Jeff

It is very difficult to form coherent thoughts right now.  I am usually quite adept at stringing a phrase but tonight, words are jumbled, unclear, conflicting.  Tonight, my world is forever changed.  Tonight, my brother is dead.

When we were little, my brother and I, three years apart, were frequent playmates.  We were each other's only sibling and being the only game in town, we found reasonable enjoyment in each other's company.  I can clearly recall sitting on the carpet in his room, his entire Matchbox car collection and toy garage between us, spending what felt like HOURS choosing which cars we wanted to play with.  I'd choose one, then him, back and forth, laboring over which hot-rod or monster truck we most coveted.  (I'd choose the emerald green sports car whenever possible.) Eventually, all the cars distributed, we'd generally play for about ten minutes and, quickly bored after the laborious selection procedures, go on to other pastimes.

Another frequent game of ours was "Fifi".  My brother, the younger of the two of us, would act as Fifi, my French poodle, who would obediently follow me around the house, often at the end of a "leash", barking for treats and grinning sheepishly when receiving pats on the head.

This is the brother I choose to remember right now.

From the age of fifteen until today, at age thirty-six, my brother's life (or a reasonable facsimile), was dominated by alcohol and drug addiction. For the past twenty-one years, I saw only rare and fleeting glimpses of the wonderful, playful, kind soul he once was.  For the past twenty-one years, I have known, far more often than not, only the monster.

In the interest of self-preservation, tonight, I choose not to focus on the cruelty he unleashed throughout the course of his addiction.  I choose to put aside (but NOT forget), the barrage of insults he hurled at me, my husband and my mother, in countless instances, for many, many years. There will be plenty of time for that, whether I like it or not.

But really, the point of this rambling blog, when my head is so unclear, when my feelings are so convoluted and contradictory, is that addiction...fucking...sucks.  My brother had countless opportunities for recovery.  I sat in on more "family sessions", listened to more excuses, shared more emotions and pleas and angry declarations than I could possibly count.  But, the fact remains, alcohol won, drugs won, addiction won and I lost, my mother lost, my brother, in oh so many ways, lost.  I go on, such as I am, for whatever it's worth; questions, forever unanswered; soul, forever broken; life, forever changed.

Jeffrey Scott Feldman
5/28/76-12/21/12

Anyway...

I haven't written in a while.  I suppose it's because I don't have much to say.  Well, not much that hasn't already been said, ad nauseum, anyway.  I'd love to say that my life was taking on great twists and turns and changes for the better but, because I'm honest, perhaps to a fault, I cannot.  The fact is, nothing has changed except that I feel like I'm in the worst place, mentally, that I've been in for months.  Not an unfamiliar place, I assure you, but one that I was hoping not to revisit again so soon or, frankly, at all.  I truly believe that my depression is hard-wired into my brain and I am not naive enough to believe that it can ever be "cured".  Is there treatment available?  Surely.  But is it available to me, once again without health insurance?  Most certainly not.

You're probably all sick of the "woe is me" trials and tribulations of poor Kari.  Believe me, no one is more sick of it than I.  But the fact remains, I feel quite powerless over most of the situations in my life.   My husband often gives me this example of my "inappropriate" reactions to things.  Whether I stub my toe or break my leg, my stress-level is, on a scale of one to ten, an eleven.  I can't argue that, it is the truth.  Why I react that way is the question.  Seemingly small, almost insignificant slights become exponentially greater than they should be, automatically.  My mind has never worked "properly" and I don't think it ever will.  Sure, I'm not going to lie, meds would help.  Therapy?  Absolutely!  Alas, for the present time, I must fight this battle within my own mind alone.  This is not to say that I don't have a loving supportive husband.  Believe me, I am grateful for him every day of my life.  I have some fan-fucking-tastic friends which sets me far above many others, I'm certain.  Everything is not misery, though many times, it feels that way.  But overall, without fail, I am miserable and I'm really fucking sick of it.

I know no one can solve the problem that is me, least of all, me.  I don't expect you to.  I guess what I hope, above all else, is that people, even just a few, can understand that I am not this way by choice.  I would give everything to have a clean slate, to have been born with a mind and a heart not clouded by depression.  I recall being asked in one of those "touchy-feely, experimental-type" seminars in junior high which, of many possible "qualities", I would most like to possess.  Some of the choices included "wealth",  "health", "success" and "happiness".  Most people chose "health".  I, without hesitation, chose "happiness".  After all, if you're miserable, what value do any of those other things possess?  I figured, even if I was poor, unhealthy and unsuccessful, if I was happy, I could overlook those things and still enjoy my life.  I suppose, after all these years, I still wish for that.

