I just felt like I had to let him go.

Either we would be great or we would be nothing.

Women and Orgasms And the Skill of Licking

"You know, I've only slept with two women, so I don't know..." I look to him to see if he's following me. "But aren't women harder to get to orgasm than men?"

"Not if you know what you're doing," he responds coolly and confidently. 

I laugh at this.

In the Eyes of the Public

I ran through the list, assuming he'd say no to all of them. "Okay, holding hands while walking down the street?"

"Yes," he says. 

"Yes?" I'm a little shocked. "How about kissing in public?" 

"Yes."

"Really?"

Hard On My Mood, and Not the Good Kind of "Hard" Either

This week predictably has been hard on my mood (or is it technically last week? Sundays are so confusing). I've noticed a dip. Yesterday, I woke up feeling surprisingly depressed, and only after I walked the dog (Beck) that I noticed a little shift.

"Do you want me to show you all the TXT-messages I sent you?" I say to Morpheus as we're both sitting on the couch. 

"Yeah, but you never call me! What am I? Twelve years old."

"I called you...twice, I think," I respond weakly.

Earlier in the night, as we were sipping wine, he said, "Where we are right now is my fault."

I told him that it wasn't true. At one point, he told me that he didn't want to deal with the twenty-somethings because of the "drama."

I said, "What do you think I am? I'm tons of drama...." Shit, if I was that great at relationships, I would have been married years ago--I'd be on my second child by now. Obviously, something is wrong with me (yes, seriously, it's called schizoaffective disorder). I honestly don't expect any man to put up with me for long, that includes Morpheus. Is that sad to say? Perhaps, but it's how I genuinely feel. A lot of my friends, I just stopped talking to because I was too depressed, I had nothing to say, I didn't feel like I was even alive enough to hold a conversation. Not surprisingly, most of my "friends" disappeared once the symptoms increased. But a few tolerated me, spoke to me despite the fact that often I didn't respond, and I love them for it. Now, I'm trying to reach out to the people who have been there for me in the past, like Amara and Brandon and, of course, Rosa.

Posing in Anger

I see anger as the most destructive force in long-term romantic relationships, mostly clinging to this view because my parents (especially my mother) only know how to express discontent. Surprisingly, despite the lack of word-based affection, they still hold hands while walking TV (sometimes), and still occasionally kiss each other.

I have a personal rule, which is more like a guideline that doesn't hold up well when it's supposed to be at its strongest, to never say anything in anger. Obviously, for those of you who read, you know that I lost my temper with my Grandma, and told her plainly, "Fuck you" because she wouldn't stop making up nonsense about how she would remember better if she paid attention, but she doesn't care enough to pay attention so she forgets--and on and on.

So, expressing anger towards Morpheus is a delicate aspect of the "arraignment" (as I defined it, he even went as far to say that we were "boyfriend and girlfriend," a determination that I don't agree with). I have spouted harsh words towards him, but as far as I can remember, I've never made any kind of personal attack, i.e., you're the world's biggest asshole (but, as may be predicted, I have had that thought over the past couple of days).

As we know from studying psychology, anger has its uses, primarily for self-protection. If we never got mad, then we would never stop people from using us, from being mean to us, taking advantage of us, and on and on. So, identifying anger in a relationship is a good start, but what to do about it?

Unfortunately, at least in me, and honestly, look, people--in you too--I have this desire to take revenge when I've been hurt by someone else. To even up the score, which is seductive. From that viewpoint, me blocking Morpheus looks like retaliation for him sending my calls straight to voicemail (a feature I haven't been able to figure out on my Galaxy S7 Edge). And maybe, that's at least partially true.

The main driving motivation is self-protection. How can I stop myself from being emotionally injured? If we really looked at the relationship as a whole, over almost ten years (will be ten in August), there was a lot of bad, and just hours inbetween of bliss. Is that really enough? The Morpheus I hold onto in my head is much more alive than the real, physical man walking around, paying his taxes, taking care of his kids, and then screwing blonde twenty-somethings. And, of course, who is this Morpheus? I read an article about the three key ideas to keep in mind when striving for a successful, long-term, romantic relationship. One of those features is "positive illusion," that you think your partner is really better, sexier, smarter, kinder, etc, than he/she truly is. This is a good thing. This keeps marriages alive.

I don't know if its healthy to be married to someone who drives you to the lowest depths of despair, and then moments later, days later, lifts you up to the height of ecstasy.

The Questions Left Unanswered

On April 12th, sometime in the night, I'm standing, leaning against the wall, just inside of the door, and I'm clutching myself. At some point, I must have cried because when I returned home and looked into the mirror, my expensive, brand name mascara was smudged under my eyes. I said to him, "What are we going to do?" I had the voice of someone who is growing panicked. All I want to do is avoid the pain of leaving him for months at a time.

He motions at me with his hand. "We're going to sit down on the couch, and we're not going to have sex..."

"No, I mean, what are we going to do after this?"

This is the question he refuses to answer, no matter how I pose it, no matter how I manipulate it. He will not tell me the rules and the regulations of our engagement with each other, he will not plan with me ahead into the future. Because to give into the future, one has to commit to a certain vision of the future, and how can one do that when his/her heart has been broken over the same illusion? 

A Review of Email Manners

So, I did invite the English instructor to the party for the annual literary journal at college. I told him that I owe him since he did much to encourage my writing.

While I was in COMM class, arguing with my professor about biological determinism (bullshit) and about Trump (more bullshit), the English instructor sent me an email back. He was very polite, and even paid me a compliment. He said that he didn't know if he could attend or not, but he would try to make it.

I seriously hesitated about writing him again--most days, I think about shooting him an email (I still think about him every day), but--there's nothing worse than this--I didn't want to come across as being creepy or crazy or to make any unwanted advances (come on's are perfectly acceptable in any situation if the two people deem it so, minus those who are too young to give full consent). There is definitely a line that can't be crossed, or if it is crossed, the two people are holding hands while they do so. In many instances, women have the edge on this situation because if we hit on a man, even one in power or has higher status, it is usually not considered intimidating or threatening. Because we are women, and men should always take sex whenever offered (to not do so means that they aren't men). Plus, as one of the students in COMM mentioned, women are just generally smaller and are not as strong as your average man; therefore, a woman is less likely to overpower you and rape you.

"The (Sometimes Unintentional) Subtext of Digital Conversations"

--The Atlantic, by: Deborah Tannen

An article that tells the truth about how difficult it is to communicate effectively and appropriately on social media and on other technologies like TXT-messaging and email. 

Timely, right?

My cheeks were red like rosy whore rouge.

