your were so pissed by that. In what realm of what universe does that make sense? How fucking safe is that? Then, you swelled up like a horned toad and acted like the typical shithead you are until I pried it out of you in April, 2000.

NOTHING HAPPENED! Nothing was going to happen. But, no woman is going to stay by herself in that neighborhood. Your sense of self-righteous indignation are just breath-taking. Then, the following month, when you went to Tampa for Katie's Graduation, and stayed a few extra days, you came home and looked like you'd had about 8 8-balls shoved up your nose. The look on your face was pure guilt; I'm sure you climbed into somebody's pants in Tampa. I'm lucky I never got a disease from you. I was completely faithful throughout our marriage.

You just never had the stones to deal with anything or anyone that had REAL trouble. I was the one who carried Rusty outside and down the stairs after he had his stroke, so he could go potty; you couldn't even look at him. You MADE me help you drag Eric out into the back 40 when he had dug into his hole under our porch, so you didn't have to hear his screams, when he was dying.

When Eric had all those fistulas, I was the one who took care of him; wiped his bottom and broke up those capsules so he would heal. I cooked, cleaned, ironed, split the bills. I even agreed to split the bills 50-50, although it was a hardship, when you UNILATERALLY decided to quit your job at CGS and go back to school so you could save the world and make a difference.

In doing so, I helped there, not just with the bills, but with your job and the making those poor girls brownies. The one who lived over on the East Coast of Florida, as soon as she got out and was calling us, as you had bonded with her, you had me dealing with her, because it was too much trouble for you to deal with her. Just dump it on me.

Then, there's Herb. Herb's okay, but forgetful. You came at me over the finches dying after I had been away on a gig for a week or so. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Feed and water them by ESP? I TOLD him to take care of them and you have the temerity and the goddamned nerve to say to me, “What a shitty way to die!” I wasn't going to tell you he forgot. I was protecting him, because he was my friend (I thought) and because you were acting like some kind of fucking schizophrenic asshole, instead of just being your regular asshole self.

You were so far deep into your self-righteous “I am the all-knowing one with the job, while my lazy asshole wife lays around, does God knows what drugs, drinks, runs around. . .”

You were seeing me through YOUR eyes. You were the one who told the girls time after time, “I've quit smoking!” and then hide it from them; while Katie was snowboarding in Charlotte, in 1999, to Kyle, over and over and over. And you wondered why Kyle was pregnant BEFORE she left high school? Do you REALLY believe Fran didn't know? I knew, but I wasn't going to say a fucking word. Just reading this paragraph presents a whole basket of “STAY THE FUCK AWAY – LIARS AHEAD!!”

I think Katie has a pretty good moral compass, or at least she did, if she gets a chance to read this, understand, I meant you no harm, nor Kyle, ever. I loved you both, but you, especially. It really hurt me, when your father isolated me from the birth of Alex, and he did that with deliberation. I couldn't have driven to see her, I had one good eye and as it was, driving short distances were, understandably terrifying. Try covering your left eye and just walk around. No depth perception and no peripheral vision. Now add to that, labored breathing and a bad heart and a cheating husband and no one to turn to. For about 6 weeks. Then one day, your heart says, “no more, if you go back, you'll die.” Two grocery bags of clothes, my viola and violin and I was gone to live on a friend's couch.

The same thing with Dwayne. He was sick the day I got home from Brandon Regional Medical Center, where I had been for 2 weeks, with CHF. I had to have 6 pints of blood transfused because I only had 2% hemoglobin in my body. The day after I got home, Dwayne was in a corner. You were clearly doing your own thing, which wasn't feeding the cats, or whatever the fuck it was, just waiting to make my life more miserable. He could hardly breathe. I had to take him to the vet. I had no money, after having losing my job with Chase Manhattan because of my blindness. I had to call around to find a vet who would see me and him, because I had not money. The vet was straight up with me. We looked him over and he was in bad shape. His breath smelled bad; when he could draw breath, it rattled and he wheezed. He sounded like his parts were broken. After much discussion, I called Herb, who was now living with us (how did I know that was going to happen?) and he at least was sympathetic and had a grave dug, by the time I got home.