Thank You

I could get all philosophical today.  I could delve deeply into the reasons why I am NOT thankful this particular Thanksgiving day.  I could gush endlessly about the things that I AM thankful for.  But for once, I'm going to keep it simple.

Despite all the obstacles life throws in your way, despite the seemingly insurmountable hardships you may face, despite all the advantages or disadvantages you were born with, have acquired or lost or have yet to discover, you cannot control where you began but you can absolutely shape where you're going and where you will end.  I thank you for taking the time to read this, for allowing me to share a small piece of my heart and soul with you and for continuing to return to this place.  People matter above all else and for you, I am truly thankful.

When the World is Running Down

This post was originally written as a tweet but because I wanted it to include fb peeps as well, I'm copying and pasting it here.

Vent time! I know, you couldn't be more thrilled, right? Shaddup! If you follow my angsty ass, you should be used to this by now. Anywho, I just have to say that I have made so many meaningful connections through social media. I'm a facebooker from WAY back but still relatively new to twitter (as in, I've had one for years but never tweeted all that much prior to the past few months). Like all of you, I've encountered my share of trolls, most of whom are now, once again, safely esconsed 'neath their respective bridges (as far as I know. I generally block their asses.).  But the vast majority of souls I've encountered in this crazy electronic metropolis are genuine folks, intelligent, respectful, funny and, my favorite, snark-laden. Though I should be used to this by now, it is still a surprise each and every time I make a new fb or twitter friend.  To some extent, the internet is the great equalizer. You can meet someone, many times having no idea what they look like or where they come from, their financial status, their worst subject in high school, etc., with a completely clean slate. You can share what you want, when you want and with whom you want (or, in my case, overshare) with little fear of judgment or condemnation. Sure, for some, this is an excuse to reinvent oneself with completely bullshit personas but I suspect, for the vast majority, it is a place to reveal one's true self, warts and all, in a relatively "safe" place.  Which brings me to my main point.

Over the past few days, twitter and social media as a whole has been bombarded with the news of the demise of Hostess.  Yes, it sucks, no more Twinkies, but on a larger scale, it also means the loss of 18,500 jobs, including my husband's.  We have done the living on unemployment thing, for two miserable years, and I still cannot believe we are faced with it again. But seeing all the snide, nasty comments, the often uninformed opinions about what Hostess employees, unions, etc. "woulda, coulda, shoulda" done, with no regard for the REAL, non-union Hostess employees who's jobs were eliminated by decisions they had NO part in making, burns my ass to the extreme.  But, again, I'm getting off track.

To those of you who have been SO supportive of me, both during these past few trying days, and before, I thank you with my whole heart. Members of my own family, who I know have read my fb posts about this situation, have chosen to ignore me and many continue to make mean-spirited and heartless jokes.  This is not unusual for my family, who for generations have turned a blind eye to family situations occurring outside of their own four walls, but fuck if it doesn't still hurt like hell.  This is why I am so grateful to my "online" friends (I hate that term, a friend is a friend is a friend, but many of you I do have yet to meet "offline") for providing listening ears, wise counsel, FUNNY jokes, uplifting photos and just plain love and support at a time when I need it so badly. I love each and every one of you and am so very grateful for your kindness.  You are cherished, you are special and you...are...irreplaceable.

Um...yeah...whatever...

At the suggestion of my brilliant friend, Sandy, I have chosen to blog for you, today.  Woo to the hoo, right?

I'm going to cut to the chase.  My husband was laid off today and I am NOT fucking happy about it.  If you're a frequent (or even occasional) reader of this blog, you may be acquainted with our tumultuous past three years. If not, here's a brief recap - in September 2009, right after his 41st birthday, my hubby was laid off.  We spent the next insanely difficult and trying years living on his unemployment, my meager savings, and food stamps.  Quelle fun, I can assure you. Then, in October 2011, just when we were at our wit's end and certain that we would have to return to NY and my mother's house, tails between our legs, he got a job...at Hostess.  For one full year (plus an extra week or two), two college-educated, bright (albeit bi-polar: him, and clinically depressed: me) individuals were "gainfully employed".  Well, that's not entirely true, HE was gainfully employed, I remained, as I do at this very moment, a useless lump on the couch, biding her time, somehow making it through each day without downing a bottle of sleeping pills.  That is, until today.  Today, we woke up to discover that his company of employment, which has been struggling financially for months, was kaput, no more, a done fucking deal.  Which leads me to this conclusion: good things do NOT happen to good people, they happen to lucky people, fortuitous folks, the ones that the hand of fate has chosen to bestow happiness upon.  But...not...us.