Today, I discovered stretch marks on my person.

Someone Impressed?

"It really hurts my feelings that you won't go."

--my last TXT-message to Morpheus

So, the community college has been calling me yesterday and then again today. Apparently, my poem "Hospital's Hallway" will be published in the annual literary journal of the college. Not only that, but they are having an award ceremony and/or reading on May 11 at four pm at some "wine seller" (yes, not cellar) that I've never heard of--I thought I knew of every place local to drink. I will receive an award. So, the LSU Professor is in Europe right now. He can't go. Harry lives too far away to attend. I thought about inviting Joseph (he would at least appreciate the gesture), but then, I thought: why not invite Morpheus? He could meet my professors and my parents, and maybe he would find me getting an award impressive. He'd be impressed, right?

So, I sent him a TXT-message, explaining the basics, where and when. Then, after a couple of hours, I wrote that it would mean a lot if he would attend. No response.

(I am considering asking the Advisor to go.)

(Despite my better judgment, I have also been thinking about asking the English instructor to attend.)

Bad Fucking Doctors

"How about a high five for staying out of the hospital for twelve months!?!" My mother says to me, coming up with her hand raised high.

I slap it. "It's a lucky streak."

"C'mon, you should give yourself more credit than that. You are learning to wrestle with your demons." She looks taken back.

"Mom, these episodes come and go without any trigger."

"No, there are triggers, and bad fucking doctors!"

The Circle Jerk of Unhappy Expectations And the Problems of the Single Life

"You can have any man you want...you're a vixen," Morpheus tells me on that special Wednesday.

I don't tell him that I feel more like a fatten cow, that the main reason why I told him I wouldn't have sex with him wasn't because "it would make things more confusing" (although this is certainly true and should have merit, all on its own), but because despite years ago making a living taking my clothes off, I don't want to undress for anyone--even if they paid me.

I keep watching the video of my poetry reading, not because I'm in love with the sound of my own voice, but because I'm shocked how fat I look. To test this point, I went to a simple website to calculate my BMI, and was shocked further still (and no, I will not tell you what the number was). But the site did explicitly say, "You need to lose weight." Hmm, thanks. Couldn't have guessed that, all by my little self.

I recently read a couple of articles (one was quoted by the Huffington Post as sort of a joking, a "ha, ha, isn't this stupid?!?") that basically said rich men are swarmed by women, and therefore they only pick the most beautiful of the bunch. If you're a feminist, this idea should rightly piss you off. But one article said that beautiful women marry handsome men--and unfortunately for all of us (except, you know, the wealthy), money makes people more attractive. So, which is it, women, are we marrying for a secure, financial future or are we just latching onto the hottie (who happens, by pure accident, to also make a few million dollars a year)?

Many women are comfortable with the idea that the main reason why they are with so-n-so is because he finds them irresistible, not because they have an MBA. Women in their mid-twenties are prime. We latch onto that fable that men are weak in the presence of our youthful sexuality. Unfortunately (again, that word), people get old, and a lot of us get old and fat. If your man is really that rich and powerful, what keeps him from dumping you the second you grow a wrinkle or two (one article addressed this issue, and said that it doesn't happen often--people, even the wealthy, want companionship)?

Why is this idea so troubling? I'm glad you asked, because you know that the issue was going to swing back around to Morpheus. He could be lying to me (I wouldn't be surprised), he could be saying these things because he wants to get a reaction out of me (again, wouldn't be surprised there either) or maybe he's just being smugly honest. You know, a bit like going out hunting and then putting the deer's head on the wall, except in the game of sex and love, most people don't get chopped up to pieces. He says he has young women, in their early twenties, who throw themselves at him. This I honestly can understand. Usually, all in one man, you don't get handsome, smart, charming, rich and--remember?--the big dick. Surely, someone besides me, will come to the conclusion that he's quite the catch, and latch onto him for dear life, like a deer tick, to be exact. A burgeoning one.

So, again, I'm left with mixed feelings. My liberal attitudes tell me that casual sex doesn't mean anything. He could be screwing a few new girls every week, and it wouldn't say anything about how he feels about me. Sure, that's probably true--after all, you can't control someone's sexuality. He tells me that they mean "nothing, absolutely nothing" (well they mean something or you wouldn't be screwing them). However, the idea that bothers me the most is: I'm competing against twenty-year-olds who are probably thinner and, dare I say it, better looking, and ho hum. What is a fat, thirty-three-year-old to do?

Ten years ago, as a thriving dancer, I wouldn't even have this conversation with myself because I would naturally assume that I had certain advantages over your average University student twenty-something.

Those days have, unfortunately (again), passed. My physical therapist tells me that he can get me in the best shape of my life--that's a tall order. I had a twenty-eight inch waist, and my thighs didn't even touch when I stood (which, to women, is a big deal). I'm not doubting that someday, I can return to my previous level of fitness or thinness. That's totally possible, but it's going to take somewhere around a year to lose all that weight. So, I don't have sex for a year? Do I just ask for the lights to be turned off?

In the meantime, Morpheus is learning what every single person knows, especially those of us who are in our later years (because being thirty-three is so old), that being alone and without a steady partner is at times depressing and isolating, but also can be liberating and exciting. You can do whatever the fuck you want, fuck whoever you want, and no one says shit about it! You don't have to answer the phone, you're not the dog on the leash anymore! You're free to be an asshole and fuck strange women. Even two at a time, if it so pleases you.

Most people assume, though, that being in a romantic relationship is still far better than being alone, and the freedoms we perceive that we have when we are alone are illusionary. Yes, you get to pick the channel on the TV, but you're still sitting on the couch with your Ben&Jerry's, and no one has called you for like two days--and don't people care about me anymore?--no one gives a shit. Sigh.

To sum it all up, I would be devastated if a man I was serious about said he was only attracted to me because of my physical appearance. What about our brains, ladies? Doesn't that count for something? Besides using it to measure out flour. Shouldn't we be valued for being the special individuals that we are? Not all of us are lucky like my mother, who is fifty-four-years-old, still more beautiful than most women half her age, still wears a size two, and she has a Master's in Accounting because--guess what--she's fucking smart.

So, take that, fellas.

"You Can't Hurt My Feelings" (Morpheus)

"You can't hurt my feelings," he says to me without a hint of irony. He repeats it more than once.

I don't have a good response to this, so I don't say anything. To be unable to feel emotional pain is to assume that you don't have feelings to begin with--or that you hold your emotions so closely to your chest--without ever sharing them for fear that they may be injured. It is the antithesis to intimacy. You have to give and give a lot to get any trust or faith in return from your partner.

