A Poem: Call for Help

I put my heart into the wrong container,

expecting it to be healing and warm.

Instead, what I found was a complainer

whose affection hit me like chloroform.

In those years, every time I would wake

and work to fix the situation at hand,

instead I would find a man like a snake,

all too ready to lie and misunderstand.

My inner strength was sapped away,

stolen in pieces, he’d ruin it, bit by bit.

A kick or punch is so much clearer by day

than the words upon which he would sit.

How I was so blind, I ask myself daily,

wondering how I could be so broken.

If only he’d hit me, punching as gayly

as his words and dismissal were spoken.

Now, I find myself in a vice-grip by fear,

its cold, dead fingers attached like a leech.

My first instinct is to run away, steer clear

of any affection—anxiety makes me screech.

Please, I implore, help me pick up the pieces

of what is left in the aftermath of this fall.

Alone, impossible, but with help, it ceases

to be something for which I feel I cannot call.

Encountering Evil

Crawling out of the woodwork like a termite,

his toxicity, like tentacles slither out, poison

to the sweet sapling that must be moistened,

protected only by the tamarin and her vicious bite.

Damaged walls let the poisoned gases in,

inhabitant unsuspecting of incoming damage

or even the glaring lack of proper bandage

over wounds never healed; they easily reopen.

Small, innocent soul, unknowingly tortured by

the confusion and disruption: betrayed by him,

a most trusted companion she held above all sin,

in the highest esteem; surely, he was unable to lie.

Confusion and chaos abound in her mind,

put to rest only by motherly affection and love,

protected, held close within Mama’s glove,

so, to the demonic manipulation, she is blind.

Discomfort seeps in, touching everyone with infection;

social constructs do the best to make it squirm.

One can find comparison to it with the worm,

an apt comparison in terms of lacking verbal inflection.

It’s enabled and encouraged by a female so vile,

her vitriol, never-ending, just sprays and spews

to those she cannot control with her narrow views

and manipulation tactics that only provoke bile.

Nausea, rocking, churning, bubbling like a hot sea,

a physical response to psychological stress

unnecessarily exacerbated in times of distress,

appetites turned as sour as a lost, forgotten pea.

I knew what it was when I laid eyes on it at first,

a hideous, disgusting energy, vile as vomit,

disguising itself with the success of a large comet

shooting through a night only described as the worst.

As I watched, the shape transformed, a mask

seeping over the visage I’d glimpsed but quickly;

my soul knew the evil as I do now as its sickly

energy could be drunk like liquid from a flask.

But then I allowed it to slip on its mask before

I knew what was even happening before my eyes.

He gave meaning to the phrase, “time flies,”

and I became lost within its darkness, craving more.

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.

Worthwhile Endeavors

Often, we hear people say to each other, “It’s not worth it.” This phrase is used in many contexts:

·         “Yo, bro, she’s not worth it,” might be translated to:

o   “It’s not worth putting forth the social and emotional effort to make a connection with this woman because she will not give you the results you desire.”

·         “He’s not worth it,” might mean:

o   “It’s better not to get emotionally involved with him because his lifestyle habits are sure to break your heart in the long run.”

o   “It’s not worth putting your heart and soul into someone who cannot reciprocate your feelings.”

·         “Lol it’s not worth it,” could mean:

o   “It isn’t worth attempting to explain your point of view to this person because they will not listen.”

o   “It’s not worth taking time and effort out of my day to provide you with information you could easily find yourself when I know you won’t appreciate it.”

o   “It isn’t worth deliberating political ideologies/religious beliefs because you cannot see past misinformation and falsehoods to accept empirical data and facts.”

·         Other uses include:

o   “It’s not worth looking for food in that part of the forest because the only thing that grows there is poison oak.”

o   “It’s not worth looking for psychedelic mushrooms in the woods because the best ones grow on the edges of open fields.”

In all of these cases, you will notice that there is specificity. What is the thing someone wants to and why is it not worth doing? I think today’s society has begun to drop the specificity from this phrase, using it vaguely to avoid confrontation, discourse, and engagement with other people socially.