I know, things could be far worse.  We are, as far as I know, physically healthy.  We, as of this moment, have a roof over our heads.  We have each other.  But you know what?  Right now, at this very second, that is not enough.  I want my husband to be gainfully employed.  Hell, I want myself to be gainfully employed.  I want to continue to have the health insurance that we so desperately need in order for me to be able to get the therapy that I've been SCREAMING for for more than a decade.  I want a break...not for a year...but for enough time that we, two good souls, can truly pay it forward.  But, alas, how can one pay it forward when they cannot even afford to pay for themselves?

Please note, I am slightly inebriated as I write this.  At this moment, I am safe in my apartment, my husband nearby, unable to harm myself but nevertheless, I am slightly drunk.  If there is ever an appropriate time for such a state, I suspect now is it.

Not sure what the point of this is except to say that to everyone posting things on facebook and twitter about "woe is me, no more twinkies", I suggest you get your heads out of your proverbial asses and realize that the end of Hostess means that 18,500 people, including my husband, are now out of work, less than a week before Thanksgiving.  I suppose unless one has been faced with the trauma of unemployment, one may not know just how devastating, in every sense of the word, this is.  Sadly, it is a situation we are all too familiar with and one I would not wish upon anyone.  Take a moment to reflect on all you have.  Even if it doesn't seem like much, it may be more than your neighbor has, or the lady you pass at the grocery store, ashamed to pay with her EBT card, or the person who unintentionally cuts you off on the highway.  Be thankful for everything you have, however little it may be.  I am.

In the Moment

White is black
and black is white.
Sleep all day
and cry all night.
Gasp for air
though forced to breathe.
Hide that heart
upon your sleeve.
Still not safe
try as you might.
Please do not
give up the fight.

Home

So, I've come to a startling conclusion during the course of the past several weeks.  Actually, what's startling is that it IS startling when it seems like it should have been so obvious for years.  My conclusion is that New York is, was and always will be my home.  I suppose I never really lost sight of that, feeling like a stranger in a strange land for my entire existence in Florida. When we initially moved, in the back of my mind I envisioned it like an experiment, the "away" college experience that was partially stolen from me and partially relinquished of my own free will so many years ago.  It was ALWAYS supposed to be "temporary".  Who would've thunk that temporary would amount to almost eight years?

When my husband and I moved out of New York in December of 2004, we did so for several reasons, not the least of which was the fact that we had spent the past four years living in the house I grew up in with my mother and my verbally abusive alcoholic/addict brother.  Clearly not the best environment for a new relationship (what was I thinking?) and without question, a toxic place to live for all those years.  A trigger event took place that I will probably discuss in depth at some point in the future but suffice it to say, enough was enough.  We were broke but desperate.  We had little birds chirping in our ears for years extolling the many virtues of Florida, not the least of which was that it was FAR less expensive a place to live than New York, and, of course, it was many many miles away from my brother.  SOLD.  We made a trip down in October, quickly found a halfway decent place that we could afford, albeit just barely, and two months later, we moved.

Let me make something clear from the start.  Florida is, as they say, a nice place to visit but I wouldn't (and do NOT) want to live there.  In a perfect world, I could call my husband from New York, where I'm currently visiting, have him pack up all our "useful" shit, which consists primarily of our cat, my books, my photographs and our small cache of electronic devices and have him drive up today, straight to the adorably bohemian and funky apartment we would live in.  (Hell, in a PERFECT world, that apartment would be a HOUSE, but I digress.)  However, my world is FAR from perfect.  I find myself today, still broke, once again in the same house as my mother and still verbally abusive alcoholic/addict brother, revisiting things almost EXACTLY as they were when I left almost eight years ago with one shocking and strangely comforting difference.  The one thing, the ONLY thing that is different now than it was all those years ago is ME.

Three years ago, the last time I saw my brother prior to this visit, was what I hoped would be the last time I heard his familiar drunken refrain of "why don't you just go fucking kill yourself."  But, life being the joyful mess that it is, that turned out not to be the case.  Being the lucky soul that I am, I last heard those very words just three days ago, from the thing that was once my brother, in the midst of his "alleged" first relapse in about five weeks.  (This according to my mother.  I know I've seen him drunk and/or high at least two times prior during my three and a half weeks here.)  I'm not going to lie and say that I was undisturbed by hearing said words. But for what I think was the first time ever, my initial reaction to those words wasn't sorrow or hurt.  They didn't give me pause, I didn't think "yeah, why don't I?"  I found myself filled with rage, disgust and pity.  In the years since I left, nothing...NOTHING has changed for my brother.  Sure, he has "tried" rehab, more times than I can count.  Hell, in the course of his twenty-one year addiction (this counting from the evening when, at fifteen, he confessed to my parents that he "may have a problem with drinking"), I'd say he has "attempted" detox and/or rehab at least twenty times.  But here we are, in October 2012, me in the active process of changing myself and my life, he, apparently satisfied with being a thirty-six year old leech, dependent on my mother for every basic need.  Funny how life turns out.