I was going to tell you, but Herb beat me to it, and you whirled around and said, to me, you said, you miserable cock-sucking bastard, “You murdered Dwayne!” I put him out of his damned misery, which you were too blind with lust, for the afore-mentioned Andrea? Self-righteousness over how very wrong I was, and how very right you were? Whatevs.

There were so many little petty mean things you said and did that I cannot possibly enumerate them all. I truly believe that your soul will be cast out into the darkness and you will be anathema. You will be denied grace and forgiveness; you will be denied any succor or understanding, because, you, you bastard have denied it, when it was so desperately needed. Cast into the stygian blackness, you are commanded to the Elders of Cthulhu, in the Time and Color before space. It exists.

That is partly the Catholic rite of excommunication and partly H. P. Lovecraft, and all mine. Curses are powerful things. You are damned and cursed and I am sure that at some point, if not by me or any agent that I choose to put into play, retribution will be made. I realize that I am damned lucky to be alive; I am also much stronger than I was.

Oh, and hey? Before my eye surgery? Thanks for yelling at me about not doing anything; that was great. You: “You just sit there and look at that goddamned book!!” Me (thinking) “Hmm, no job, totally blind, and he's yelling at me. I cannot believe this; what the fuck am I supposed to do? Grow new lenses?” I actually was thinking nothing; I was too terrified, humiliated and scared and you fucking knew it and made it worse. Rot in hell, you bastard. Herb stood by and watched all of this. Take him with you.

Anyway, the reason I posted the post on my blog, “Homeless Chronicles in Tampa” on May, 22, 2013, is because I found out that you were working at Gulf Coast Jewish Services, which I take as a HUGE insult, slap in the face, whatever. My mom worked there, and although, we had our years and years of problems, she and I made it right. The only thing I agree with you about is this: “she has wisdom.” Ma would say being really sick teaches a lot about compassion, but it also teaches you tons about true unconditional love and acceptance and accountability. It also teaches you about looking at the mote in your own eye.

If she were alive now, she would not only loathe you, but Herb, and most of your family. She would encourage me to probably go farther than I am, I think. Not a goddamned one of you did a thing. I was sick and dispirited for a long time after her death, but that was nothing compared to what has happened after I left 4406 Spring Road, Valrico, Florida, 33596. Let's just say, I've had more interesting times and I'm much better off for it. I heard you left there; somehow I am not surprised. You like to “re-invent” yourself every few years. Maybe one of these years, you'll find a re-invention that's human and not cyborg or an asshole². (That means “squared” and not a footnote, igmo.)

I still practice my arts; not that you care. Because, I have lifelong loves, and unlike you, I am a real musician. I've kept up my computer skills and can fix anything and do pretty much anything, from home. Although I am legally blind, there isn't a place in this world I can't travel.

But, I really only left, because I was starting to fear for my life. My heart was growing weaker and I was supposed to avoid stress. I know Herb was telling you everything, but I truly believe that if I had had a heart attack and fallen to the floor, you would have stood there and watched me die. You were hoping I would die and then everything would be yours and you wouldn't have to fool with me anymore. I didn't want to leave. I don't like leaving, but you knew what buttons to push.

Now, that I've seen the elephant, I'm not afraid of anything. Not you, not anybody. I wish I had the guts then that I have now, but this is life and we don't get what we wish for.

However, we did discuss at one time, my 5,000.00 401k that you “borrowed” in Charlotte, NC and you were going to pay me back. That never happened. That wasn't in the divorce settlement. Also, 200.00 for Jake, 200.00 for that violin (that you played so badly) and 200.00 for the Celestron Telescope, that was supposed to be “our” Christmas Present to one another, one year. By, the way, the divorce settlement, exactly covered the amount of money I paid for all the bills and food JUST while I was in the Valrico house. Never mind the stupid Atkins Diet that I "shared" 300.00 a week for food on, when we were in Charlotte, NC.

You also have a heavy iron skillet that is like glass, that belonged to my grandmother, and I want that back. I also want my mother's Garden Fairy. You kept a bunch of my heavy rods and reels, that were presents, INDIAN giver. Never mind. The girls gave me the Mix-Master for Mother's Day in 2002, but it's too ironic. You keep it. The sign that reads “Stinkbug Creek” that I bought and paid for, if you haven't already gotten rid of it, please take it down and burn it; I'm serious.