An New York Times article about a young man with schizoaffective disorder called "Unmoored by a Psychotic Break."

The Poetry Reading

The poetry professor asked me to read outloud my poem "Hospital's Hallway" for a school poetry reading. There was even a small poster in the library, announcing the event, and who would be reading. I took pictures of the flier, and sent them to my friends and then posted it on Facebook. I'd post it here, but then people would be able to figure out where I live and my real name (although, anyone with half a brain could easily realize where I live, and then from there, with a little work, could reveal my true identity).

I was genuinely flattered that I had been chosen. When I stood in front of a small group of people, I first thanked my professors for their support and encouragement. Although he was not present, I expressed gratitude for the English instructor as well.

My father attended, but because it was during the day, my mother was not able to be there.

After I finished reading, I headed back to my seat. My father winked at me. Later he said, "Well, you still got it!"

Not a Good Day for Grandma--Or For Anyone Else Who is Around Her

My father quietly summed it up as "it's not a good day for Grandma."

On Saturday, by the time I had arrived in Ridgecrest with Grandma, I was starving. So, I convinced Grandma to go to lunch with me. As we ordered drinks, she said that she was very hungry too.

After the meal, Grandma left the waitress a paltry tip of about ten percent. I told Grandma to go ahead to the SUV, and I would give the server some cash. When I walked outside toward the SUV after giving money to the waitress, I saw Grandma, and she was trying to open the black sedan next to my car.

Later, I called Mom from Grandma's house, saying, "She doesn't even remember what vehicle she arrived in, does this sound like a person who should be living by herself?!" I listened to my voice go higher and higher in frustration.

"You're really beating that to death---" My grandmother interjected.

"I mean, she could get lost in town on a hot day, and get dehydrated and end up in the hospital!" I continued to talk to my mother. I had read from many different places that people with dementia were prone to wandering around at night, confused and sleepless. Assisted living facilities make sure that the doors to the outside are locked at night.

I can tell Grandma was becoming more and more angry with me.

"Oh, I would not!" Grandma exclaimed. "That's bull!" She looks at me, ugly and tense.

My mother and I accompanied my grandmother when she went back to her GP. The doctor told me plainly, "She's not a threat to herself or others, she's not in any immediate danger of dying, and she's not suffering--"

I cut the doctor off. "Of course, she's suffering!" Everyone looked surprised at my outburst. I then apologize to the doctor, telling her I was being rude.

In other words, the doctor defended my grandmother's right to make decisions regarding her care and her health--that essentially my grandmother wasn't sick enough to allow family members to make those decisions for her.

"Forcing her to take pills, that would be horrible!" The doctor tells us.

Maybe because I've been in a locked unit that I don't sympathize with Grandma's distaste of taking pills. There are worse events that could happen to her--going into renal failure because of uncontrolled diabetes--losing her sight--having a major stroke that leaves half of her body paralyzed--you know the type where you're soundless and drooling on yourself--or how about a heart attack? Granted, all of those medical emergencies could happen even if you took all your meds exactly as how the doctor prescribed them, but why would Grandma play roulette with her health?

My therapist (technically my case manager, but whatever) remains blissfully unaware of the strife surrounding my situation with Grandma. She left me a TXT-message the other day, saying that she hoped I was having a good time with Grandma. Yeah--everything is great!

So, as I was on the phone with my mother, I yelled to Grandma, "Fuck you!"

She told me to leave, so I left.

The Long Shot

Months ago, the LSU Professor tried to comfort me by saying, "You know he enjoyed you." I began to doubt that, as the obvious conclusion is: if you really like being with someone that much, wouldn't you make the time to see him/her frequently?

That night, earlier this month, Morpheus told me that he had enjoyed being with me.

According to Morpheus, the divorce finalized sometime late January (I believe he said on the twentieth) of this year. He's officially single.

Last time I saw the LSU Professor, he told me, "I never thought he'd do it."

Neither did I.

Singing and Music

After I sang with Morpheus, I was surprised with how well my voice actually sounded, despite the fact that I haven't done any singing in close to fifteen years (My therapist has insisted that I at least sing along in the car with the radio--because it's one of those "feel good" activities that is supposed to keep the depression away--alas!).

So, I immediately thought of the poetry professor. I knew he loved music, but it wasn't until I cyberstalked him on Facebook (okay, his picture just came up because his cellphone number is in my contacts) that I realized he sings too (and from the looks of it, so do his daughters).

I didn't know how to ask, so I finally just sent a TXT-message asking if he would sing with me sometime, to which replied in mere seconds, "You bet."

Now, potentially, I have someone to sing with.

Obscenity and Beauty

"Obscenity, which is ever blasphemy against the divine beauty in life, becomes, from the very veil which it assumes, more active if less disgusting: it is a monster for which the corruption of society forever brings forth new food, which it devours in secret."

--"A Defence of Poetry" by Shelley

Avoiding Monogamy

He describes these young women (in their early twenties) as being "scary" and "on the loose." Since I was once wild and free with my sexuality, I told him that I was at one point in my life "on the loose." But I feel there's a bit of the double standard going on here.

"Does it bother you that I've had casual sex?" I ask him.

"No," he answers. "Does it bother you that I've had casual sex?"

"No."

Most of my friends know that I don't feel that monogamy is the right answer for a lot of people, and I include myself in this group. I told Morpheus such in our phone conversation as I was driving home from Palo Alto. I told him that I didn't want to control my partner's sexuality, and I came up with a scenario in which casual sex with other people could work inside a healthy marriage--granted, this is not a popular view. Most people don't want an open marriage. Most people are frightened simultaneously of their partner cheating and of the fact that their partner may desire someone else physically, although I try to tell myself that sex and love are separate ideals, and you can have one without the other. As long as my spouse loves and gives me the attention I need, why do I care if he fantasizes about his hot secretary, and then ultimately fucks her?

I offer a similar scenario to Morpheus, only this time with the woman in the marriage going outside the relationship for sex. Morpheus comment was "Tempting, but no." I wanted to argue that it couldn't just happen for the man. For equality in the marriage, both partners would have to be free to fuck other people. Why should a man get that privilege and not a woman? Hence, the double standard.

We also disagree with what keeps marriage sex good after years together. I told him this was one of my major fears when thinking about getting hitched. I explain to Morpheus that in order to keep sex from being boring (and therefore causing one spouse to step out of the marriage and find sex elsewhere) is experimentation and keeping things fresh. His perspective was that marriage sex is good sex as long as there's an emotional connection between the partners.

