Drastic Change: Paradise Lost, or Paradise Found

May was a tumultuous month, though not altogether unpleasant. Naturally, my birthday came and went, and I managed to have a good time! Now it is June and things are so completely different than they were back then, it's hard to know where to begin.

So, I suppose I can begin by saying I am nowhere near where I thought I would be, today. I had a great birthday--my grandmother took my daughter and me out to lunch at a nice restaurant and I got a massage and a facial. Later in the week, I had my "Always" tattoo finished and I am in love with it! What happened after my birthday was supposed to be a smooth transition. It was supposed to be smoother than any transition prior.

It wasn't. Instead of continuing on the course I had set with my husband, I was derailed by an intervention from my best friend. He was the one and only person in my life to point out the ways in which I was not living the way I wanted to. He was the one to point out why I was unhappy, while I ignored many problems that continued to grow within my home life. His intervention, with some help from his wife, really provoked me to take immediate action.

And so, instead of taking off to California at the end of May, I sat down in our ever-emptier house and began a conversation with my husband. I wasn't sure where I would end up in this conversation or even what I wanted him to say. The problem was, it seemed he only wanted to give me words I would want to hear. So, when he brought up the word "divorce," for probably the third time in the duration of our marriage, I thought about it seriously for the first time.

Where I am now is not where I wanted to be, but it has turned out to be better for me than I could have imagined. There are downsides, of course: The Internet usage is limited to 5GB per month until further notice; the computer I use does not have Microsoft Word for easy blog making; I have yet to figure out where or how I should set up my computer to do my art. But there are many upsides, as well: I unplug much more often and interact with my daughter and my family; I have my little girl on a meal and potty schedule and she is thriving under my care; I watch old Disney movies with my daughter every chance we get and I take her to the park at every opportunity to let her play. There is not a day that goes by in which she doesn't have a total blast playing with toys, watching cartoons, playing outside, and talking our ears off.

We're staying with my grandparents for now. I've begun seeing professionals in the Mental Health Clinic at the American Lake Veterans Association. My goal is to set up couples counseling, as it has always been my desire and my goal to have a healthy, lengthy marriage that is strong, stable, and lasts. Unfortunately, shortly after I expressed my desire to set up couples counseling, my husband took off in his car across Canada, driving east back to his home state. I hope he is happy, staying with his mother and receiving the validation he so craves.

Meanwhile, I have paid off several overdue bills related to our relationship and the house we rented together. I have realized, with help from family and friends, there are many ways in which I allowed myself to feel the way I did and I allowed him to make me feel worse. There are many things coming to light in his absence that have been shocking, disheartening, and even heartwarming.

We are halfway through June. The difficulty has only just begun. I've broken down crying, sobbing my eyes out while I was home alone, over ideas of what I should do for myself and my daughter. I've received various messages from him and responded as kindly and pleasantly as possible, while the nastiest and dirtiest thoughts crossed my mind. He called me hateful and spiteful and I know those things are inside of me but they are not what run my life.

I will never again allow someone to dictate my life in such a way that I act out in hateful, spiteful ways, nor will I allow someone again to make me feel as though everything I do is pointless. Regardless of who did what while we were together, I know now how to make myself feel good about myself. It is a process. It is a practice. It is difficult. It is not a linear path; I fall and I have to get back up. But now that the rotten apple has fallen from the tree, the tree is growing yet again and it's healthier than ever.

Chaos: Moving Again in Less than A Year

It has been nine days since I last wrote and posted a blog entry. In these past nine days, enough has happened to fill a book, but not enough has happened to properly close any of the stories that have been upset.

            Becca left and we all breathed a sigh of relief. We were then forced to hold our breath again when the people from Pettit performed their interior inspection. We were not allowed time to relax after the inspection, as we were given three pieces of paper—all of which read “Comply or Vacate” at the top. “Too many people,” they said, and “too many pets.” They didn’t give us any further details, except that if we were to refuse to comply, our rent would be increased. So, we hit scramble mode one more time to figure out what to do and I left to spend time with Gizmo, the one and only person in Washington State who consistently and quickly clears my head when I need it.