That's about all I have to say. I am posting this on October 9, 2013, which would have been our whatever year anniversary. Big fucking deal. I am also thinking mailing you, Herb, Katie, and whoever else I can think of a copy, of this here fine post. Don't get your panties in a wad and think about filing harassment or stalking (as if!) charges, because I will stall and file continuances and we'll end up in a jury trial, and talk about some more of your rotten behavior and I'm not doing anything illegal. I'm disabled, legally blind, and on SSDI. Mostly, I just wanted to tell you what a cock-sucking, son-of-a-whore you are, and I doubt you have the stones to refute or explain ANY of this. I would ask Herb about that note, however. 

One thing I am curious about; just what did you tell Katie, John, Kyle and her husband, your sister Cathy Bush and her husband Dan Hill in Oklahoma City, Fran or anyone else, in the Blanton family, about why I was no longer in your life? What kind of opprobrium did you heap upon my reputation, so that you could look like the good guy? You are a churl, coward and bully, and I dare say, you told them all I was cheating on you and running around, or crazy. You most certainly said nothing to Cathy and Dan until after the fact, because they strike me as kind people, people who would be concerned that a woman with no other family, was being systematically shunned by her so-called "family-by-marriage." Think back on your own father's behavior towards your own mother Irene Stone. If she left you behind, she had damned good reason to and I'm sure it was with regret, but she also felt her life threatened. Think about that, long and hard. 

5,000.00 loan for cashed in 401k (no interest) you said on the back porch you would pay me back. It was a loan up in Charlotte.
200.00 for Jake
200.00 for violin, which you didn't need
200.00 for my part of the telescope; Herb sent me the manual -- fat lot of good that will do.

$5600.00 TOTAL

my mother's cast iron skillet, which had been her mother's

garden fairy -- which had been my mother's

heavy fishing rigs, which were mine as a gift from you, Bill. I may not be able to see well enough to drive, but I can still fish.

Take down and burn "Stinkbug Creek" sign, as it was my idea. 

You're such a bastard you probably dug up poor Trotsky, Dwayne and Sage (you pitched a fit about my having to work after her death, but saw no hypocrisy about dragging Eric away to the back 40 to die miserably alone, you immoral jackal.)

John, I bear you nor Katie any ill-will, but please stop having her look for me. Her father should have the stones to do that, or confront me in my blog. He robbed me of my health, dignity and my future. It's taken many years to get to the point where I have a good life again. I lost not only the Valrico house, in the divorce, but a house I was trying to buy in the economic crisis, with the measly settlement, I stupidly agreed to in the divorce. I want nothing from him, but what I enumerated above. He knows the truth, but will never tell you so; I'd wager it.

Katie is not his stalking-horse. He is a coward and a bully and your wife is a fine woman. But I know she's been trying to find me; let Bill do his own dirty work. You and Katie raise your family; the less you have to do with him and his taint, the better. 

I do not really expect to see the money, because he is not honorable, but I do want my things, especially the iron skillet and the garden fairy. If ANYONE cares to respond, I will pay for shipping. Someone in that whole bunch needs to grow a spine and start showing some damn principles. It's called virtue. Look it up and live it. It's what I've learned to do every day. It isn't easy and I should be thankful; in a way I am. I'm in a place I need to be, among the poor and homeless, doing real good, not some jumped-up half-assed teaching per Dr. Phil. Katie understands me better than anyone, I guess. So, just think about what I said. Take care and a very, Merry Christmas to you and your wife, and family. Mary

#ROW80 - 3RD QTR 2013 – POST 5 – WHY KNOWING SHIT MATTERS, HUBBY 3 IS MAKING ME THE HONESTY POLICE? OR MY NEW MEDS ARE MAKING ME A TAD STRANGE...

NOTE: I WAS GOING TO POST THIS EARLIER, BUT WAS WAITING ON A REPLY FROM HUFFPO. STILL WAITING, SO ON WITH THE SHOW!

I know, nice and vague, just the way I detest things, but there's a reason for this and it has to do with a couple of ideas that have been rolling around the old noggin, that were put there by some magic fairies, one of whom is Andi-Roo and the other, is Jason Linkins, he of the hilarious, but dead-on descriptions and I've-boiled-down-this-Sunday-show-so-you-don't-have-to-watch-the-horror or “EAT THE PRESS” as it's known over on HuffPo. It is no secret the I <3 Jason.

