Attic shopping

Bonus-an unused gift card

Rifling through shoe boxes and old laptop bags she collected throughout her life, she pieced together the last 8 years recalling the unraveling.

Up in the attic of her three floor colonial in a coveted zip code, she took a long pull of her totally legal and absolutely delicious Bruce train Goji OG. It's legal for adults, kids, settle down she thought. Supposed to help with anxiety. It gives a good buffer and it makes her edge soften. For a few minutes at least. She hears the pups barking and playing. She hears her college bound daughter laughing and then realizes she's actually crying. Her second jag today. She has zero idea what to do anymore. Fifteen year old is still sleeping. He is a slave to the gaming console.

Back to shuffling through old credit card statements. Proudly a pack rat and family historian, there are years old photos and tax returns and a word copy of her separation agreement. In a plastic shoe bag. Who needs filing cabinets? Travel stubs. An unused gift card. Put that in your back pocket, she thinks. See if there's anything on it since cash is tight and she knows they little to nothing as far as groceries. Something her daughter reminds her of on the daily as she asks to order yet another food delivery. Something is not getting through. Is it how I speak, she wonders. She's said blatantly there is no cash. Teenage indifference blocks that oncoming missive like wonder woman's cuffs. Nah, she doesn't want to realize it either. Who wants to do a complete reversal of trips to Rome and money for anything for  the "guess what, it's breakfast for dinner again" announcement? Not I and not her. But it's  the breaks.  

She smiles and laughs and wipes the tears away. They don't help and just make your face wet, she recalled telling her daughter long ago. Do something constructive with the fear or worry. She would advise so easily. She would be an awesome therapist. For anyone else. She just couldn't and can't figure herself out. That familiar feeling of self hatred creeps over. Instinctually, her fingers of her right hand curl around a broken off tree branch as she motions as if to lash herself. This is one of the bad things she does to punish herself. Lash yourself, she thinks, because you deserve it for fucking up so many things. Lash yourself for allowing and gleefully leading yourself into clusterfucks worthy of a book.  Laughing she thinks Should write this shit down. If it didn't hurt so badly. Because as many times as she slaps herself in the mirror telling herself she's worthless and pathetic, it never seems to work. She still keeps making mistake after mistake. The other day she actually laughed at her personal joke to herself. She'd kill herself. But she can't afford it. Awful thought. Totally true but grim. If you are that practical, she tells herself, surely you can find a way to figure out your shit, right?

Type A slacker was a term one of her best friends crafted with her. Self immolation was never lacking for this sassy, funny and clever chica yet she was first to see her cracks. Our favorite uncle took his own life. Everyone was affected. So why would it even cross her mind. Because she had to be thorough and list all her options. That it was ever seen as an option is what worries her.

The latest chapter was perhaps too much to bare. She was keeping it all going but hanging on by a thread. She kept braiding said thread but inevitably, as it as only a thread, it would break. She was falling hard.

When you are smiling, she thought,  and always joking and cooking and singing to the pups, no one takes you seriously that there is such infinite and deep sadness and despair. It's a buzzkill and not a one likes that. Or rather, no one has time to put their baggage down to pick up yours. It's an egotistical society and self preservation rules. Knowing that full well it stil sucks.

She always prided herself on her self reliance. She got too good at it. Yet, she couldn't quite stretch her almost always foggy brain from knowing the best next step to save herself.

Let's take it back. Happy kid. Successful adult. Pretty cute. Sassy. Full of moxy and mojo. Never felt burdened by parental expectation and was lucky enough to have, and still have, remarkably unjudgy parents. She never felt stressed that she had to make a decision she didn't want to for fear of disappointing them. Sure, she did, like buying that gas guzzling suv and hearing about it from her dad.  Gruff and blunt in his questioning of the purchase,  he still loved it and was proud of her for buying the stick shift model. He is her favorite person in life. Adores him. Emulates him. Taught her to cook a mean cutlet. Schooled her in the ways of a good pork roast marinade.

