Many Days at a Time

I woke up much earlier than I had wanted yesterday. Nine am and my eyes opened. I had been running on an hour of sleep and my head didn't hit the pillow until nearly 2am that night. I worked eight hours and tried my best to keep everything straight in my sleep deprived, worried mind.

My brother had a little episode. It took me five hours of talking on the phone to reach an agreed point; to get him help. He received it and turns out he has a physical problem. He has hypoglycemia, severely. It can make him goofy when his blood sugar is low. He has seen a diatician and he has to eat about six small meals a day. No caffeine, no alcohol, both of which causes his blood sugar to plunge even further down. He has to get a meter to test his blood sugar, to help him understand when and what he needs to eat. He took such a hard, big step. I am so proud of him. He has comes so far in the past few years. He progressed much more than anyone had hoped for and all because he wanted to... not just because it was nature's course, but because he decided he wanted to be a more mature adult. Bravo Nathan. Bravo.

My friend Kris got me a puppet that looks like Andrew. He's got little black shoes, black pants, a red jacket, and a head of black hair and a black mustache. I told Andrew that I would have to add white and gray hair to the puppet, but he said no and that he was going to get some Just For Men and dye his hair black again. He is really considering it and I am not sure if I like it. I mean, I know it will make him look years younger. His is wrinkle free, his skin is youthful looking, and only his gray hair gives him away. But I've never seen him without it. I like my Andrew the way he is, unaltered. But then again, I dye my hair. Red.

A little old man came up to me at Denny's the other night. He tapped my shoulder and I searched his face, looking for familiar recognition. I found none and the old man stated that I didn't know him, but that he needed to tell me that my hair was beautiful, it was distracting him, and keeping him from concentrating on his ice cream. It was so cute. I love little old people.

I went to a movie last night with a "friend" I hadn't seen in a while. This girl makes me feel so awful when I am around her, as if I am never good enough. That I cannot do the right thing, and that being me is wrong, wrong, wrong. She does not like Andrew, even though she has never met him. She just thinks he's too old for me and that a 48 year old has no business dating a 25 year old. I told her that I don't understand why she has a problem with it, when my own parents accept Andrew. She said that my mom is flakey and that my dad probably tolerates it, but doesn't like it. Well, how often do fathers like it when their daughters date anyway. Not often.

My mother may be flakey at times, but that does not mean my mom does not want the best for her daughter, that she doesn't want me to be happy, and would be willing to watch me choose to be a in bad situation. She has met Andrew and approves. She likes him and thinks he's a nice guy, and that he's good for me. My mom has done much with her life. She has had periods where she was very involved, trying to change the world into something she felt was better, and she is smart. She just likes to have fun, she likes to be larger than life, and for this girl to tell me what my mom is... I don't think so. And to tell me how my dad feels about Andrew, to tell me my father is merely tolerating the man... I don't think so. My dad has gone out of his way to help and be nice to Andrew. It was my dad who got him a Christmas present. It was my dad to bought Andrew a book about cars. It was my dad who asked me one question when I started seeing Andrew, and that was, "Is he nice to you?"

Yes, he is nice to me. I told my dad that and he said, "Well, then... there's nothing else. Nothing else matters." That is my dad. Wanting his daughter to be treated right... this "friend" does not treat his daughter right.

I am tired of people not treating those I love right. My brother has been shit upon in life and I shall not be flinging any more poo in his direction. Andrew has had his fair share of shit, my parents have had to deal with my brother's shit... and I am tired of it. This "friend" needs an ass whoopin'.

Down where I lie

I was low last week. Dishes sit in my sink growing fuzzy green mold and white blobs of decay. Clothes line the floor, I even step on clean clothes to get to my destinations and do not care. I dropped a knife on the floor and it wasn't until I stepped on it about five times that I finally found the energy to pick it up. Today, I finally combed my hair for the first time in five days. I am not sure why this happens, but it feels like I slept through my period of being awake. I was so high on the previous Sunday, laughing, joking, and enjoying myself. Then, I fall to the floor and flood myself with tears. I can't make the effort to pay my bills on time. I am too scared to check the mail. I cry for reasons unknown to me.