            He helped me realize where the bullshit is and isn’t and he lit the fire within me to squash the bullshit out entirely. This is about my family, he made me realize, which means that no one else really needs to be in my house and if we can make it work with one or two under the radar, that may be okay, but that it is black and white on the lease and that is what really matters to these people. So, I went home and I put my foot down. We got things moving with a few agreements on who would leave the house, who would at the very least do everything in his power to find another place, and who would be okay to stay under the radar because they can essentially be stuck in the attic for inspections. We began to move towards righting everything for the follow-up interior inspection, which is scheduled to happen three days from now.

            Pettit, or at least the owner of the house we rent, has decided not to give us the chance to make things right again. They’ve decided that the unexpected recent activity is simply too much and rather than give us time to redeem ourselves, they want to seek a mutual severance of tenancy. The reasons they’ve listed are complete bullshit, we know it, but we aren’t interested in fighting because we have, technically, violated our lease. As such, however, I insist that we do not leave on anything less than our own terms.

            I’ve contacted the Housing Authority, who put me in contact with the Northwest Justice Project, who deals with landlord/tenant laws and ought to be able to help me with these issues. I want the house to be inspected this week and I want, on paper, how much the place is worth to rent, so that I can take it to Pettit and show them how we’ve been overpaying and therefore will not pay them another dime if they are forcing us to leave early.

            I want to negotiate a mutual severance that allows us two months of income so that we can move as comfortably as possible, especially considering we are going to Colorado Springs.

            Yeah. Colorado. We almost moved there, once, but had to come back because of debts. The debts are taken care of, now, and the only thing left is my court case, which will be settled no later than May 3^rd. Everything is in constant chaos in my house.

            It is time to start packing. Today is Tuesday and the follow-up inspection is Friday. We need to have everything in order by Thursday so that we can negotiate with Pettit as much as possible. I’m waiting for a call-back from the Justice Project. It’s all very stressful. But I finally feel as if I have my head roundly on my shoulders, quite soundly. I feel level-headed and prepared. I feel as if I can now move forward and get a real fresh start. I’ve never lived in Colorado, only visited. Colorado Springs has no one I know except perhaps a former co-worker or two. There is hope where there is sun and Colorado has much more sun than Washington.

            I know this is all very sudden for anyone close to me who reads this. It is for us, too. It’s all quite unexpected and fast. And it isn’t done, yet…

Efforts in Futility

Nothing hurts me more than disrespect from someone who has asked for my help and accepted my extended hand. Nothing disappoints me more than someone who has requested help yet refuses to help themselves.

            My hand extends to every person who deserves it. I do not always know who deserves it and who doesn’t, and so my default reaction to a request for help is to respond in as helpful a way as I know how. Sometimes, my response is to ignore the request either because I do not have the resources, or because my resources are limited and I must care for myself, my family, and my household first.

            My assistance is not free, but I do not charge money for the service I provide. I charge resources. Guests—extended guests, more specifically—and couch surfers are charged in the form of food and other items consumed. Usually, these people also pay us back monetarily, but this is not required except by those who board here.

            We have four boarders and one applicant to our lease and things in the house tend to run smoothly. Two of these boarders will be moving out in the very near future, but we refused to let them get into paying rent at another hotel because it is unsustainable in every sense of the word. These people are our friends. We do not invite strangers into our home. Ours is a family home, first and foremost and always. Even when Persephone is gone, this remains a family home, no matter what amazing acts of sexual exploration occur.

            Recently, we paid for one of my friends to fly from her location to our state. We picked her up at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport baggage claim carousel. We brought her into our home, explaining in the car on the way that our primary expectation was for her to listen to us and do what we say as well as keep to her own word and do what she says she will. She agreed on all fronts. She met Stacie, our boarders, and our new swinging partners. She is a male-to-female transgendered individual with severe psychological issues, so, I promised to get her to the Department of State and Health Services and the Social Security Administration in order to get her started with food stamps and Medicaid. She failed to get her food card because she failed to tell the truth of her homelessness—after all, she was to board at my house and give back by cleaning. We were providing literally everything for her. So, she didn’t get her card, but she ravaged our food supplies and ate foods that had been planned for meals.