I believe you can love someone madly, and yet not be physically attracted to him/her at all, or just not recently. I love my first boyfriend, Dirk, greatly because he was at many times in my life, my best friend. However, the sex started out multiple times per week, and then quickly dropped to barely once a month. After a while, almost a year together, we stopped having sex completely. Did that make me unhappy? Well, I can't say because I don't remember, but I did find another man within a couple of weeks after breaking up with Dirk who would fuck me regularly.

"I think you're the most sexual woman I've ever met," Morpheus tells me.

Ultimately, I have mixed feelings about monogamy. In one way, it sounds comforting, you know that one person on this planet desires only you, and will forsake all others. I just find it to be suspicious. If your partner is going to fall in love with someone else, making a rule that he/she can't have sex with other people is not going to stop that. Sure, there are steps you can take to protect your marriage or your relationship (giving each other attention and having open communication), but can you really drop that risk down to zero?

Morpheus brought up the subject of why should he have casual sex?

I had a quick answer for him, "Sometimes it can be fun, you can experiment with your sexuality, and sometimes you fall in love." Sometimes your heart gets into the mess. Sometimes you just can't avoid it. 

Brings Out the Asshole in All of Us

"What did you do?" My dad asks over breakfast. He is talking about Grandma.

"Oh, [Jae], just yelled the f-word at her," Mom responds, like even a normal, sane person would resort to this type of behavior around my grandmother.

"It's elder abuse," I say, feeling like the shitty person on the planet.

"Only if you hit her. Did you hit her?"

"If I had anything in my hand, I probably would have," I say.

Later, my mother will stop me in the hallway after I asked her opinion about me moving to Ridgecrest for the summer, just for a few months to make sure Grandma is taking her meds and eating properly. My mother is adamantly against the idea. "You don't understand but you're different when you're around Grandma," my mother tells me.

"Meaner?"

"Well, more short-tempered, yeah, but you're just different. It's not a healthy environment for you." 

Appropriate Answers

"How much do you want me to contact you?" I ask. I realize that there are few appropriate answers to this question. Over the months, I had wondered incessantly about all these TXT-messages I had sent him, and whether or not it was okay to do so.

"As much as you want," he replies.

Maybe Just You

I can't remember if he said, "you and me" or if he said just "you."

"You and me were the destruction of my marriage," he tells me, although he qualifies it by saying that he didn't regret anything about us.

Later on, I will say to him, "You're the best thing that ever happened to me." I would simultaneously think that he has also been the worst thing to ever happen to me, caused me the most pain in my life of anyone I've ever known, been the most difficult person to understand, left me with all these questions and doubts about life, about myself.

"No, you are the best thing that ever happened to you," he replies.

I put my head down and groan at this.

Whispers in the Wind

He tells me that he was with her for seventeen years. "She's the only woman who has ever hurt me, and she was the crack in the rock."

Reasons, Excuses

"The timing is bad," Morpheus explains.

"The timing will always be bad. There will always be these reasons--"

"Reasons, excuses..."

"There will always be these reasons for us not to spend time together like your job, your business and your kids. We just have to make it a priority."

Kink, Anyone?

We're sitting on the couch. "Would you tie me up?"

"No," he says flatly. 

"What?!"

"No."

"How about whip me with a crop?"

"No...what's a 'crop'?"

"You know, like short whip that you use on horses."

With You

Morpheus, over the phone as I'm driving home from Palo Alto, asks me to come over to his house so we can talk further. I ask, "Okay, now where do you live?"

He seems surprised by this question. "Where I've always been living."

"You mean, you didn't move?"

"Nope."

When I got to his house and start drinking the wine I bought, I told him, "I have a lot of really happy memories in this place."

"I have a lot of good memories in this house too..." He pauses. "With you."

The Friends' Disapproval Rating

Last night, while I was trying to start my paper on freedom of speech, I called the LSU Professor, and we talked about his life, and then I told him that I saw Morpheus, but we didn't have sex.

The LSU Professor asked me, "What is the definition of 'being used'? A friend and I were talking about it, and we couldn't come up with anything clear. It's a really tough question to answer." Of course, this lead to the LSU Professor telling me that I make up excuses for Morpheus, and that Morpheus is using me--with direct intent. Obviously, I don't agree with that assertion. But it seems like the more I defend Morpheus, the more the LSU Professor is convinced that I'm not thinking rationally about Morpheus. In other words, the more I argue, the more I just drown myself.

Morpheus even said, as I was leaning against the wall next to the door, that I was angry because he wouldn't tell me how he felt. I responded with, I wasn't asking him to love me, that I just wanted us to spend time together.

My father, last night, talked about how he use to punch holes in the wall (I remember this as a small child), and that he had a serious problem. For the record, my father has never acted aggressively nor abusively towards me or my mother, at least not in recent memory. Does that history make my father a bad man? For whatever reason, I believe that people can change, although change is hard. If you ever read The General Theory of Love, the only part of the book that I remember (I read it when I was eighteen) is the point that when two people love each other, they can create harmony and joy. It's just against the odds. That people when they love can change each other for the better. Does it happen in every marriage or even the majority? No.

If I really felt that Morpheus was abusive, I would cut off ties, just like I did with Mr. FS (who was verbally and physically abusive--he choked me once during sex, although I never gave that consent) and with Iago, who was also verbally abusive and controlling. It's not like I can't spot an asshole (at least eventually).

In general, you don't want your friends, who are supposed to be understanding, supportive and nonjudgmental, to dislike or frown upon your romantic relationship (or as I told Morpheus on Wednesday, "our arrangement"). But maybe that can't be totally avoided. Am I supposed to distant myself from the LSU Professor because I continue to see and interact with someone who he does not approve of? That seems like a bad deal because you never want to lose a friend over a fight like this.

"I Called The House But No One Answered"

"The worn out tape of Chris LeDoux, lonely women and bad booze
Seem to be the only friends I've left at all..."

--Garth Brooks, "Much Too Young"

Morpheus grabs a guitar that has been resting in the corner, although I never noticed it before. He starts to play. The sound is beautiful, even though I know he's not a professional musician. I noticed while he was playing that his boots were dusty.

"What are you playing?"

He shrugs. "Nothing in particular."

"You know, my musician ex-boyfriend told me that I should go back to singing." I was referring, of course, to Joseph.

"Then sing."

"What do you want me to sing?"

"Anything."

I start making up lyrics to go along with the guitar sounds. I sing along. It's the first time I've heard my own voice in years. It's still pretty despite the fact that I don't practice every day like I use to. At one point, years ago, I wanted to try out for American Idol, down in Los Angeles, but somehow, I never got the bravery. 

