Monday, June 27, 2016

A Secret Rage, the 98 Northeast Connection, and Vera

Trigger/Content Warning (TW/CW): this blog post contains mentions of dysphoria and sex work, as well as mentions of harm to self and possible harm to others. Reader discretion is advised.

Shortly after I surrendered Callie, and before I left my building to go to Shabbat services at my synagogue, there was a door tag left on the main door from a shipping company, with my apartment number listed.

Odd, I thought.  I didn't order anything this time.

I didn't think too much of it until yesterday, when I called said shipping company to find out who was sending me a package, they replied "Clerk of Courts."

Of course, my first thought was: "Now what in the fuck that did I do?"

I called back a second time to see if I could get any more information than just "Clerk of Courts."  I only could get that it was being sent from Cleveland.

So at this point I went into a panic.  Was this jury duty?  Did Dingbat see me and decided to press charges of contempt of court?  Were my parents getting involved in a lawsuit against me?

Yes, I catasrophize quite often.

I waited until this morning, when I went to my latest health facility for an intake, or an initial meeting of sharing information to determine what service(s) I need to improve my life.

Or, more accurately, this morning waited for me.  I got a phone call from the shipping company, who left a voicemail:

"Hi. We are attempting to deliver two letters to a [former neighbor] and [the spouse of former neighbor], and we have [my address] listed.  If you are not either party, please call us back."

Oh, really?

So I go onto the county clerk of courts website. Besides discovering that my father attempted to divorce my mother in 1987, only to have the case thrown out via dismissed without prejudice three months after filing (never knew about that), and that my sister has an active litigation against her from some company who filed suit against her in 1999 (unfortunately for the company, they spelled my sister's name wrong {psst, it's spelled "Tanya," not "Tonya;" public record, bitches}), it turns out there is a civil case against my former neighbors, among a whole other set of folks in one lawsuit.  And for some unknown reason, the clerk of courts had my address listed as theirs.

Or maybe my former neighbors, a young professional couple with a infant son, tried to give justice the slip by listing my address.

What was the difference between their address and mine? An additional alphanumeric character.

Talk about being scared shitless for a minute.  That feeling went away as I returned my focus back to this new health facility, the one that is Jewish-based.  I met with this individual, who invited in an intern of sorts to watch and take notes per my permission, and we chatted for about close to 2.5 hours. During the session, I was able to make a connection between two distinct things in my life.

For many years, I have known to have these demons, these vessels of violence, laying dormant when unprovoked. It's really all about rage. I have a tremendous amount of anger and rage inside of me.

For many years, I have hella problems with my weight, spending money, and using my body to get both sex and food. Those things have made me look so foolish for so long.

How is it that I never tied my rage to being an emotional eater, emotional spender, and a nymphomaniac afTER ALL OF THESE YEARS?!

Wait a minute, Vera. You mean to tell me that you just figured this out today?

The two were connected today, like a light bulb going off in my head, Dear Reader.

And none of your former doctors have told you this?

Nope. I have asked for anger management for many years, but the idea was scoffed by every single doctor because they felt anger wasn't my problem.

Maybe anger isn't your problem, Vera.

Huh? You're going to join the parade of dipshit doctors?

No. I mean, your rage and all. What you need to get rid of the rage that is trapped in your body.

Okay. How does one get rid of 30+ years of rage?

Maybe it takes one day of primal screaming?  Or breaking some stuff?

Maybe. I have no idea, honestly.  All I know is that in order for me to do this "healing," this rage has to leave my body. And that point, I maybe be able to do the things that I want to do; lose weight, lose these damn tits from hell, become financially stable so that I won't have to worry about "a part-time job," adopt a new emotional support animal - all the things.

I knew that I wasn't strong this entire time.  And now I have proof.

I can't stand my internal pain. So I spend money on fast food and school supplies. So I make a venture down to a swingers club and hope for the best. So I slice to get a physical sensation, rather than an emotional one.

I've been numbing my pain with these things this whole entire time. My entire fucking got damn life.  And the pain is the rage, anger, and the unholy desire to inflict physical damage to each member of my immediate family (sans Baba).

Isn't this the shit that serial killers are made of?  Please tell me I am not meant to be a serial killer.

Do you want to physically hurt your family, Vera?

No. No fucking way. That's what those three assholes want me to do.

Sounds a bit paranoid, don't you think?

Not when you're raised to be a socio-psychopath.  It takes one to know one, unfortunately.

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