            There’s more. She disrespected every single person in my home. She disrespected the space of every person in my home and she disrespected my belongings and the belongings of every person in my home, whether staying or visiting. I told her to stop touching things that don’t belong to her. She continued to move things around that weren’t hers, such as my books and Pat’s bong, and she would take drinks that weren’t hers and drink them, such as Pat’s Rockstar and Marie’s can of coffee. She was absolutely insufferable and she did not understand the mere concept of personal space or boundaries. We told her multiple times to give us space and not to touch us, yet she continued to hover over people, stare at people uncomfortably, and invade their space by standing mere inches from them and touching or leaning on their shoulders.

            I went so far as to write a contract for her as a boarder in my home. I itemized basic respect and consideration, yet she spat on it. She basically said, without speaking, “Fuck you and everything you are trying to do for me.” After all, we took her to DSHS and the Social Security office. We took her to Goodwill and Value Village, because we do not have the incomes we had recently, and we purchased ladies’ clothes for her so that she would feel more comfortable in her own body and feel as though she was moving forward in her life. I gave her space in my study to keep her things and to sleep, yet she disrespected the space by spreading her belongings all over the place, taking over space on my desk and taking my books off of my shelves and failing to put them away properly.

            Four days. That was all. She didn’t last a day past the fourth, as she broke her contract the moment she signed it and did so repeatedly—lashing out for attention like a neglected two-year-old. She is 28. She made everyone so uncomfortable that every single person who had any means or future means of income was offering to pay to get her out of our house. Randy purchased a Greyhound ticket for her to go back to her home in Tennessee. He spent nearly $300 on this ticket, after spending nearly $200 on her flight here from Montana, and after spending at least $100 on clothes, food, weed, and drinks for her. That’s a conservative estimate.

            She checked in at the Greyhound station, then ripped up her tickets and ditched the station in favor of a bar on 4^th Ave. We heard this from her girlfriend, who called the house phone (since Becca had been using it to call her girlfriend) and told Randy what was going on. Somehow, Randy ended up speaking to Becca’s mother, who begged Randy to ensure that Becca get on a train to Tennessee. I understand Randy having empathy for Becca’s mom, as a parent, but the fact of the matter is, at this point, we simply cannot and will not support Becca in any way any longer. She is no longer our responsibility, plain and simple. Point blank. The way I see it, there are two options, because Becca’s mother offered to reimburse Randy for the cost of a ticket. Becca’s mom can either reimburse us for the ticket we already bought, or she can buy a new ticket for Becca and Randy can track the bitch down and make sure she gets on it. Either way, we are not about to buy another ticket for her.

            I cannot believe the level of disregard she had. I did not expect it in any way. When I had spoken to her online, she had come across as level-headed and sane, for the most part. When she got here, she could not actually adjust or settle in with the group. She could not stop focusing on whatever obsession she had and when she got high, it was an exacerbated problem. So, we cut her off, but she didn’t improve…

            The effort I put into this person has been reciprocated to me by all of the people in my home. Pat, Nikki, Stacie, Leo, Kayla—everyone who has either visited or stayed in my home and witnessed what happened with Becca has been highly supportive and helpful, taking all of the stress that they can off of Randy and me. My house is being cleaned right now without my or Randy lifting a finger, because we have an internal inspection tomorrow and we have a lot of people here but we are overwhelmed, personally.

            Becca was one example of many people I have attempted to help. There are other friends I’ve lost through much the same way, including Mary and Alex. I simply cannot tolerate someone asking for help and then shitting on the help that is offered, nor can I tolerate someone failing to uphold their word to help me. Now, I feel as though I am at a crossroads, in a way, though I’m not sure that’s the right euphemism. Now, I am working to help someone who is not really a friend, but who has reached out to me for help due to a mutual friend.