The Web of Sex Workers' Lies

"You're lying, just stop lying..." He says to me as we're both sitting on the couch, watching that Nicholas Cage movie.

"No, I'm not lying...You're the only client I've ever given my number to." Right? I think back, and I can't remember anyone else.

"You mean to tell me that during your first show, you just got up and left? You're lying," he accuses me again.

"I did not have sex with him. He reached for a condom, and then I realized it was a mistake, and I left."

True Love, I Guess, Part II

"I watched my parent's marriage, and from the time I was young, I knew I never wanted to get married, and so far, I haven't," I tell Morpheus. "My parents are funny...you know, they'll be yelling at each other"--I pause--"not that they do that all the time, but they'll get mad at each other, and then five minutes later are joking around."

True Love, I Guess

"After one of us dies, how long do you think the other will last?" My father says to me over dinner, after we've all finished eating. "I guess, you will probably know."

"I know, I thought about that when Mom got into the car accident. When Stanford told me that 'there is very bad news relating to your mother,' my first thought was, 'oh my god, how is Dad going to handle this?' " [Mom was in a serious car accident in Jan of 2016, and was in the hospital for about seven days.]

He cries without making a sound, and then grabs a napkin to wipe away his tears. "I was in love with your mother right from the beginning, and I'm still in love with her."

Little Secrets

"It's not that I don't love you..." He starts.

Secrets

I don't remember what I said, but he walked forward and he kissed me, and suddenly, I was surrounded by his welcoming smell, a smell I knew and loved.

Those Frozen Moments

I'm running my hands over his chest, down his arms, even brushing his dick through his jeans. The guy just turns me on. I kiss him.

"You want sex," he says smiling at me.

"I think I could cum just by you kissing me."

"Really."

Maybe Happiness is a Baby in a Baby Carriage--And, Of Course, Marriage

"I know I have a problem sharing my emotions. I know that it's my fault," Morpheus tells me. "I have a problem trusting people, especially with trusting women...Where we are at, it's all my fault."

I tell him while drinking wine, and holding my hand over my heart that I have this fantasy, something I can't let go of--that someday, we will finally be together, and that I believed we would be happy together. Not that we wouldn't fight, because we would, but we could still be happy.

"What do you want from me?" I ask him plainly.

"I want you to be happy." He's given this answer before.

"I'm happy with you, not that I'm not happy in other areas of my life, because I am..." It reminds me of the movie Suicide Squad, which isn't an extraordinarily good movie, but it has its moments. During one part, Dr. Harley Quinn, who is just crazy piled on with more crazy, has this fantasy--the great desire of her life-- to have a normal family (with children) with the Joker (who you see in a normal suit and tie, without the weird makeup and hair style). That was it. Nothing extravagant, nothing fancy--just the life that a lot of average people play out everyday. If you had to ask me, I would give up any man for Morpheus, I would give up all those personal freedoms that single people have, and I would trade it in for a marriage, and even as I've been thinking today, maybe for a baby--even though, throughout most of my life, I never wanted those things.

When I look at him, I'm so overcome with love that I want to wrap him up in that white blanket and protect him forever, and at the same time, I want to fuck out his brains.

"In the beginning, you don't think with your dick, and all you care about is sticking it in, I didn't have a plan," he confesses to me.

Over the phone, before I even arrived at his house, he said, "When did you become committed to this?"

"I mean, this is going to sound superficial, but I'll say it anyway. I liked you, I did, but it wasn't until I had sex with you, that I was like, 'Whoa, I'm going in deep.' I remember brushing out my hair and staring in the mirror, and realized how much trouble I was in." Honestly, I don't remember any of that directly, but I wrote it all down. So, that's how I can recall the events.

When I stepped into that kitchen of his, I saw how he looked at me, and I knew that he was looking at me just as he did ten years ago. I could see he was still attracted to me, even though that was a major doubt floating in my mind for the past few months. He still wanted me.

"Marriage is the Funeral of Love"

--The poetry professor

"I'll tell you what I can't be: I can't be your fuck buddy."

"No, I wouldn't want that," he replies.

Sex and More Sex

"Do you have a libido like that?" He asks me cautiously over the phone.

During certain periods of my life, hell yes. "You know, honestly, it depends on how I feel." I would realize later that he doesn't understand "how I feel" translates into what particular mood episode I'm in. "But I have wanted sex more than a good portion of my boyfriends."

While on the same subject, I tell him as we're sitting on the couch hours later, "Yeah, when you're manic, you're reckless and your libido goes goes through the roof. I mean, at one time, I was sleeping with multiple strangers per week..." I would explain to him that I have changed. I told him that the last person I slept with was him--back in September 2016. "You know, I can completely separate emotion from the act of sex."

"But you lost that ability," he adds.

"No, I can still do it."

The Stupidity Surrounding the Grandma Argument

I yell, "How is it a major civil rights violation to make someone take pills that don't even affect them psychologically. It's not like Thorazine. It's diabetes medication! It's not like we're going to perform a lobotomy or make her endure ECT!"

Never the Right Answer

More arguing about Grandma.

Mom accuses me of projecting my beliefs and values onto Grandma--that it isn't exactly about Grandma. So, losing my temper, I say (in front of my Grandmother), "Do you really think that I wanted to spend my spring break driving to Ridgecrest and taking care of Grandma?"

My mother is silent for a while, and then she says, "That was a horrible thing to say. I hope you realize that."

I walk out.

Can I Have Your Hand?

We're sitting on the couch, watching the Nicholas Cage movie where he's a tire salesman, and Morpheus has the white blanket up covering his mouth, just holding it there. I keep pulling the blanket from his face. "I don't think you ever get angry," he says.

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"No, I don't think you're ever angry."

"Can I have your hand?" I ask. I take it in mine, and start stroking the palm. "Do you like touch, I mean, touch that isn't sexual?" As I told him over the phone earlier on in the evening, he wasn't "the cuddling type." So, I honestly never know when touch is wanted or even appropriate.

"Yes, yes, I do..." He pauses. "I just don't get it very often." Sometime after I start holding his hand, he fells asleep again. It's about 11:30pm.

I look over at his face, and see his eyes closed. I decide just to leave.

"Tell Me It's Over I Don't Want You to Hurt"

--Shinedown, "Call Me"


We were sitting on the couch when he pulls out his phone and looks down at it. He says, "[Girl 1] and [Girl 2] just independently TXT-ed me asking what I'm going tonight. I'm in a bit of a pickle..."

I get up suddenly. "Oh fuck!" I head towards the front door.

