My life kind of went kaboom. Well, first it spiraled into such a mess that my everyday problems took all of my attention, then it exploded. It’s taken two years in all to get to the explosion point, which occurred a week or so back. This post will explain as much as I’m willing to share with the public. If you are close to me and want more information, I have a password-protected post here. Contact me directly for the password.
I met Mel in 1984. He was a gay, nerdy type that I met while briefly residing in Oklahoma City. We bonded over our mutual spiritual searching at the time. Over the next 12 years, we lived together for seven of them, but it was off and on due to our tendency to eventually make each other crazy (two years was about our limit). But we’d always end up back in the same house and would resume our spiritual questing. As it went, I was the gung-ho, let’s do it person and he would be dragged along behind me, trying to keep up. We lived together six times (including this recent one), and I left him three times, always for mental health reasons. (I wasn’t diagnosed bipolar until 1991, and it wasn’t a pretty sight before then.) Three times he left me, and twice it was because he didn’t want to be around my kid (born in 1989). Then came this time.
We’d maintained contact over the interim and despite some significant problems in his life between 1996 and 2011, I remained loyal to him. He knew me better than anyone — including my family (in some cases, especially more than my family). He knew the intricacies of my spiritual depths, and my struggles with myself, things which family members shied away from. I could say three words and he’d know the paragraph behind it. It was that intense.
He came down here on May 1, 2011, because he’d been unemployed for two or three years in Seattle and his unemployment had run out and he was out of options. I welcomed him because of the intimacy of our (purely platonic) friendship. He was here less than a month when he experienced a pulmonary embolism — a blood clot had moved from his leg to his lung — and he almost died. Moving here saved his life, because if it had happened while he was broke and living alone, odds are he would not have called for help. So I guess it was meant to be. His sister died a year or so back, and his father is long dead. He and his stepmother are estranged. I was his family. The only other people he has are cousins in Arizona (one is the singer for Flotsam & Jetsam), whom I’ve been trying to reach rather unsuccessfully so far. Point is, if he died, it was going to be my problem to deal with the costs.
After he got out of the hospital, a friend of his sent some of this “synthetic marijuana” to us, which I was unfamiliar with. This led to regular usage for about a year before we managed to get off of it. It put us in debt and we were rescued a number of times by my family members. There is still substantial debt remaining that we agreed was fully his responsibility, including $750 PayPal debt, a $300 payday loan, a $350 phone I am still paying for that I bought him and that was stolen at his last job, and a significantly irresponsible handling of our grocery money.
When he moved here, he complained of an injured shoulder. Many months later, he “realized” it was working fine again. He got a job last August for minimum wage at a local smoke/vapor shop, which I suggested because I wanted him to learn the ins and outs of the business due to (another debt of his) $700 worth of herbs his friend suggested we buy (and then refused to tell us how to make them work so we could sell them, because she didn’t want the personal responsibility… thanks so much, you bitch). I still have those herbs, in abundance, and they’re useless to me. Moving on… he worked from August to March, during which time an old wound on his leg became exacerbated, and his uttered the “MRSA” word (WHY? Never had it, or staph.) to his boss and was promptly fired. He lost his job right at my daughter’s birthday on March 11.
During March and most of April, he did not look for work. Instead, he slept, for days on end, literally. One time he slept five days straight before I threw a fit and got him up. His bed was in my living room, making it impossible for us to function. He took over my kitchen & rearranged it, did the same to my living room — I haven’t used either one in two years. About three weeks ago, I finally had had enough. I started losing my temper, going into rages every single day/night. I was so upset that I could not calm myself, even standing in a cold shower saying, “Please calm down, please calm down” because I was afraid I would give myself a stroke. Never have I been so out of control angry. He would promise to look for work, to clean, to cook, to be there for me, and the next day I’d have to get him out of bed after waiting for hours and asking “do you plan to get up today?” about three times. He’d get up at 2 or 3 pm and then, when asked how he was going to get money in the house, would say, “I don’t know, what do you want/expect me to do?” and would just drop the issue back in my lap as if that was the end of his part of it. I hope you can see why I was angry.
My family essentially shut me out because he’d bled me so dry. I have debased myself in a number of ways, including an ongoing online fundraiser that a friend graciously put up for me (and my own begging online for help a number of times), and including selling my medications in desperation. I finally told him to go stand on the street corner and beg. He went twice — for 30 minutes each — and had to gall to say, “I get what you mean by debasing yourself now.” Look buddy, go debase yourself for $200 for the electric bill and THEN you can say you get what I mean.
On Friday the 9, the same day he made a food stamp appointment for the following week, he packed a suitcase and sneaked out as I napped, leaving us. He left the debt, in spite of my warnings that leaving us with it would end a 30-year-friendship. He didn’t say, “this is the right thing for me to do, so goodbye.” He ran away from home. I was trying to build a family. I gave and gave. He took and took. He went off to Virginia (I didn’t know where, but stay tuned) like a chickenshit because he couldn’t stand getting up and being responsible. I was initially devastated and searched for him all day. Two days later, I got some perspective and I now see this as the best thing that could have happened. He was the last person left with whom I had no healthy boundaries. It’s over, and thank the gods I can move on.
He ran away to the bitch (his only remaining friend in the world) who advised us to invest in herbs and then washed her hands of it. SHE emailed me last week with a “letter of retreavale [sic] request” asking me to mail his forgotten medications, electronics, and sentimental items. I essentially told her to get bent. Not my fault he was in such a rush he didn’t pack his meds. He can fuck himself daily with barbed wire for all I care.
Last weekend I was in the Emergency Room with a serious potassium deficiency. My doctor was pissed I wasn’t admitted, but they did make me take two enormous pills before dismissing me. I’m still battling this problem. I feel it’s stress related. (you think?) I haven’t had an unbroken night’s sleep in over three weeks. I’m getting used to getting by on 5 hours a night, though once every ten days or so I managed to do a 12-hour, broken up marathon.
So. Now I’m scraping for food and trying to stabilize my temper — I still react far too quickly and far too extremely to small stressors — and he’s up there making me out to be the bad guy. This is my life right now. So if I’ve neglected you, I am sorry. Please keep nudging me. I do care. I just have to take care of myself. If you’d like to donate to the fundraiser, it’s here: http://www.gofundme.com/8wsy4w. (By the way, my family has welcomed me back. They just can’t afford to help me anymore.)