Today

Dear Z,

No, I have not forgotten.

But I sure hope you think I have, you sociopathic bastard.

~B.

In Which Bunny Snaps

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Hell, Layer 769

I know it's ridiculous, but I feel guilty of always whining here. Who the hell is gonna see it, first of all? That's the reason I started this thing in the first damn place, to say things that were on my mind somewhere that wouldn't hurt, bore, or annoy my friends. But I still feel bad about it, which is one reason I don't post nearly as much as I used to. There are only so many ways you can say "same shit, different day," after all.

As much as I feel bad about bitching, I'm going to do it, anyway. My hypocrisy knows no bounds, as it were.

I've been fretting over money and the future again. There's no need for me to go into detail or anything. It's just...I dunno. It gets harder and harder to make enough money to keep it together. Most months, I can't. And it's like, I know that to make more money, I have to work more, but when would I have time to work more? I already work my ass off constantly. And even if I *could* find and/or make more time to do more work, where am I gonna find reputable people who will pay me and not try to screw me out of every dime?

I had hoped that things would start looking up for me by now. Not necessarily that things would actually *be* better. Just that my perception of them would've changed with the onset of spring, but it hasn't happened yet. Which means all the stuff I chalked up to winter blues may be something more. Because I totally need more shit to worry about. *Eyeroll*

I find myself looking into the abyss again. I ran out of real reasons not to just step off into it a long time ago, so I've just been making shit up for the longest time. Every day, I get up, look into it, and lie to myself in order to put one foot in front of the other and make it through the day.

But it's getting harder and harder to come up with lies to tell myself. When I try to look ahead, all the future days of my life look no different from this one. Every time I think I've fallen as low as I can go, the bottom falls out from under me again, and I drop to yet another layer of hell.

Why can't I be like normal people? Why can't I just have a normal life with a normal job and live in a normal house and drive a normal car, etc., etc., etc.? It's easy to sit back and say, "Because I'm not normal," but let's be honest here. The one common denominator in all my failed endeavors...is me. What is so wrong with me that I can't do the things other people can?

Yes, I've been crazy all my life, but is that really the problem? I mean, other crazy people can do these things. I feel like I'm just...I dunno, defective in some way, I guess. Or maybe just defective in all ways. That's probably more like it.

It's not that I want to settle down and have a family. Oh, God, no. Please, anything but that. When God was handing out abilities, I clearly traded the nesting instinct for the ability to write badly. And I don't have a problem with that. But it would be nice to be able to live where I wanted, in the kind of place I wanted, and to have a job and finances that weren't always so precarious and a car I bought myself, rather than things that are always someone else's cast-offs. I just feel like my whole life's a house of cards, and the slightest breeze will just scatter the whole thing to the wind.

The worst part about it is that I'm so in over my head that I don't have the foggiest idea where to start on fixing it, or if it's even possible to fix it. So I just try desperately to tread water, which doesn't help and eventually just wears me out so that I sink farther and farther down.

I. Don't. Know. What. To. Do.

This is probably one of those times that I'd benefit from having a therapist. But having a therapist would require money, and having money requires working, and working requires me to somewhat be in my right mind, and somewhat being in my right mind would probably require me to...have a therapist.

Fuck. Do you see what I mean?

Vicious cycle. No escape. God, why do you hate me?

So every day, I'll just continue to look into the abyss and try to make up some sort of bullshit to get me through the day. Real hope is gone, so I'm clinging to false hope now. What happens when that runs out?

I don't know. I don't want to think about it.

A Harsh Reminder

Ok, so...remember that job I was supposed to start soon? Yeah, so much for that. Stupid bitch's husband decided that it'd hurt their bottom line too much to pay dispatchers $2/call to dispatch out calls, so they basically told us all to go fuck ourselves because they'd decided they were going to use an automated system instead.

There was so much drama involved in this, but I don't even care enough to write it down. It was just a bunch of bullshit and a stupid woman who rolls over for an even dumber man. I've cried and I've raged already, and now I'm done with it.

I'm too old for this shit.

So I'm back to square one. I have a few ideas up my sleeve, but the fact still remains that I've been waiting for this stupid job, passing up other opportunities, and eating fucking ramen for 5 months because I thought there'd be a position for me. And in return, I got a "fuck you, not my problem."