"Are you leaving?" He calls after me, although he doesn't move from his position.

"Yes, so you can tell [Girl 1] and [Girl 2] that you're free tonight!" I close the door behind me. The minute I step outside, I have this horrible feeling, a sharp pain of loneliness and love. I make it to my SUV, and "Call Me" by Shinedown is playing (I always felt that song is about suicide). I get on the freeway, and I try to calm myself down. My phone dings. It's a text-message from Morpheus: "Hey, can you come back? :) I'm sorry."

I turn around, and head back to his house without replying. I find myself back at his front door. I ring the doorbell, and then knock.

"Okay, two things," I begin, "One, when you and I are together, it's our time, and I don't want you talking to other women during that time...Just like if Joseph or [Lucky] contacted me while I was with you, I would ignore them."

"Okay," he says, looking slightly frightened.

"Number two..." I'm quite heated at this point. "I want us to be able to make plans like you saying we're going to have dinner at five pm tomorrow, and that you want me to be there by four-thirty..." He had mentioned earlier that he wanted me to come back for dinner the next day. "I want to be able to count on you!" I'm starting to cry at this point.

He's standing there a few feet from me. "Okay, you need to calm down, you are getting emotional. Just come with me over to the couch, and sit down." He's still standing there.

I just want him to come up to me, and hold me, so that I'm not frightened. But I only stand there, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed, to protect myself.

Back on the couch, he tells me, "I'm very happy you came back."

Later I would say to him that, "Sometimes I wonder if I just need closure, if I should just forget about you, and move on with my life."

He asks me, "Is that what you want?"

"No, I never want to say goodbye to you."

Weird Things That Happen Around Grandma

Grandma is wandering down the hallway with a pair of undies in her hand. "I just rinsed these because I don't have many here. Now, I'm going to hang them outside to dry."

Shouldn't dirty underwear be washed with soap? "Okay, let's wash these," I tell her.

"But I didn't think you had a big enough load."

"Nope." I try to take the underwear from her, she pulls away from my hand. "Okay, put it in the washing machine."

When "Happily" Isn't So Happy

 "I love you," I tell him.

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do." Later on in the conversation, I would say to him that I didn't know how to prove how I felt. I've always been there for him, always coming when he called.

The New Beginnings Over Again

I was carrying two bottles of wine because I got talked into it by the store clerk, who was flattering and flirting with me. I push the doorbell, but nothing happens. Also, I don't see his truck. Perhaps he's not home? I ring the doorbell again. Finally, I peer into the windows next to his entrance, and I see someone in a hat asleep in a sofa. I quietly open the door, and I walk over to the person. It's Morpheus. I could tell by the jaw. I say his name softly, "[Morpheus]." He remains asleep. I take his hand gently and press down. He opens his eyes and stares at me for a moment before saying anything. He doesn't appear to be surprised by finding me in his TV room.

"Do you want me to come back on a different day?" I offer.

He shakes his head.

Me and My Illness

"So, why were you going to Palo Alto again?" He asks me, one of the first questions of the evening.

"I went to Stanford's psychiatric outpatient clinic." I explain to him how the clinic is connected to the hospital, and the doctors rotate in and out, performing different duties depending on whether they're working at G2P or at the outpatient clinic.

He seems momentarily confused.

"I have a mental illness," I confess. "It's a rare form of bipolar disorder."

"Bipolar disorder?"

"Yes, but it's a little more complicated than that. It's like a cross between bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, although it tends not to be as severe as schizophrenia, and the prognosis is better for someone like me."

"I don't see it."

"Well, right now, I'm almost symptom-free."

"No, I don't believe it."

That's one response that you can get when you tell someone you have a psychiatric disorder. Denial. Not the best answer.

You and Your Wants

"This is what we're talking about, isn't it?" He says with seriousness. He pauses, and then continues, "Me settling down with one woman again."

"Listen, let me get one thing straight. I don't want commitment."

"You want to see other men?"

"No, not really. I was just thinking about you and what you want."

"Tell Me It's Over I'll Still Love You the Same"

--Shinedown, "Call Me"

"I don't want a child," I state, thinking about how difficult it would be to go off my medications, and then carry a child, and then stay off the drugs while I'm breastfeeding. Do you realize what sleep deprivation does to a psychotic disorder?

"You don't?" He asks in surprise.

"No...I assume you don't want any more."

"Don't assume."

"But didn't you say a few years ago that you were going to get a vasectomy?"

"I did, but it's reversible." He pauses and without looking at me says, "This is what we're talking about, isn't it?"

He is referring to how seriously I take our relationship. In shock, I don't answer. I naturally assume that we should have dinner first before we start making babies (especially babies out of wedlock, not that I'm traditional or anything, but babies should have the chance at a stable life with two parents whom love them).

"I Lost My Whole Life and a Dear Friend"

--Shinedown, "Call Me"

"Am I special or not?" He asks me as he stares into the television. 

I pause. "You are the fucking love of my life."

"Why?"

"I have no idea."

"Wrap Me in a Bolt of Lightning," Part II

"You have to know that the feeling is mutual. You know that right?"

"No, I often doubt that," I respond.

"Wrap Me in a Bolt of Lightning/Send Me on My Way Still Smiling/Maybe That's the Way I Should Go"

--Shinedown, "Call Me"

"When do you want me to go home?" I ask. 

"Never."

"Swimming Through the Ashes of Another Life"

 --Shinedown, "45"

"You'd rather sit there and suffer than accept help!" My mother says to her mother.

"If I Could Find Assurance/To Leave You Behind/I Know My Better Half Would Fade"

--Shinedown, "I'll Follow You"

"My mother wasn't always a monster, there were some good points too," my mother tells me one day.

Sometimes Grandma will walk into my bedroom while I'm studying or watching TV, and she will say, "I love you. Give me a hug." Most of the time, she's pleasant to me, but she's still high maintenance. She can't find things, she can't remember the date or what day she's supposed to go to the doctor, she constantly complains about her aches and her allergies, even though if she took a few pills for them, her life would be a lot better. She says over and over again that she wants to go home, even though I promised to take her back on either Friday or Saturday, depending on how quickly I can get my paper for COMM 215 written. She refuses to cook for herself, and when she does the dishes, she handwashes them all, stacks them next to the coffee pot, instead of just loading them in the dishwasher, which would be a lot easier for her. Sometimes, in her confusion, she will take her pills out of her purse, and spread them out over the couch, and read each label, as if for the first time. I had to remind her of the dogs when she left out pills sitting on the sofa. I didn't want one of the dogs getting into her medication, and dying of toxicity. She asks the same questions, over and over again, no matter how you answered the first or fifth time. She continually offers me soda, even though I told her all my life that I don't like Pepsi, much less diet.