            This person believes people hate her when they do not. Her anxiety and depression push people away and she recognizes it yet fails continuously to take action to correct it. That’s okay, except that she simply ignores advice that is given to her—or, she has, so far. The one time she took my advice, things went well. We went out and had a social outing at a café, where we got coffee and tea and played chess. It was a good time and I told her how good it was. Now, I’m telling her that she needs to take care of herself and she’s telling me she doesn’t know how, but when I tell her what she can do to help herself, she makes excuses for why she can’t do it.

            She says her excuses are legitimate reasons, but the fact of the matter is that she is allowing her depression to run her life completely. I’m telling her what she can do and she is not doing it, she’s claiming that she is “trying.” And so I said as Yoda said.

            “Do or do not. There is no try.” And I said what Gizmo says. “Trying is dying.”

            I am tired. Those who energize me are the ones I keep because I am sick of putting effort into futile endeavors. It was an effort in futility and it had a pretty steep cost to help Becca. I do not want to think it is an effort in futility to help this severely depressed woman in Tacoma, but frankly, I’m seeing all the same red flags. I cannot help those who cannot or will not help themselves. It is that simple.

An Adventure in Puppy Fostering

This week has had an eventful start. I’ve managed to spend a good amount of time with friends, particularly one who regularly takes care of about five children, two of whom are pretty close in age with Persephone. Her name is Kita and she recently acquired a 2-year-old, half-Labrador/half-Chihuahua puppy.

            She needs to have someone take Milo, the dog, until her boyfriend’s lease ends in August and they move into a house. I thought the person to watch Milo could be me; after all, I have another dog and she could use a canine companion, and my cat is chill enough that it shouldn’t be a huge problem. She’d also told me that Milo was good with other dogs and cats, as well as children, so I had high hopes.

            So, Tuesday night, I took Milo home with me. Before entering my apartment with him, I took him for a little walk and he peed. I didn’t go too far or insist on watching him poop, as it was the end of the day, I still had to walk Baby, and I assumed he had probably pooped earlier in the day. So, I took him inside long enough to drop off his supplies, then grabbed my dog and took both of them outside.

            The greeting process was highly energetic. Milo was all over Baby, sniffing, and Baby was overwhelmed. My poor dog is so timid that this little 2-year-old puppy was intimidating her despite being smaller than she is.

            A few problems arose right away. First, Milo started barking the moment he met Randy. I put him in Baby’s crate almost immediately, to try shutting him up. We put a blanket over the top so that he wouldn’t have any stimulation and he could calm the fuck down in his own space. That was my thought process, anyway. I had to let him out, though, because his barking got worse in the crate. So, I let him out of the crate and put Baby in it so that he wouldn’t be able to bother her.

            That didn’t work. He was restless and would wander back to my bedroom, where I’d hear Baby’s growl arise from his intrusion. I managed to keep him in the living room for the most part for a little while, but then it was time for me to go to bed. Milo seemed slightly improved; he’d been listening to me, at least a little. I left him in the living room and went to bed, letting Baby out of her crate so she could lie next to my side of the bed the way she likes.

            That didn’t work, either. Milo whined, barked, and scratched at my door persistently enough that sleep was out of the question the way I was trying it. Still, I tried until I couldn’t stand the noise anymore and I got up to check on him…

Problem the second, he pooped all over our floor in front of the front door. And I mean all over—it was scattered little-dog poop (mind you, Milo is not an ankle biter; he’s about knee-high to me and I’m 5’8”). Randy had just gotten home and I saw the poop in the front hallway. Randy cleaned it up while I shoved Milo back into Baby’s crate with a new resolve to keep him there all night regardless of how much noise he made.

            Finally, his barking became whining and his whines became fewer and farther between until he was quiet except when Randy walked by. Then, he would growl and maybe bark once to voice his discomfort. I managed to get to sleep and it was glorious. I thought that the morning would be better.

