I hate being scared. When I was 10, I was at one of those huge-ass family reunions. Bored, I and all the cousins went out to explore. Somewhere down the road we found a long abandoned sawmill. Huge open, wooden structures with holes gaping in the walls and floors. Creaking, unsafe stairs led us to a second floor and while the others were excited I was terrified. I knew it was lame, I was lame, but the dilapidated state, the emptiness of a place that's seen no human activity in years made me want to run back to my parents and never let them out if my sight ever again.
I kept it in until one of the cousins found an aerosol can and set it off and covered my arm in spots. I lost it, I begged to go back, and one of the cousins laughed and said, "you think it's going to burn your arm off or something?" That was pretty much exactly what I thought, the spots weren't hurting but that didn't mean anything to me, but in the face of unanimous mockery I denied thinking any such thing. Circumspectly, I tried to get sympathy from my one female cousin, and she, sort of doubtfully, agreed that if the spots were on her arm she'd want to go back too.
We lingered though. Probably the others explored some more. I was too busy fighting panic. I had to run off behind a building and to have one of the worlds fastest BMs right there on the ground. It was an impressive number of coils. I don't know what I did to wipe my bum, I probably grabbed a handful of sawdust. It calmed me down a bit though and when I returned the others they were ready to leave. Thankfully they didn't notice why I snuck off. I was already so ashamed of my cowardliness. I would never have recovered from being caught so scared I had to take a dump.
Last week another chapter of Precarious Financial Situation unfolded. This time I decided to put my foot down on the theory that my lending money, and trying to make things work, was the opposite of empowering.
Starting Wednesday, I called and called and left a ton of messages but heard nothing back. I emailed and emailed and got nothing back. Then Friday, when I called it said the phone was no longer in service and I almost had to sneak away to take another dump.
Instead I called my psychiatrist's son, S, who has experience with and deals with these kind of financial shenanigans for a living.
(Yeah, I know, it's the weirdest, nicest thing anyone has done for me setting me up with a son to help me out for free. I hear about these things, the movies seem full of benevolent, helpful unicorns.)
S told me that the first thing to do is to sit down and write a letter where I urge my financial partner to come to her senses, tell her if she doesn't I'll need to take action, and then mail it off with delivery confirmation. Apparently, I have to show the court, should it come to that, that I tried to sort things out.
Later on Friday, when I called my financial partner again, to illustrate the service disconnected to my horrified roommate, the call went to voicemail instead.
It's weird, right? What's up with the phone? I haven't tried again. I'm too scared.
Late Friday, facing the Saturday deadline, I resigned myself to covering my partner and I noticed she'd added money Thursday (the night before), not enough, I still had to cover the difference, but some. It was enough to make me feel bad and doubt my grasp on reality. What if those two times it said the phone was disconnected and that one time it said that the phone was out of the country was some kind of weird phone-company issue, and that last call that went to voicemail was the real deal? What if that email I sent upon getting the weird messages was just a crazy-ass overreaction?
The transfer, even though it wasn't enough, got my heart bleeding, because she has it tough and she's trying...
Then I got to thinking that she hadn't called, emailed, texted, or reached out in any way to let me know what the fuck is going on.
Then yesterday, Saturday, there was a large, pending transfer. Enough for everything. Almost enough for next month too. I should transfer what I put in back, but my heart bleeds; with the money I added we're good for next month.
But, she still hasn't contacted me to let me know what's up. Maybe she is scared. I don't know. I sent her another email thanking her for getting her shit sorted. I hate this situation. I want out. I am in the twilight zone.
Part of me is connected to the person I know she is: someone who is shit with money, lends money she doesn't have to her shit relatives, spoils her daughter rotten even when she can't afford to,
but ultimately a person who kind and honest, someone who always repays her debts even when it takes longer than she had hoped.
The other part of me doesn't know her at all, thinks her capable of anything and everything. The other part of me thinks she'll fuck me over and leave me with this debt.
In the absence of her voice the nightmarish version takes over. I feel so alone. I've been left behind at the sawmill, I can't find my way back, it's getting dark and no one knows where I am.
I took 3 Lorazepam to avoid having to take a dump behind the house.