But that's all right. It was just another reminder from the Universe that I can only depend on me, and trying to do otherwise is just a recipe for disaster. What's one more ass-fucking in a life full of forced sodomy, right?

The worst part of it all is that I'm out of my prescription acid reflux medicine and have been having to take the weaker over-the-counter generic of it. I said before that stress made my stomach hurt like whoa, and it's totally been doing it today. I could double up on the dose of the OTC stuff, but I don't know when I'll ever have any money to buy any more, so I've been trying to ration. At the moment, though, I feel like my stomach/esophagus/whatever has tied itself into knots and lit itself on fire.

Fuck. My. Life.

Oh, well. If this was how it was going to be, I'm glad I found out now rather than later, anyhow. I will not be dictated to by some man with a bug up his ass. I've already been down that road, and we see how that turned out. Let's just be grateful that I've rid myself of yet another couple of sociopaths in my life.

On to other things.

I'm Going Where?

So I'm going to Birmingham this weekend.

Yeah, I blinked a time or two myself when I said it out loud earlier. It almost seemed like I'd somehow gotten transported back to 2009 by accident or something. Although I suspect there won't be any drama this time because it's Kitty I'm going to see.

Ok, truth be told, this ain't the first time I've been to her new house. She came over here Friday before last, and I went back with her that Saturday afternoon and came back to my house on Sunday. I helped her do a few things around the house, and we shopped for home decor. And I did the fake flower arrangements on her fireplace mantle, LOL.

But even so, that was just a quick overnight jaunt, and to be honest, it shook me up quite enough inside. It wasn't her fault, of course, and it's not like I wasn't expecting it. But still, just being there and going to some of the old places seemed incongruous. In other words, it was heart-wrenching.

So I expect this weekend will be rough as well. But spending time with the most important person in my life is way more important than my personal hang-ups, so when she invited me, I didn't think twice about saying yes. I'll deal with the pain later.

I've got baggage from that stupid place, though, that goes way back before I ever even thought of any of them. It's where they sent me to the specialist when I was 6. About the ugly thing on my leg, you know. I went to appointment after appointment after appointment, but it didn't matter. The doctor knew there was nothing they could do. My parents knew there was nothing they could do. Even I knew. But I guess we kept going back in hopes of some sort of miracle, even as we watched the ugly spot spread and destroy the fat and connective tissue on the outside of my thigh. By the time I was 10, I'd given up. My whole outer right thigh looked like hell--the lesion looked worse then than it does now because it was still spreading, not burned out yet like it (more or less) is now--and I walked with a strange gait that wasn't quite a limp but wasn't quite *not* a limp, either, because the disease had made the affected leg shorter than the other.

I try not to talk about this shit because I'm fully aware that it's just a batch of first world problems. The doctor did, after all, tell me I was lucky the shit wasn't on my face, as that's apparently fairly common in people with this stupid disease.

But, yeah, that town and I go back a long way, and very little of it has ever been pleasant. That's where they told me my granny, the one and only person in this world who I think ever came close to understanding me, only had 6 months to live, after all. That was my freshman year in college, and I've felt adrift ever since.

I try not to let it bother me. Funny how often it seems to happen, though.

I remember back before Christmas, I'd met Kitty at a Ruby Tuesday back this side of that accursed shithole. This was before she moved into her new house (clearly). We were eating, and she started getting calls to her phone. Apparently, she had set the ADT alarm thingie wrong at their house on the way out, and the motion sensor thing kept going off. We finished eating, but it became obvious that it wasn't going to stop happening. We'd intended to do a little shopping after we ate, so, rather than abandon me for 45 minutes to go turn it off and meet me back where we were, she asked if I wanted to ride with her over there. I didn't *want* to, but I didn't want to make life more complicated for her, so I agreed.

I didn't go in, of course. When she hopped out, I smiled like everything was ok and sat quietly to wait while she did what she had to do inside. But just being there in her truck in the driveway was like having a stake through the heart. I'm pretty sure I talked to God more in the 5 minutes I sat out there in the driveway than I ever did in the nearly two years that I was actually welcome there.

"Why are you punishing me like this?" I asked, knowing that there wouldn't be an answer.