I recently commented on a friend’s status on Facebook. She’s going through a difficult time; her baby daddy is an alcoholic and she recently ended the relationship with him, she’s pregnant with their second baby and the dad is still living with her as a roommate because she works herself to the bone to provide for the house but doesn’t make enough money to support herself and her babies alone… There’s a lot going on in her life and I find myself doing everything in my power, in my own busy life, to support her and offer my sympathy, empathy, advice, and past experiences for her to think about.

I will not deny that I have a specific set of life experiences that my friends do not and, in some ways, this gives me an advantage in perspective. I strive to use this to others’ advantages, as well, by providing insight and information where I see opportunity. My hopes are that when I am incorrect on any topic, someone will correct me with the same level of respect I provide.

In the status upon which I recently commented, someone else commented, “I’ll pray for you.” I’ve seen this many times as well and have come to realize that it is a highly unhelpful thing to say to someone who is going through a hard time, especially when they have expressed specifics of their hardship and left open ways in which others can actually offer assistance. So, I clicked reply and said, “Curious: How is that helpful?” I was prepared to be ignored or even to have a response come from the commenter along the lines of, “Mind your own business,” or, “It’s how I show support.” I would have accepted a multitude of different answers or even no answer at all, but the response I received was from relatives of the person I’d asked, none of whom saw fit to actually answer the question and all of whom thought it better to use sarcasm and intolerance when conversing with me. The exception was the person to whom I’d asked the question; she remained calm and detached throughout, ignoring my question entirely while chiming in a couple of times with a witty remark.

Thus ensued a long thread of comments in response to my question, wherein one particular “sister” of the original commenter took quite a bit of time and energy to engage with me and even send me a private message. Her message was one of clear projection wherein she said that my cheery disposition didn’t “fool” her and that I should remain silent any time someone says they’re going to pray. Naturally, she mentioned something about knowing my place…

I responded, so naturally, she had to have the last word, and her last message to me was sent directly prior to her adding me to her blocked list. That was a bummer because I had a pretty good response to her. I’ll include it at the end of this entry.

When I realized she had blocked me and my message wouldn’t go through, I checked my notifications again to see a response to the thread that had blown up due to my question. I clicked the notification and read the response, giving it some thought before typing my own reply. Unfortunately, that didn’t go through either, as the original comment upon which we were all replying had been deleted from the status. The last reply read, “it’s not worth it,” thus, the subject of this entry. My response to such a claim was to ask what, exactly, was not worth what.

I think, in times like these, those who say, “It’s not worth it,” think they are saying, “It’s not worth talking to this person because they won’t understand you,” but are actually saying, “It’s not worth putting time and energy into a discussion if it could change your mind about a subject; conversations are only worthwhile when those engaging in it are already in agreement.” This is a rather abhorrent thought, as it is the kind of thinking I believe perpetuates stupidity and resistance to change and progress.

What perplexes me about her response, in this case, was the fact that I had made a point of commending the person with whom I disagreed. I pointed out the admirability of her ability to stay up for long hours late at night in order to provide support to our mutual friend. That is, after all, no small feat. Naturally, though, as is the case with many discussions begun with pseudo-religious hard-headed zealots, my kindness was ignored in favor of cherry-picking as much as they could find to prove how much of an asshole I am.

As promised, her last message is included here; it told me that my question was completely impolite—at this point, I think we could agree to disagree—and that I’m one of those people who thinks my opinions are all superior to everyone else’s. She then told me that she doesn’t “have time for this childish behavior,” and told me to have a good day while she went off to click “block” on me. My response, which failed to go through due to the block, was as follows:

It's cute that you took so much time already to engage in so much discourse with me when you don't have time for it and you think it's childish. "Curious: How is that helpful?" is an open-ended question that can be answered very simply or ignored. If you're so offended, great, be offended. I am responsible for what I say, not how you interpret it. You are responsible for your own feelings. If I offended you, good; you probably needed it. People need to stop being so easily offended. Have a good day, yourself.
P.S., it's good that you know how to use the block feature on Facebook. Enjoy the hole in the sand you use to shield your head.