He sends out weekly updates of the crap he's been reporting on all week, but this merited particular attention “Let's Put a Park on the Moon ForSome Reason!” Oh dear god. Of course, I sped right over to HuffPo to play along. First off Newt Gingrich has some kind of moon fixation that he should probably see a shrink about, along with several other weird fixations, but hey, that's Newt! Secondly, the bill from 2 congresspersons, Dems Donna Edwards (D-Md.) and Eddie Bernice Johnson (D-Tx.) would created a National Park around all of the junk left around on said Moon by missions Apollo 11 through 17.

Honey, you need to stand closer to that rover thingy. Damn! Honey, did you pack the sunscreen?

Daddy, can I have the keys to the lunar module tonight?

Newt is thinking this is all a swell idea, with all of the moonbeam ideas he has had, like mirrors in space to aid in parking and crime-fighting or something. I guess the mirrors just fry the miscreants like so many bugs under a magnifying glass. Saves money spent on those slowly turning wheels of justice.

Zzzzzzzzt! "Nice going, dude. You just fried Betty Sue, Knuckles McGoon is still on the loose!"

So, to get to the point and so you can see I'm not raving any more than usual, we get the comments section, and Christ on a cracker, everyone is deadly serious about this. If people really stop and think, there is a snowball's chance in hell of anything of this sort passing. The moon belongs to the planet earth. I think Russia, China, Germany, France and Britain may have something to say about this. Eminent Domain, anyone? Just because we got there first, is it ollie-ollie-oxen-free? I think not. Someone was caviling about Space Law, and really? Is there such a thing? I treated it with the irony and sarcasm it deserved and moved on.

What got to me is this: Last week there was another article about Egypt possibly moving onto a position of working towards a democratic state. Let's face it. A state who wishes to transition towards democracy, in this day and age is in for a perilous road indeed. Outside forces will do much to see that either does not happen, or will insert key players into the mix to try and subvert the best of intentions. I am glossing this over in the interests of brevity. As an American, I do NOT think we should be involved in the Middle East; they must find their way. There are many, many brilliant and passionate people there who are devoted to their countries and who are looking for a better way that does not include Al Qaida, the Taliban, or Tribalism.

I truly think that in the main, the entire 5th estate is a giant bag of dicks. So there!

Read the article that got me revved up here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/07/05/david-brooks-egypt_n_3551427.html

What got me about this, is the article was the last of a series of articles written by David Brooks, of the New York Times, where he in essence, after a series of articles, touting the insurgence in Egypt, explaining that over time, mitigating forces will calm the Muslim Brotherhood, as has been seen elsewhere, he just all of a sudden comes up with this gem: the conclusions that Egyptians “lack the basic mental ingredients for democracy.” This was after a series of articles that explained and defined the approach to a democratic process. As Mr. Linkin of HuffPo pointed out, “a more charitable view defined by Max Read would be (“Shall we note here, the day after Independence Day that it took the United States of America 13 years to after rejecting monarchy to settle on a constitutional form of government.”)

So, the argument becomes that their descendants aren't smart or capable enough for democracy?

A wonderful point, and what a slap in the face to the Egyptians. Let's see; they were responsible for building the pyramids. The library of Alexandria, Astronomy, Mahmeluks of the Ottoman Empire resided there, as well as in Istanbul. Yet, the comments section was horrendous. I have never heard so much bigotry and stupidity and bias in my life. In a very fair, and balanced, but also nuanced way to show how wrong David Brooks is, a fair amount of the people who read Mr. Linkin's articles, who shouldn't; they don't have the brains, or their filters are too widely meshed to follow Mr. Linkin's logic, so they take what he is saying at face value, when what he is doing is the opposite, he is telling us in his patented Jason way, (which I LOVE) that Brooks needs to just stop writing. Mr. Jason does this brilliantly to dunderheads who need a good public shame-ass-kicking.

So, of course, I have to weigh in with my sharp tongue and it is indeed sharp and I can eviscerate, as follows. I ran across this gem of a comment and after I peeled myself off the ceiling, I went to work:

Okay, so you just read the article and the bit about the Founding Fathers and chose to ignore that? Lessee here...