            I woke up and began my day as usual, leaving Milo in the crate. I didn’t want to let him out before I was ready to walk him because I didn’t want him to potty in the house. This turned out to be an all-too-valid fear, as the moment I let him out of the crate—before I had the minute to put his harness and leash on to go outdoors—he peed on Persephone’s toys.

            I caught him the second he started, grabbed his nape, smacked his hindquarters, and shoved him down by his nape so he’d be close enough for a nice strong whiff of his piss. I didn’t rub his nose in it. He yelped and, while I don’t think I hurt him, I did reconsider the course of action I was taking to ask myself if there wasn’t some other way of punishing him for his actions. Meanwhile, I took him and Baby outside while Randy cleaned up the mess.

            This was quite early in the morning; I don’t think it was even 09:00 yet. I walked around the entire apartment complex, thinking all the while that Milo has a great deal of energy and the regular shortness of walks I take with Baby would not be sufficient. I also wanted to make sure he got out as much pee and poop as he had in him, so I was quite pleased when he did poop outside—a decent amount, it seemed, though it could have been more. I learned that later…

            It’s one thing to have a dog who is noisy and needs correction. It’s another to have a dog who seems completely un-housebroken. I took a shower yesterday to take my friend Katherine to City Hall to get her passport. After my shower ended, somehow, both Randy and Persephone ended up in the bathroom with me. When we stepped out, there it was again—

            Poop. All over the front entry. Again.

            Jumbo Chihuahua shit.

            That’s the best way I can describe it. If you’ve seen dog poop, you’ve seen the different ways it comes out of dogs’ asses, and you know that little dog shit looks different than big dog shit. Well, Milo’s shit has the aesthetic of little dog shit, but is on a slightly bigger scale because of the Labrador in him.

            Milo had shit all over my front entryway again.

            I had been considering, while in the shower, giving it a couple of days with Milo to see how things would go. With the second scattering of dog shit on my floor—and the second bout of relief at my refusal to live in a carpeted apartment paying off with the ease of cleaning up animal waste—I realized that watching Milo would be overwhelming, despite my best hopes.

            He had seemed better behaved after the initial pee incident on Persephone’s toys. I thought the pee was just an accident from being kenneled all night and not going potty. When I saw the poop on the floor after my shower, though, I knew that watching him would be too much. I don’t have a yard; there’s no way I could have put him outside. If he stayed, I would have had to monitor him practically every waking moment, watching and waiting on edge to take him outside to avoid indoor pottying.

            I have a lot on my plate. Those who regularly read my blog are aware of this; you’ve read about some of the struggles I face with raising my daughter and getting recognized for my artwork to make money with it. The last thing I need at this stage in my life—in an apartment with no yard—is an animal shitting all over my house all the time.

            So, much to my chagrin but to Kita’s understanding, I took Milo back and explained the situation. Randy was quite angry with the puppy and probably especially angry that he was the one cleaning up the shit and piss. He hadn’t wanted anything to do with the puppy, but still I’m grateful for his actions because I was busy after my shower with keeping Persephone in my room with me, away from the dog shit.

            It was difficult having a puppy in my home, but having Milo for the night and morning made me realize how wonderful Baby is and how blessed I am with the animals I have.

My First 12-Hour Shift

I survived my first ever 12-hour shift, today. It started at 17:00 Sunday evening and ended at 05:00 Monday morning; this will be my permanent shift, regardless of which nights I work.

            Having never worked a 12-hour shift before, I could not have known how difficult the first 6 hours could or would be. I couldn’t have known that, until 23:00, I would be desperately fighting sleep and popping NoDoz—given quite generously to me by my field training officer—like they’re going out of style. NoDoz, by the way, does not increase one’s feeling of wakefulness, but instead keeps one from actually dozing off. It’s quite effective and, when coupled with an energy drink, can cause difficulty breathing, as I discovered by sipping some Nos energy drink (also provided to me by my field training officer) after having taken four NoDoz pills.

            Something about watching the day end is exhausting. Even walking around on a patrol of the parking garage seemed tedious and tiresome, as if I could somehow fall asleep while walking. Prior to 23:00, the halfway point of my shift, I felt worries pop into my head and create little nests in my brain.

