I will start with the positive:
I got home from packing my folks last night. My knees and ankles were swollen, I couldn’t turn my neck, and I was feeling pretty lousy—except that I knew I had a snow day today and I could sleep-in before I went up to continue packing. Snuffed into my door was a PetSmart card for $40—enough to get food for the puppies. I’m not sure who it was from, the one guess I had said it wasn’t from him, so I don’t know. However, I’m sure whoever you are, you read my blog. First off, thank you so much. Your kindness made a very nice spot in the day. And it helps my two fat little boys stay fat without their daddy having cut as many corners. That being said, please realize this: Please don’t feel you have to fix any situation I talk about on my blog. Just being able to vent and put it out in the universe is gift enough—my free therapy. It’s okay to read the blog and go, ‘wow, that sucks’ and move on with your day. It is also okay to say, ‘quit bitching and deal, ya big fag.’ Above all, amid all the whimpering and complaining I do, I hope you are able to at least smirk and laugh at times by some of the stories on here. Regardless, thank you so, so very much.
Now, the unpositive:
I was feeling quite a bit better today as I drove to my folks’ house around eleven in the morning. I had gotten to sleep in. My right knee didn’t hurt, I could turn my neck, and while both of my hands were still tingling and numb at times, I was still able to move them. I really was feeling okay. I was a few blocks away from their house when I realized I’d missed a call, so I checked my voicemail. It was from the manager of an apartment complex asking about a former renter: “Someone I used to rent to.” I thought it was a friend that rented from me several years ago. However, it turned out to be Chad. Someone I used to rent to. Someone I used to rent to. Someone I used to rent to. It was one of those moments that everything froze in time. I placed the phone on my lap, and my heart sank. Someone I used to rent to. I almost didn’t call him back, but knew I’d drive myself crazy if I didn’t. He answered and proceeded to ask me questions: How long had I rented a room to Chad? (One year, three months) Did I have any noise complaints about him? (No) Did he pay me on time? (Always) Did he give me timely notice of leave? (Yes [technically the day before, but he told me he could stay until I was okay with him leaving—as I knew that would never be the case, I chose one last night with him only]) Would I rent to him again? (Absolutely [with all of my heart])
Who knew a tenant check could leave you in tears?
The day only continued. The phone call my family and I had been dreading, but once again, trying to ‘keep faith’ that it wouldn’t come, came. (Preceded by two phone calls that made us go, how could it get any worse? We found out.)
You think when you get your throat cut, it happens all at once. And it feels like it. You don’t see how it can get cut anymore, how you have anything left to hurt or to cause to bleed. You’re wrong. Your throat continues to get cut and cut and cut. Never severed. Your heart never truly brunt all the way to ash.
I am beyond thankful for the lives and health of my family. For my phenomenal friends who are rushing to our side. For my puppies. For having two jobs.
Again, I say, though you slay me, I will trust you. And if its not good enough for you that the only reason that I trust you is because I have no other choice, then I’m sorry. It’s all I have left.