A Letter to A Self-Victimizing Braggart

Dear AJ,

                There are many things you said while under my roof that will never be forgotten, and others that may never be forgiven. Before your behavior took a nosedive, you were happy-go-lucky and social. You didn’t have a problem with any of us… but you couldn’t stop talking about your dick.

                Every woman knows that a man who never shuts up about his penis clearly doesn’t know how to use it and this was finally confirmed about you today, when my friend, who used to also be your friend, admitted to me that she slept with you once… and you lasted all of 30 seconds, tops. You useless, pathetic fuck. When you’re in a good mood, you sit around and brag about this and that—how you can last hours in bed (where are the hours? You couldn’t last a whole minute), how you learned all of these martial arts and you can kick anyone’s ass, how you’re a master swordsman… Oh, and then I find out you’ve tried telling some chick you have a fucking degree in psychology when you’ve never taken college courses to earn any kind of credit. Then, when I put you on blast, you tried to defend your lies by saying, “Oh, I never said it was a legit degree.” You are fucking stupid.

                You deserve to be put on blast for every lie you tell and every shitty thing you’ve done. So, I’ll put you on blast, here.

                Boy, let me tell you, it made me euphoric as hell to watch you approach every friend I introduced you to—and then approach a friend I didn’t introduce you to—and try to slander me to the people with whom I surround myself. Do you honestly think I’d have introduced you to two-faced bitches? Do you think that just because I let you into my home, I make it a habit of forming relationships with psychic vampires or people who will turn on me at the drop of a hat—or the unwelcome knock on their door as you beg them to let you move into their home?

                Oh, yeah, bitch, Dusty told me what you did. You slunk your pathetic, lying, two-faced little ass over to my neighbor Dusty’s house, across the street from my house, and you proceeded to say bad things to him about Randy and me, even though he had told you previously that Randy and I are his friends and he didn’t want to hear you fucking slandering us. He also told us that even if you weren’t a steaming pile of bird shit, he would never have let you move in because he likes to walk around the house naked and you would have ruined that for him. That was amusing, but not as heartwarming as knowing for a fact that you will never turn any of my friends against me. My friends are loyal. That’s why they’re my friends.

                Now, I’ve started school and I’m waiting for February to roll around so I can see those nice, fat housing checks appear in my account each month, while you bum around on the streets, hooking up to library WiFi, continuously spewing your lackluster sob story to whatever poor sap takes two minutes to pay attention to your sorry ass.

                I don’t believe in holding grudges, but nor do I believe in forgetting how someone has treated me and you, dumbass, have treated me exceptionally poorly. You were fucking lucky that Randy wanted to play nice with you because I would have had you out of my home the minute you started throwing your belongings down my stairs. That’s right, bitch. You may have been staying in the upstairs space in my home, but that space is still mine. The house is still mine. I am the lease holder, along with Randy, and it is only Randy’s name on the lease that allowed him to have any say in how long you were allowed under my roof, you sorry sack of unapologetic sewage.

                Your mother tried defending you. I’m not sure if you saw it since you blocked Pat and probably can’t see his status anymore. She came along trying to claim that I let you and Pat move in so I’d have a couple of fresh dicks to ride on. What a fucking joke. I messaged her promptly to correct her on that point and even managed to have a decent back-and-forth with her for a few messages, despite her horrendous grammar and spelling. Where did she learn English? Because that place clearly doesn’t know what the fuck they’re doing. At any rate, your mother may never turn her back on you, since she is your mother, but she isn’t one to make fucking excuses for you, either. I told her all about how you would sit in my house, talking about all of these alleged problems you have, and yet you never once made an effort to go out and get the medication you said you so desperately needed. Not until after you blew up, mocked, and disrespected me in my own home.

                Fuck you. Rot in the streets with hardly your mother to love you as she withers away with her sickness.

(I wish no ill will on his mother. She seems like a perfectly nice person. She is legitimately ill and "AJ" has a habit of making it sound like she's going to die.)