But somewhere in the night, the answer came back: "Maybe it's not me. Maybe it's you who's punishing yourself."

All my other thoughts came to a halt. The "answer" I got wasn't like a great voice from the Heavens or anything. It was just a vague feeling down deep inside me, but it was powerful enough to put the quietus on all the guilt and the pain and the suffering. It stunned my brain into a shocked silence, enough so that when Kitty came back, I was able to smile and not sound like a basket case.

It still hurts, though. The guilt, the pain, the suffering--they haven't gone away. I don't know that they ever will. I don't know who's punishing me, but there's no doubt in my mind that I deserve it.

I have more I want to say, but I'll do it later. It's time for my spinach pizza to come out of the oven. For now, I'll just say that I'm going to push it all aside and enjoy my time with Kitty this weekend. I'll deal with the pain and shit later. Kitty is far more important than my flogging myself over what should've been.

Strange Things Overheard In Bunny's House At 2 AM

I have some of the best and most hilarious conversations sometimes. (Context: My best guy friend, B., in Huntsville, and I have a running "evil Bunneh" joke going that pops up semi-regularly in other conversations.)



Me: I wish I were smart enough to understand science and math. On the other hand, can you imagine me as a nuclear physicist? Probably not the best idea.

Him: Jesus, a soap opera villain who could give herself superpowers? No, thank you.

Me: HAHA! Exactly.

Damn...Just...Damn

This is a very odd post for me to write, but I don't want to bore my friends with my thoughts on the matter, so I'm posting them here.

I finished my work that absolutely had to be done ASAP yesterday, and I've been rewarding myself by screwing around and doing a whole lot of nothing today.

Well, I was sitting here playing Neopets (shut up) when my mother called. She was calling to say that my second cousin? third cousin? something? hung himself today.

I'm a little shell-shocked.

First of all, let me just say that we weren't close. So if you happen to be reading this, please don't feel any sympathy for me. Feel it for his family instead.

On the other hand, I'm a lot more shaken over it than I should be, considering I saw him maybe once or twice in my life and wouldn't know him if I'd passed him on the street.

I'm sorry that he's gone. I'm sorry for his family who's already suffered so much--his 15-year-old daughter was killed in a car accident shortly before Christmas. I'm sorry for the pain that he felt that drove him to do this. It takes some balls to hang yourself, after all. It's not a "cry for help" like slitting your wrists. If you hang yourself, you truly wanted to go. I'm sorry for all that.

But what bothers me the most--and I would never say this to anyone because I don't want to make someone else's loss about me--is seeing how the old demons affect all of us.

He was related to me on my mother's side. You know, the side where the crazy comes from. Now that he's gone, people will think he killed himself because his daughter died (spoiler: he didn't; it's never that simple), or they'll say things like they don't understand why he did it, blah, blah. Those people are all dicks.

I've stood on that same precipice that he stood on this morning (or whenever it was). I had the same demons screaming in my ear, telling me that all hope was gone, pushing me toward the edge. I've looked into the abyss and had the abyss look back at me. And literally the only difference between him and me is that when he looked into it, he didn't find anything there to hold him back. That's it. That's the only difference.

It's sad to me that so many of us, so many on the Tapley side of the family, are so sick. The demons infect all of our minds. Some of us have more of them than others. But the genetic dice just don't roll 7s for any of us. It's gone on for at least 5 generations, and even as the bloodline is diluted, it's still not enough to exorcise them. There are so many who have drunk themselves to death, so many who are strung out on drugs, so many who are in jail (which is where he hung himself, actually), so many who are too ill to function in society. And you know what? There but for the grace of God go I.

To my knowledge, I am one of the few--and perhaps the only--one of us who's medicated. But who's to say that someday, when I'm in my 40s, physically and mentally sick, poor, and all alone in the world, perhaps on one of those late autumn nights that make my demons speak so loudly and so seductively, I won't look into the abyss myself and find absolutely to nothing save me and then simply step off into eternity?

I don't mourn for myself, but for all of those who did nothing but be born into the genetic cesspool that is my family. In our cases, it's not a matter of having a couple of screwy black sheep or a few who went wrong somewhere. We're all sick, all dysfunctional, all fundamentally broken. There are too many of us who are fucked up in the exact same ways for it to be some sort of coincidence. We are ill because we were born this way. Even if I wanted children, I wouldn't have them because what kind of horrible person would knowingly pass this curse on to a child?