I actually mis-spoke regarding the 13 years to detach from the British monarchy, although technically it is true, as the American Revolution was fought for a few years. I riposted with this:

By now, I am just sick and tired of what has become an argument gone off-the-rails. We are way off point, if we are besmirching my googling skillls and my apparent lack of ESP, since I didn't make the automatic link between "unable to do democracy and garbage city" and come up with Egypt. I don't think that's ESP and it sure as hell ain't mathematics; it smells suspiciously like prejudice and bias to me, and yes, Giglawyer, (I googled him; he's some kind of half-assed musician, as well as a half-assed lawyer) the Ottoman Empire weighs heavily into all of this, you asshole, since the Mamelukes were part of the Empire for quite a while. Go find a copy of "Asia Minor For Dummies." I am sure it's in there. But, I did not say this.

I had crafted a carefully-worded argument about his fallacious assumption and told him his argument was specious. He had no evidence to base the Egyptians' inability to handle democracy, other than their ability to pick up after themselves, which in and of itself, proves nothing. I stated that, being a lawyer, or implying such by his title, he must have at least had one or two courses in rhetoric and logic, as I was required to do so, by the Jesuits, because, Jesuits... Since he cared so little for staying on topic, my last 2 sentences were something like, "Please do not reply; admit you were bested and move on. You are becoming a Royal Pain in my Ass. (In essence, I PWNED him, because he had no closer. But, I, in turn was pwned by the system. My final remark to him was removed. Either because I said "Ass" or he had it removed; which is entirely possible, so I'm re-creating it here.

I really don't give a good goddamned who wins or loses an argument, as long as it is fought intelligently and with the Marquis de Queensberry's rules, even if we're not boxing. With the Trayvon Martin ruling, we have once again seen some horrendous, egregiously bad law in play, from top to bottom. The "Stand Your Ground" law in Florida, signed by Governor Rick Scott, R-FLA, who couldn't understand a law, even if it was just the law of gravity, signed the thing. Its deliberately ambiguous language, the porous construction of the bill itself allows for a multitude of interpretations. It is a bad law, that favors people who are wielding weapons, EXCEPT when we don't want it to, as in the case of a Florida woman who fired a warning shot. An African-American woman, who is serving 20 years. She killed no one. She invoked the "Stand Your Ground" law. Next time, she'll kill. I would have killed, after a 3rd warning, no warning shot, nothing. But, I am white. I am also deemed (I love that word) mentally ill. Actually, I may give no warning. It's all that vague in Florida.

Mentally ill I may be, but I do keep my promises (don't you love the smooth segue?). Back on May 22, 2013, I wrote a post about my 3rd husband and what an unmitigated bastard he turned out to be. I went from being the "best thing that ever happened," said to me, by him when his slut of a daughter became pregnant, her senior year of high school in 1997, to utter garbage in 6 short years. I stayed mum and listened to him during all of that drama. 

When I fell ill, a mere 6 years later, he really treated me horribly and the mental abuse began. I ran away from the marriage, with a physically failing heart in January, 2005, in fear for my life. Not that he would physically abuse me, but that my ailing heart would stop. Not one person in that family cared, asked, or tried to contact me, with the exception of my ex-husband, who wrote a letter in March, I believe of 2005. I was staying with a violinist friend, half-blind, playing when I could. He wrote, asking for money. In that post, found here, http://homelesschroniclesintampa.blogspot.com/2013/05/row80-wednesday-check-in-post-9.html I talked about some of the things done and said at the end of the marriage. 

I understand that it is a two-way concern. I really wanted this marriage to work, but somewhere into the 1st year, I felt a change and I was never able to re-establish closeness. No matter. I have made it clear to him and the family that he was to at least acknowledge the first post, or I would reveal some other details which I am sure he would prefer not be made public. Since my wants and needs were of such little consideration while we were married, let me return the favor. 

Bill Nunnally, I really didn't appreciate the 8-ball jags on weekends at the house on Annie Street in the late '90s. While you and Herb may have enjoyed them, at the time, they terrified me. Y'all were up all night, jabbering and then getting meaner than snakes towards the end. Now, I'd put you both down for the mad dogs you are. John Holley may know about it, but I'd be willing to bet the girls don't. There is a reason I never did coke. It's a goddamned werewolf. And I am an addict. I've known that since I quit drinking the first time. 