During Grandma's last doctor's appointment, I asked her GP, "I'm thinking about having her conserved. What do you think of that?"

The GP presses her lips together, "That's a tough decision, but she did managed to dress herself this morning."

The problem with having her conserved is the fact that I couldn't be her conservator. I spend too much time in a hospital every year. Who will make medical decisions for Grandma while I'm at Stanford University Hospital? I can't take on that much responsibility when I'm dealing with my own illnesses. That burden would have to fall on my uncle or my mother.

"I'll Follow You Down/In the Eye of the Storm"

--Shinedown, "I'll Follow You"

"I'm tired of being told everyday that I'm a piece of shit," my mother tells me when I first arrive home from physical therapy. She's talking about her own mother, and how she treats her.

My father was outside in the backyard with Beck and PeeWee, sitting on a chair. I walked up to him, and said, "I'm going to say this because no one else will, but I wanted to thank you for your patience and calmness dealing with grandma." He makes her breakfast almost every morning, even after she says, "I don't eat breakfast" because he knows she has diabetes and needs the food early in the day.

He took a sip from his beer. "She can't help it," he replied.

"Her electricity is going to get turned off, her water too, and then she's just going to sit in the dark, and blame [Uncle] for doing it to her!" My mother exclaimed during the same conversation.

"I'm just trying to figure out a way where she's not alone out there by herself," I responded.

"Good luck with that!"

Signed "Me"

"Maybe it's some other [Morpheus' first and last name]," I say to myself as I get up out of bed. There's a suspicious email in my inbox.

His message was signed a casual ":) me." In fact, there were quite a few smiley faces in there. He said that because he broke his phone, he lost his contacts, and wanted my number again. So, I wrote back with my two numbers (one home and the other cellphone), and asked him how he was doing. A couple minutes later my phone rang two or three times, and then quit. It was Morpheus.

Yesterday, I declared to the LSU Professor (our first conversation since our fight) that I didn't care if I ever heard from Morpheus again, that no matter what happened, my questions couldn't be answered--that Morpheus couldn't make me feel better. I would also be left with this wondering. I told the LSU Professor that occasionally, I thought about contacting him, but I was able to ward those thoughts off.

When the LSU Professor was honest, he told me frankly that he thought Morpheus was abusive to me, and that like some women who are abused, I justified his behavior, and seemingly overlooked it. I make excuses for him. I don't see him as he really is. And this, of course, made The LSU Professor very angry, just like "if you kicked Beck." I've never kicked my own dog. I've kicked at her because tugs on the leash hadn't gotten her attention. For abuse, the relationship I have with Morpheus really doesn't fit the mold. He doesn't demand commitment, he doesn't shower me with gifts and attention to win me over, and he doesn't tell me that I can't see my friends or my family. He rarely insults me (so rare that I can only think of two occasions in which he did). He never raises his voice, much less a hand. Sure, he's charming and he has lied to me, but a lot of people are guilty of that--that doesn't make them psychopaths or abusive.

I feel like the LSU Professor's assessment is a little overblown. No one likes to see his/her friends being treated unfairly. No one likes it when his/her friends are sad or upset over a lover. I can understand his reaction.

The LSU Professor did apologize, though, so we were able to move forward.

More About "Hospital's Hallway"

"[Jae], would you like to read this poem at the Women's Poetry Reading we are having on 4/20 from 10:30-12, during our class time and at the libary? [sic]"

--The poetry professor

The Gates of Heaven, Part II

I'm moving furniture in order to vacuum underneath.

Grandma says, "Let me get the foot."

"No, just let me do it." I was afraid she was going to hurt herself.

"Alright! It's not like I said I was going to slit your throat!"

"Don't yell at me," I say.

"Then don't yell at me."

The Gates of Heaven Better Open Up For Me When I've Died

Grandma keeps forgetting that she has another doctor appointment on Tuesday at 8:50am. Every time I remind her, she scowls at me, and makes a big production. "What for?"She whines like a two-year-old.

If You Don't Understand the Past, Part II

My mother is shirtless and has her back to me, going through her closet looking for something to wear.

I talk behind her, "Grandma told me today that she knows she wasn't there for you emotionally as a child..." My mother snorts. "...And that there were many things she didn't give you that she should have."

"Do you really think that's going to help?" My mother says as she turns to stare at me.

"She's exhibiting remorse for her actions," I reply.

If You Don't Understand the Past, How Can You Plan for the Future?

"You're not taking your memory pill, not that it's going to help a lot."

--The GP talking to my grandmother

My mother insists that grandmother had evidence of a mental illness in her late twenties, that she was always, more or less, crazy. (In another note, yesterday, Grandma looked at me and said, "You think I'm crazy.")

The Grandmother I remembered was kind and giving and compassionate, through many long phone calls as often I coudn't discuss with my mother what I could with her. She gave me a bed to sleep on anytime I needed it, and she cooked for me, and took care of me. I told the Advisor that I felt like I owed her.

Apparently, according to an MRI of her brain about a year ago, she has suffered a series of mini-strokes, thereby causing damage (and essentially killing neurons) in certain areas of her brain. The GP says she could see some "white," which I asked if she was referring to plaques, as often seen in Alzheimer's disease. She said she was seeing something else. So, there is physical evidence of Grandma's dementia, along with the memory test she took one visit to the GP.

Grandma, of course, has decided to no longer take many of her medications (I'm not sure she is taking any consistently or at the right times and in the right amounts), and that she will no longer check her blood for hyperglycemia. Why? No one quite knows, although my mother responded in her dry way, "Killing yourself isn't illegal." Why, though? Why not put in some effort to take care of yourself? I understand people being depressed, hopeless and therefore engaging in destructive behaviors because they believe there is no life to save--my grandmother, while difficult, is not one of those people. Her path down into a potentially very dark end makes no sense to me, and if you were to talk to the Advisor, he would agree that, of course, it doesn't make sense because my grandmother is no longer capable of thinking sensibly. But you would assume that the most basic part of our brain, our drive for survival would outwit any illness, at least not until the grip of the very end.

According to the Advisor, Grandma is no longer able to think about the future in any real way (much less direct action that can pay off dividends in the coming years), she can only thinking about right now. This makes some sense because Grandma can no longer "tell time," in other words, yes, she can look up at a clock and give you the hour, the minutes but she is unable to distinguish days as they happened in the past. She confuses my age by about twelve years. Yesterday, she told me that she was only twenty years older than I am (it's closer to forty-two). She also was convinced that my uncle, her son, had visited her in Ridgecrest on Monday (he hasn't been over to Ridgecrest in many months). So, yes, time has little significance to her. It is warped in a damaged brain. If you don't understand the past, how can you plan for the future?