            What if I can’t stay awake and I’m caught sleeping on the job and I get fired? This was my principal worry. My response was to tell myself that I would work my way through training and see how I felt about the job; if I felt that staying awake would be a very serious problem, I would work my way up whatever chain of command I have and communicate my difficulties so as to avoid being fired and, in the worst case scenario, resign. This was, of course, a premature thought process, though not irrational or unreasonable, as I have had difficulty staying awake before and even have dozed off during class.

            What if I can’t do walking patrols for 10 of the 12 hours I’m on shift and I get in trouble for sitting down too much? It occurred to me while in the first half of my shift that plantar fasciitis is on my VA disability claim and constant patrolling could cause back and foot pain for me. I worried about what I would do if it became a serious problem and the solution was simpler than my mind wanted me to believe. Simply put, there are two ways I could approach my possible physical limitations: I could simply explain my position and provide my disability compensation letter if required; or, I could communicate up my chain of command and, in the worst case scenario, either transfer to another account within my company or resign due to inability to properly perform my job duties.

            Indeed, I worried quite a bit in those first 6 hours over whether or not I would need to resign from my job, though I’ve so recently acquired it and am still only in training. It doesn’t help that I only have two nights in my two weeks of field training; the rest are day shifts, though my permanent schedule will be nights after I’ve finished.

            I wondered, too, what I could or would do for work if I were to resign from my current position as a security officer. Chief among my options was to speak to Victor at WorkSource again and go from there to find a better fit for my skills. Other options were to simply quit trying to have a regular job and get really into painting and drawing, or attempt to resume my tattoo apprenticeship (internship) with Lu.

            After 23:00, it began to dawn on me that I could make it through 12 hours of work without as much trouble as I worried about in the first half. I felt more alert and capable of the work I was doing. It occurred to me that the trick is to get through the first half; the second half might as well take care of itself.

            By 23:00, I had taken my first 15-minute break and was on my way to my first 30-minute “lunch” break. Randy had packed me homemade pizza and tacos for my two lunch breaks and while I ate the pizza prior to my first lunch break, the tacos were waiting to be devoured during that first 30 minutes of “lunch” time.

            Time goes by much more easily for me when I don’t feel like I’m fighting sleep. The transit center was lit well enough that I could read my book without turning on the office lights; the CCTV cameras provided minor entertainment; patrolling the parking garage proved to be a perfectly useful activity for staying awake and also for getting more oxygen.

            There were times when I felt that I had trouble breathing, but I realized that this trouble came from the high amount of caffeine I’d ingested, more than a respiratory issue within my body. What I learned from this revelation was that it is perfectly acceptable to take four NoDoz pills to maintain alertness while on shift, as well as perfectly acceptable to drink energy drinks in order to feel more awake; what was not acceptable was mixing the two as I had done. That was a mistake and unless I wanted to risk giving myself a heart attack, I would be better off choosing one or the other, rather than both, in the future.

            Now that my shift is over and I’m home, relaxing and winding down to go to bed, I realize that this is something I can do. I am capable of making it through 12 hours of work without falling asleep. I am capable of patrolling as necessary and if I have trouble as I start out, I can communicate my difficulty clearly and with evidence to support me.

            There are things I enjoy about my job and it is important for me to remember them. I enjoy wearing a uniform. It relieves me of the responsibility of choosing what to wear to work. I enjoy doing a job that requires vigilance; it is a test of my skills and abilities and this night, I proved that I am capable of maintaining it as needed. I imagine that I can only improve from this point on, as I am able to recognize my potential weaknesses and act accordingly.

            12 hours is a long time no matter how you look at it, but it’s only the first 6 hours that are truly challenging to me. As long as I can continue to power through them as I managed to do this night, I will be fine. It may be difficult, especially when I no longer have a second person to keep me company and converse, but it will not be impossible. There are plenty of things to do, including patrolling.

            I am a strong, powerful woman and I am capable of performing the duties of this job.