Next Monday, I have an appointment to see a psychiatrist, hopefully my meds can be readjusted to something better. Andrew thinks I'm bipolar and I am starting to wonder if I am not...

I am awake now. I am not high on life, I am not low low low, but I do feel a bit sad. I am lonely. I wake up each morning by myself, I go home each night to an empty apartment, I have two friends, Andrew and Kris, that I actually spend time with, and they are both busy with lives of their own. I am sad, but functional. Now, I am going to try and take a nap until it's time to get up for work.

Work- I dislike my job. It requires little mental ability, no creativity, and basically you do most of the tasks alone. I am always alone. Alone at work, alone at home. I can go out by myself to eat or to a movie, but in the end I am still sitting alone. No one to nudge and say, did you see that? No one to steal food from, or give my tomatoes to. I am unsure what I am doing with my life and I feel like I am wasting it. I am unsure what I could be doing that wouldn't be wasting it.

I don't do much of anything anymore. Sad.

Is that my mom?

"Hey, that's Andrew's car!" I gleefully shared with my family sitting in the minivan with me as we drive to Mexican Village. My mom says that if he's still there after we finish eating we shall stop in to say hello. While at Mexican Village we all wind up with too much food and someone lets me have a strawberry margarita. I feel sloshy in my head by the end of dinner, but my thoughts are still with Andrew and his car, and the hope thatthey will both still be parked at the clinic where he works. We gather our to-go boxes and dash out the door into the parking lot. There I see it... the dreaded dumpster. My grandmother is surprised they haven't moved it. But I explain, no one at Mexican Village knows I backed into the dumpster... with my mom's car. However, the trunk is as good as new and no one could evertell that I backed into a dumpster with it.

But we leave The Village and head towards Moorhead. We drive by the clinic and Andrew's white caris still sitting out front. My mom says she can see him sitting at the reception desk. Only my mother and I get out of the car, my dad stays in the car to keep my grandma company since it isa task just to get in and out of the van for her. Grandma even gave us a play-by-play of each time she got in and out of the van that day. Grandma is silly and her favorite word is "shit." She said so herself.

My mom gets to the main doors first and says, you stay behind. I follow her command and hang back from view while she opens the inner doors. She saunters, well, she hobbles up to the desk. Mom can't saunter any more than she can jump to the moon. In a calm, but surprisingly coy voice she says to the black man at the desk, "I have a couple of billing questions I need help with." The man in the wheelchairbehind the desk looks perplexed and says, "Okay?" His voice drags out the "a" sound clearly indicating he has no clue what to do next. My mom pauses for a few seconds, then replies, "You have no idea who I am." The man behind the counter thinks and I pop into view. A big smile and a loud, "Ohhhhh" come from his mouth. We laugh. We are breathless in laughter.

The man behind the counter is my boyfriend who has met my mother twice, sat next to her once and across from her another time. He only knows her face when I appear. The doctor who works there is a friend of Andrew's. The doctor had been standing there listening in to the whole conversation and smiles. Andrew introduces us to Rodney.
We chat for a bit, tease Andrew a bit more, and then are out the door. I jump back into the building letting Andrew know that he may have some leftover Mexican Village in his future. He looks happy, but wants to know if the food is in the car. I assure him it is and he wants it now. I run out to the car, fetch the food, and bring it in. Rodney and Andrew eye the rice, beans, taco, and enchilada with hunger. Rodney says that the shall have "at least a scoop." I dash out the door again and am resent into the clinic after getting another to-go box. This one contained half of a hamburger and some fries. Hungry eyes once again gleamed with delight. I say good night to the boys while theirdual thanks echoes in the patientless clinic.