I knew it the night at PJ's when, after 14 years of sobriety, you said "Hey, one beer ain't gonna hurt." I knew it would and it did. It's on my head, but you cannot act as if you are the wronged party here. I told you over, and over, and over that I was an alcoholic. When you offered me coke, I thought "What's next, is he going to be selling my ass on Nebraska?"  Drinking was bad enough and hard enough to quit. Anyway, enough dirty laundry. You ready to admit you read this, and maybe did some of this shit, or do you want a few more installments? I'm real good at this.

#ROW80 POST 13 – THE QUESTION

“What makes you think you have Parkinson's Disease?” Dr. Deborah Burke asked me this question after several minutes of very insightful discussion and quick, probing questions, which I readily answered for her. I had done my homework and I realize that these doctors at the USF Byrd Center have only so much time to spend with their patients, even the new ones.

Dr. Burke is kind and compassionate and again, possesses a kind of intuitive grasp of things, while maintaining a discipline (staying in her “box” as she terms it) to help keep a patient on track. And lordy, I am a handful and I know it. Having worked in a teaching hospital for 5 years, has given me the ability to understand systems at an extremely rudimentary level, but when you're working with doctors who are teachers by nature, they don't care who's asking the questions, even if it's a wet-behind the ears viola student.

The hurly-burly chaos of a huge hospital that housed some 9,000 souls, many from different countries, also sharpened my skills as an observer, rather in the way the ancient Greeks learned about how things worked. The power of observation is so overlooked; and is a marvelous tool, both within, as well as without. I, of course didn't think of this at the time, when Dr. Burke asked me a question, which literally shut my pie-hole, for a minute. I was flummoxed and several things came to mind, and I went “ah, err, lemme get back to ya on that one.”

She was okay with that. She had me do the walk up and down the hall without whackamole (my controlled fall thing,) some hand thing that reminded me of that awful Disney song “We Are Siamese If You Please,” (my father always cringed at that) and try to draw a spiral, after hers, which was shaky. She then had me write a sentence, which she said, almost apologetically, “this looks like essential tremor.”

We had already gone over the lack of smell, drooling and my horrible new voice, which is just, whatever it wants to be, except what it was for 56 years. Hoarse, croak, weak and unintelligible. I'm going to learn semaphore; the flag thing. Then I can lug around 50 or 60 flags. I'll get it wrong, and tell people to walk out into traffic, which is a bonus around here anyway. It will be quicker than trying to holler and then spitting on people. Another bonus for PD or whatever this is.

I have noticed that doctors of all stripe seem to be really hung up on the tremor thing, but it's not that simple. I have them at different times. They stop when I do something that requires real strength and I have tons of that. I can't play my viola because the delicacy needed to balance the bow and do spiccato and skip around and just even pull a long bow-note isn't in my bag of tricks, or it's hiding. So, I have to leave it alone. I get almost suicidal at the thought of NEVER being able to play, even if it's just for me and that is not going to happen. I am a master at interpretation and long, slow passage work. I'm not boasting, just stating a fact. But I need to be able to feed that beast.

Nobody puts Wolf in the corner.

Play me NOW!! I'm gahddamned history. I was built only 10 years after Beethoven died. PeeDee, ShmeeDee! Get off your lazy ass and play some 3-octave scales. A minor. NOW!!!!!

So, when I thought long and hard about what Dr. Burke asked me, I came up with this answer: intuition, but I didn't voice it. I had my first tremors a week after I was released from the mental ward after my Baker Act. In the middle of the night, when they woke me up. I had experienced some numbness in my hands and forearms in the hospital, but not tremor one.

The Byrd Center also houses the Alzheimer's study and Research Center

The only thing I knew at that moment about Parkinson's Disease, was that Michael J. Fox and Muhammad Ali had it. Why I made THAT connection, I have no idea. Rather than being scared out of my wits, I started reading about different pathologies and etiologies of various neurological conditions. I realized as I was reading, that I had been experiencing some type of PD symptoms for at least 15 years. 

I also realized, through remembered observation that my mother had that type of early-onset disease. Tremors, thousand-yard stare, along with her depression and suicide attempt(s). These were many occurrences with her. Not just once, or twice, but over a course of decades. Coupled with my father's alcoholism, and I was very upfront with Dr. Burke about this, along with my own history, she understood, what I was saying. I didn't tell her about my intuitive reaction. I'm saving that for the follow-up, whatever the diagnosis. She's been so accommodating and kind. This is the type of doctor you want to keep, FOREVER.