He was a major reason if not the sole reason she didn't do it. Her kids were too. Her former best friend once was but wasn't anymore though I'm sure she'd be sad.  And surprised. Everyone would be surprised. Though they shouldn't be because she raised white and red flags. It is so true that even when you tell someone blatantly your truth, they don't or won't hear you. It's only after if the person kills them selves that people say maybe there was a sign. So rather than test the theory out she would stick around and figure it out.

The self reliant, get through anything with finesse, swagger and moxy, gal she was often let down her tall guard and showed her wounds and begged for help.  She didn't wait for them at first. She figured tell them, your closest friends, that you are struggling. That you need help but don't even know what to ask for. That shit's going down in a bad way and everything is crumbling down. They can't or don't want to hear because their crap is crumbling down too. Their baggage was bursting like the ones she is sifting through in this goddamned hotter than hell attic (ooh, kiss back to that in a second, she thought was her kind drifted yet again). 

Knowing why people do what they do or don't do isn't comforting. It's logic but it doesn't feel any better. So the guard goes back up. The optimistic,-always wants to laugh and giggle-buddy who's twinkle is not yet extinguished peeks out often and says in her inner voice "anyone there?" Ultimately, she knows it's up to her. That is exhausting, she thinks, so she goes back to sifting. Eureka hits when she finds a gift card in an old bag. It's in a bag she used to love. A treasure trove of memories with old travel moments from her last relationship. It's more like the Geoffrey Rush zombie pirates kind of loot versus a Johnny Depp hot pirate kind of loot. It looked shiny and real but that time of her life was a cesspool of bad decisions wrapped in gifts and luxury. She found another old credit card statement. You dumbass, she thought, you were so fluid and flush back then. Sure you bought this big ass house. Definitely a fuck you to aforementioned mojo sucker, coward and former resident of my mind and heart. Bohemoth symbol of the mortgage she could barely pay every month these days. She was also able to save for her kids college. So it wasn't all for nothing. Though these days she was literally choosing gas or groceries every single month.

Sitting in this attic in the heat in a haze of heat and vape smoke, she tried to put some order in the mess. She was making a move. Taking the reigns. Downsizing. Cheaper. More fun.

She's sticking around to see a move with her boyfriend. Their place. Her tall, lovely, handsome, hot, loving boyfriend. Her real "ride or die".  Funnily enough when they met she had been living large for years. Perfect job. Killer salary. Two bonuses. Just out of an Unequivocally fucked up and dysfunctional relationship. Zap back to now she had met her match. On tinder, no less. It was the Chicago Bears t-shirt. It was every photo. It was the first day they connected. Their first date later that night. She truly believed the universe conspired to bring them together. She totally believed that shit. And she was happy. House poor so better off than many. Good job after getting sacked and forced out of her beloved company where she spent over a decade and loved it. Completely turns upside down and in a spiral. Yet happiest she has been in years.  She opens a box. Her cherished Kiss Hotter Than Hell cd. She'd pop that in her truck, the blue beast she and her bf had named it, because she's old school and listens to cds like a traffic dj. Smiling through tears she knows it's a fucked up situation that she would climb out of. She may be a type A slacker who lost her moxy but she's also her fathers daughter, her kids mom, her puppy's favorite, Kiss' #1 fan, girlfriend of a hitter then balls boyfriend, and she'll figure it out. 

Long ago she told someone with pride that She'd always figure it out. If there was a plan A and it didn't workout she'd find or create a plan b, c, or d. She had forgotten that until now. It's only money. And you get one life. Pull up your panties, take a long draw, throw this old shit, smooch your boyfriend and make day drinking sangria and deal. Ooh, go find out if there is anything on this gift card. (Postscript: $69 left. Maybe it's a sign she thinks naughtily. Signing off with that still-present twinkle in her eye.)