I look at my cousin (my only first cousin, or, more accurately, the only one I semi-claim). He was an alcoholic by the time he was 15 years old. They covered for him, of course. They're Baptists to the core, after all. Then, I think of his kid. The little girl's not even a year old yet, and even though she doesn't know it and won't know it for a long time, she's cursed. She'll carry her own demons for the rest of her life, for no other reason than because she had the misfortune of being born with genetic crazy. And when I think about that, when I think about a poor little child who didn't ask to be here, being forced to live with this curse, I have to truly ask the Universe if there really is a benevolent God. What kind of God would allow that?

Slight tangent: At my great-uncle's funeral last week, two different preachers spoke. They talked about God and Jesus and Heaven and all the things preachers say at funerals. And I sat there, stewing in absolute agony because I'm an empathic sponge who soaks up the emotions of everyone around me and internally intensifies them tenfold. Hell, I wasn't even particularly close to the man, and I probably cried more than anybody there because I feeling my own nebulous, vague feelings of sadness and then the pain of everyone else in the room, times ten. But I digress.

As I sat there, listening to those preachers and trying to distract myself by discreetly watching the other people in the chapel, I was struck by how many people seemed to sincerely believe what was being said. I envy those people. I wish I could just simply...believe. But I can't. I'm plagued with doubts and fears, and, ultimately, I don't believe it's healthy to be as narrow-minded and intolerant as those who buy into everything they're told lock, stock, and barrel tend to be. But in my darkest hours, I do wish that I could be so unshakeable in my beliefs that I could cling to them in spite of everything the way that other people do.

But it's not that easy for me. It never has been. I have too many questions.

I do believe that there is something greater than we are. There is something else out there. I'm almost certain. But what is it? I can't really go any farther than that.

I can't believe in an all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-benevolent God. I've seen too many things to think that God can be all those things. I've stood at the crossroads in the darkest hour of the night with demons whispering in my ear, the crossroads where the only choices are life and death. I've cried out to God to help me and gotten no answer. I've reached out to other people--the people I loved most in the world--and begged them to help me because I didn't want to die but I couldn't hold the demons off myself any longer. And I watched while those people turned away and left me to figure it out for myself. I've known beyond a shadow of a doubt that if I died, there was not one single solitary soul in the world who would give a shit one way or the other. And my suffering pales in comparison to others'. How anyone can look around and see all this and still believe in an all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-benevolent God is a mystery to me.

But I do know that there's something out there, some sort of higher consciousness, something that we're evolving toward. I believe in reincarnation. I believe that there are people in the world we're connected to, whether we like it or not. I've seen too much in my life *not* to believe in these things. I even believe that, ultimately, Jesus and Buddha and Krishna and others were all the same person, the same soul, appearing to different people in different times to show them what they needed to see. But can I believe in an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-benevolent God? No. No. I just...can't. I envy those who can, but I don't have the ability.

The most satisfying explanation I've been able to find is that God is all-benevolent, but not all-powerful and not necessarily even all-knowing. That's not to say he/she/it is not a powerful being. Certainly, he/she/it is more powerful than all humans that ever were combined. He/she/it is just not powerful enough to help all of us, all the time, and that's why we're supposed to help each other and, in some cases, ourselves. But even that doesn't completely satisfy me. I think I'll be searching for the truth my whole life, which, in some ways, is better than unquestioning acceptance. Much harder, yes, but perhaps better.

If certain branches of Hinduism are believed, our souls choose our incarnations and that the choices we make influences the experience we have in each of our lives and that those experiences are what ultimately lead us to God. I've often thought that if that were true, then I must've been a moron to choose the life I live. But perhaps I chose it because it's the path of the seeker. Perhaps if I hadn't gone through all the things I've gone through, I either wouldn't believe at all or I'd just swallow whatever my preacher told me, hook, line, and sinker. Then, I would never have found the path that, maybe, will lead me toward God.

Or maybe it's all just a bunch of bullshit, and we'll be nothing more than worm food when we die. I don't know.

Rest in peace, cousin. You deserved a hell of a lot better hand than you were dealt in this life. Maybe you'll get a royal flush next go-round.