We laughed when she said, “I'm sorry to keep harping on this, but your own depression, prior to your psychotic break, when did it begin? Because I get a sense of the chicken, and the egg and the alcohol and the chicken, the egg...” making circular motions, until she got all confused. I said, “Yes, I understand.” Grinning, I said “I was 16. My mom was the co-dependent and living hell. My father was not unkind, but he couldn't cope. I just saw blackness, but I never considered ending it. It's just been there.” Like anything, it waxed and waned. Situational and work, diversions; I took little medication. It's impossible to play the kind of music I've played and take anything. I didn't even drink caffeine. One year, towards the end of this impossibly booked tour, we were in Miami and had 3 performances of Gilbert and Sullivan's "Mikado." I was dead on my feet and drank a Coke. I could hardly keep my bow on the string. Oh, and the "Mikado" is 3 hours long. Disney makes you play like that; it's one reason I ditched them for Warner Brothers, besides who doesn't want to play "What's Opera, Doc?"

Fun Fact: "Ride of The Valkyries" by Richard Wagner (the rest of that entire scene is a bitch) can be played in 4th position on the viola and you barely have to lift a finger! But you sure flap that bow arm! Impressed? Yeah, me neither.

So, all this time; there are always stressors and prices to be paid. My parents were not bad people. I, by far, did not have the worst childhood. I have heard so very much more tragic stories from people I love dearly and people who are far better than I. I have no one to blame, not because my parents are deceased, but because they did the very best they could with the meager tools they were provided. My mother and I mended our broken relationship before her death, which I am so very, very thankful for. My father, in spite of his lackadaisical ways, was my primary caregiver. Although, my mother bore me, my father brought me home from the hospital and raised me. That is why, I was never a very good girl-child. Being an only child I would prefer to while away my time with my computers, music and writing. I made a decision early on to not have children, and I am glad I stuck by it. It was probably one of the few wise things I've done. JC is the other; he is my rock.

JC always knows how to show me a good time. I laughed like a hyena over this. Sweetbay is so used to us, they don't bat an eye at any of our goings-on. Of course, the store is on Nebraska Ave., 33605, where everything happens. This is just one of the many reasons I love him unreservedly.

It took 10 minutes of me hollering and telling jokes and being, well me to get him to smile. He usually looks like a wooden Indian, or like someone just told him his house burned down.

The other thing I have begun to experience and follow as in over-riding my logic and letting intuition take over, as in the case of PD (I am almost 100% certain that is what this is) is that with the winnowing away of more of my senses (sight, smell, some of my touch, hearing is odd, hallucinations sometimes, when sugar drops) is a heightened increase in compassion and empathy for others. This sounds like some kind of hypocrisy, because I'm not good around people, but I have Asperger, or "doesn't play well with others," as they used to say. My psychiatrist and I laughed about this yesterday; it's agreed that I have bipolar I, but "pseudobulbar affective disorder: cry at nothing, laugh at morbid shit?" I told him I've been accused of bad taste for years and I don't need a pill for it. It's my bad taste. Anyway, while still quick to humiliate and take on the real asshats of the world, both verbally and physically, I am even quicker to recognize and praise or aid those who need it most.

courtesy: James Thurber's "My Life and Hard Times"

Caption Reads: He Caught the Same Disease That Was Killing the Chestnut Trees

I read most of James Thurber's books by the age of 9 or 10. For some reason, I found this hilarious. I still do. Leave my bad taste alone. It's funny. I don't want blah. I want the misery, hopelessness and despair, because behind that is the joy, elation and hilarity of life.

Yesterday, as I was leaving my Psychiatrist's office and making an appointment for August, I felt this jolt on my right elbow. In any other situation, I would have whipped around and been pretty keen on finding out who was invading my personal space. Something stopped me from reacting that way, however. I carefully turned around, and there was this darling little girl. She was a child with Down's Syndrome and she had a cast on her right arm. She pulled on my shirt again, and waved and smiled. I waved and smiled back. Her older brother was there, too. He didn't have Down's Syndrome, but what the Hell. I pulled on his shirt and waved and smiled. He did the same. Their Mama grinned. I was so elated. Beethoven-elated. “Ode to Joy” elated.