My mother and I had an arrangement prior to this visit.  The arrangement was that my brother was on waiting lists for several rehab facilities and that when I arrived, he would be gone in no more than four days.  Well, let me back up, that was the MODIFIED arrangement.  When I initially decided to come up here for six weeks, she insisted that he would not be here at all.  Since the last time I saw him in the fall of 2009, I have been up to visit several times but only when he was not here, either in rehab or, most recently, in Miami where she had sent him to spend time with my dad's sister so that she and I could have a peaceful visit.  I refused to submit to his tortures and to allow myself to be subject to his verbal attacks. Therefore, when she informed me that he would be here for no more than four days, I was angry as hell but at that point, my only options were to accept this or call off the entire trip which I was NOT eager to do.  Of course, this being my life, the four day thing flew out the window when, the morning after I arrived, my brother decided to open up to me about his current situation.  He said that he had almost died due to a recent bout with pancreatitis and had now decided that he, in fact, wanted to live.  He gave what was in my mind a rather half-assed apology for all the things he had done to me over the years but hell, it was a start, certainly more than he had ever given me prior.  I cautiously opened the door, ever so slightly, for an eventual reconciliation but, in the short term, for at least a peaceful co-existence.  That, in turn, provided my mother, the classic enabler, with more than enough ammunition to immediately cease her search for a program for him and an open door to the far more pleasant option of the fairy tale family reunited, her two children both home and safe and speaking again.  Oh, happy day.  Of course, at this point, I was still under the misguided delusion that he would still, in fact, be out in no more than four days.  It turns out, as I learned ONLY when I asked, the facilities (including outpatient day treatment) had all supposedly refused my brother admission due to his new medical condition.  Let me make this perfectly clear...I do NOT buy this for a minute.  I cannot believe that not one legitimate rehab facility would admit a client due to the fact that they have a pre-existing medical condition.  I challenge you to show me one twenty-one year active alcoholic/addict who does NOT have a medical condition as a result of their addictions.  But, this is the story my mother has chosen to give me and I, again, have no choice but to accept it or leave.

Fast forward (okay, maybe not so fast) to today.  My mother was in contact with another facility over the weekend (where they, apparently, admit NO clients on Saturday or Sunday) and after a series of phone calls, they have agreed to admit my brother tomorrow morning.  NOT what she promised me.  Hell, I don't think I've EVER gotten anything that she's promised me, but I guess it will have to do.  Do I think that this facility will be able to help him?  Absolutely NOT.  This is not a comment on the treatment center but on my general attitude towards my brother. Addicts and alcoholics CAN achieve clean and sober lives.  It is a daily struggle but I've seen it done, countless times.  The problem is, they WANT to change.  For whatever reason, they hit their "bottom" and make a conscious decision to change their lives, to fight like hell, at any cost, to remain clean and sober.  My brother, in my humble opinion, has NO desire to change.  For him, rehab is a temporary escape from the blandness of his usual existence.  It is something he does to get someone ("someone" being my mother) off his back.  She goes back into her hopeful stance of "maybe this time it'll work" and I observe cynically from the sidelines.  Do I want him to be sober?  Of course.  Do I ever believe it will happen?  Not remotely.  In his life, alcoholism and addiction have no consequences.  He knows that he has nothing to lose. This is not simply because he HAS virtually nothing but also because the things he needs to survive: a roof over his head, clothing, food, water, money for "whatever", will always be eagerly provided by his mommy.  It makes me physically sick but I realize now, after countless years of screaming, yelling, crying, pleading, rationally explaining and beating my head against the wall that I can't change him and I can't change her but I can change myself.  I am doing it and will continue to for the rest of my life.  I no longer feel powerless, hopeless or useless.  Certainly there are circumstances beyond my control but I will ALWAYS have a choice as to how I deal with them.  That is a very powerful thing.

I had such a different intent when I started writing today.  This was supposed to be about how New York is "home" and Florida is not but it has become much more about what "home" really means.  My current home in in Florida, with my husband and my cat.  My present location is my original home, the place I lived for the first thirty-one years of my life. Eventually, my home will once again be the state of New York but someplace different than I've ever lived before. Home is the place where I live but home is also the place within myself where I feel all is most right. Home can be anyplace I want it to be.  Wow, what an amazing concept! The home where I began, feeling worthless, useless and hopeless, like so much shit, is a mere memory.  Even as I sit here, looking around at the familiar environment, I realize that I have grown above, beyond and past this place.  It is filled with countless memories, good, bad and everything in between, but it does not define me.  It is where I began but not where I will end.