So, I believe I have PD. We'll see what the DaTScan says. Then, as Dr. Burke says, “We'll go down SOME road together.” Very cool. DaTSca is June 20th, then I make an appointment for my followup. So, we shall see, what we shall see, no?

#ROW80 POST 20 WEDNESDAY CHECK IN - ON ALL HALLOWS EVE

Good times! Good times!

Not appropriately dire enough. It is actually the day before NaNoWriMo commences. So be it. I feel as though I were in a confessional. “Father Angus, it has been 15 days since my last confession, blah, blah, blah.” Due to the fact that I have not written an organized thought since our last #ROW80 check in, unless we included SDBN (Now With Added Moms) which can be viewed here. Although, this may count as more of a PSA and less as an organized thought Maybe this qualifies more appropriately as an A. A.  meeting, sort of...

“Hello, my name is Viola and I am an alcoholic. It’s been 2 years and 4 months since my last drink. I’m slipping into that trend of taking other people’s inventory and forgetting to take my own. Y’know, Step 10? I’ve been down the road where I made amends to everyone and felt better. Steps 8 and 9 and if I left anybody out, I’m really sorry, but I forget a lot…

“About step 7? I’m humble about things, well shortcomings, not about violas and playing them. But yeah, other stuff, yes, I need to be humble about my short and getting ever shorter temper, although this praying to whomever, or whatever, or timeever, whom is out there and hears all this nonsense, you’re doing a Hell of a job because I have patience upon patience when I need it for poor JC. He’s had that vicious, stealthy infection from a few months back. If our new kitty hadn’t just nicked him he’d probably have been very sick indeed. I know I’m digressing. But could you ease up on JC? He’s had a rotten, rotten life. He never knew his real dad. His step father was horrible to him. It was William Faulkner in East Texas.

“He had 4 bad marriages; his last wife was so evil and she and her sons wanted everything he had worked for. He’s a good man. Please, please stop tormenting him. It’s enough he has to put up with my ass.

One grizzled bat, “Betty,” with a really bad, bee-hive bun, interjects, with the voice of a chainsaw, puffing furiously on her Tiparillo and hacking, “Viola, are you going somewhere with this? We’ve heard from you before. You come in here, talking about how you were homeless and how you were in the hospital and in physical therapy for 6 months and you were put there by the brainless twit you lived with after 5 failed marriages. The brainless twit who had an anger management problem. How after 7 years of living with this dolt you managed to get yourself evicted and hospitalized, blah, blah, blah….” Hack, hack, argh.

Her lantern jaw is working furiously, underbite with 3 yellowed teeth, teetering. “And so, now, you’re with another loser. Someone who isn’t going to let you be you.” Air quotes. Now, it’s writing.”

I finally hold up my hand. “Who are you to be taking my inventory?” Betty says, “Isn’t that what you said you do?” I nod my head, “Yes, I did. But you didn’t let me finish, Betty. I hadn’t gotten to the part yet, where I mention that we go through that part where it’s ‘one day at a time?’ Sometimes, it’s 4 hours at a time, or 1 hour. Or maybe 4 minutes.” I look down. My hands are starting to shake, from the stress. I can feel the tremors in my thighs and upper arms. They will pass. I say, “I go back and continually question myself.” I look in her eyes. “You do too, we all do. That’s why we come here. We take the bus, we stumble down here in our walkers, use our canes. But we come. Because we don’t want to do what got us all screwed up anymore.”  Betty stands up, and holds out her arms. I walk over and punch her in the nose. 

Back in the mid-80s, I did a stint in A. A. for 1 year and didn’t drink at all for 14 years. During my 3^rd marriage to the estimable ‘Crapweasel’ (Bill) he told me he didn’t think I was an alcoholic. He also told me he didn’t believe in God or any form of a higher power. I call ‘bullshit’ on both counts. The exchange with Betty is made up of whole cloth, but I have either been in exchanges like this, or witnessed them around the table. A. A. is a wonderful organization. For someone who is sincere and earnest and just starting out it’s great. So, on to #ROW80 and NaNoWriMo tomorrow. Excited, I just hope we can all stay out of the hospital and the mental ward.