"I just want one pill that takes care of all these things."

--My Grandma and her unrealistic expectations of treatment, discussing such with her GP

End Of LIfe Care, What Do You Want? Part III

The Advisor is looking at me as he says, "And don't be a martyr."

End Of Life Care, What Do You Want? Part II

I've been thinking more and more about death these passing days, and these are not suicidal ideations--these are fantasies of living a long life and dying of old age, a natural death. Some people age really well, I'm thinking of my grandmother from my paternal side who is in her eighties and just had a hip replacement--taking no narcotics during her recovery (unfortunately, there is no genetic link between her and I). She's back to walking on her machine in the exercise room. Grandma, the woman who I usually refer to, has chronic pain, especially in her knees. Her back has been bent forward after her wreck in her SUV. She refused to go to physical therapy, and she paid the consequences. Now, she can barely move around the house, much less go grocery shopping or something else equally difficult.

My physical therapist, a lean man with a attractive and exotic looking face, promises me that soon, I will be in the best shape of my life. He was encouraged by the fact that I expressed interest in joining a gym. He asked to do what. I told him that I wanted to do some cardio, but also, when the time was right, lift weights. To put it bluntly, exercising and losing weight will help me age better.

But still, you can't avoid the aging process completely, and our society, more or less, either dismisses elderly people or expresses down right disdain for them. My closest friends are much older than I am. I believe that they are smarter than I am, and therefore can impart some wisdom to me in my times of need (which, honesty, I'm always needing someone). The Adivsor is an excellent example. I told him that I really wanted to see him to talk to him about my grandmother, and he responded right away. I saw him the next day. In this category also fits The LSU Professor and Harry, and probably soon, I will have similar relations with my Engl 201B professor, as he's discussed his mental illness with me, as he assumed I had one (or maybe I told him at some point, and I forgot). When you're clearly able-bodied, and you're walking around with a large service dog, people jump to their own conclusions. Polite people don't express those conclusions, while people who are rude will (and it's happened).

So, not only do I wonder about my own aging process, but I'm beginning to see that the Advisor and Harry and the LSU Professor will not be around forever. Eventually, they will die, and perhaps they will go before I do--perhaps many years before I do. As I become older, I will be left with no one. My mother will die, my father will die, I have no siblings, I have no husband. I will spend the rest of my days on this wretched earth--alone.

End of Life Care, What Do We Want?

The Advisor and I have finished our breakfast, having spent most of the time talking about people with dementia, including his mother (now deceased) and my grandmother.

"Well, I don't know how you're going to take this, but I'm going to be honest...." I look out of the window into the rainy sidewalk and the people with their umbrellas and jackets lined with dew. "You mean so much to me that..." I pause. "I can't promise I'll be there, but I hope I am." We were discussing advancing age, and how it affects relationships. I was basically making a promise that I would be with him at the end of his life. "Along with your children." I smile.

His face doesn't reveal much, but he says, "thank you" politely.

The Dirty Work No One Writes About

If you think that there's a set fate out there for you as you age, you would be mistaken. Eighty percent of aging factors are at least partially under our control.

It was late (ten o' clock is late to me), and I had just arrived home after going to Ridgecrest. Grandma was in her room, the spare room, and she was idly going through the belongings in her purse.

"Grandma, I don't want to sound like your mother, but I'm going to anywayz. Please give me your pants so I can put them in the washing machine." This is at least the fourth time I've made this request. While we were packing to get ready to go back to Yuppieville, she folds pants soaked in piss in a bag, and handed it to me. So, I wanted to get the pants in the washer before I went to bed. I find her pajamas and I put them out on her bed. She finally pulls off her jeans.

I try my best not to touch the pants themselves. But I can smell them as I'm loading them in the machine.

The Burden

"Fuck...fuck...fuck," I say as I'm wandering around the parking lot outside of the restaurant that Grandma and I had eaten at. I call my mother at work, "This is an emergency. I can't find Grandma. We were sitting down at lunch, and I was calling [Uncle], and she got pissed off and left. I thought she would just go to the car, but she's not there!"

"Okay, why would you call [Uncle]?"

"So, it's my fault that Grandma ran off!"

"No..."

"I called him to let him know what the doctor said, and he wants Grandma to move in with him. He wants her to stay in [Yuppieville]."

"Go look in the bathrooms. Did you look in the bathrooms?"

"No...Oh my god!" I let out a shriek. I thought I saw her headed towards the front of the restaurant, out the door.

I start walking back to the diner, and then I see her leaning against the front end of the SUV. "I found her."

"I don't want you to have an anxiety attack, okay? Just calm down."

"Alright." I hang up with Mom.

Grandma is rocking herself against the SUV. I walk up to her, and say, "Are you okay?"

"Yep," she answers. "What are we going to do now?"

"Well, we got an hour before my doctor's appointment. So, how about we go to Starbucks?" I offer.

It wasn't until we were pulling out of the parking lot when she says, "I know I can't stop you, but I don't want you talking about my medical record with [Uncle]. I'm asking please."

I don't give an answer one way or the other.

"He's a liar and he's a cheat, and he comes into my house and steals things--things that are important to me, that my mother left me when she died."

I really have a low tolerance for this bullshit. "Grandma, that's your illness talking. Why would [Uncle] drive eight hours out of his way to steal trinkets? Eight hours."

"Because he wants to take away stuff that is important to me...How many times do I have to tell you!?! I don't want him in my life," she yells.

"Okay, I am taking you back to the house...You can have this conversation with him when he comes to visit on Saturday."

"This is going to be all your fault," she snaps to me.

"Yes, and it's a burden I'm willing to bear," I respond.

Grandma's Doctor Visit

My grandmother's hair is stringy and thin and dirty, forced back into a sloppy pony-tail.

Her GP looks at me. "I don't know how to get through this, and I know you don't know how either." She was referring to my grandmother's denial of the fact that she has dementia. She explains that this is part of the disease.

As we're all leaving the room, the GP looks at me again, and says, "I hope when you and I are this old, we aren't as stubborn."

"I had a psychotic episode, and I didn't think there was anything wrong with me," I offer.

Conversations with Grandma

"Did you really think it would be different this time? Did you forget? Because I didn't," Mom says to me as she's changing out of her work clothes into her gardening outfit. She's referring to the fact that after Grandma stayed with us last time, I had told her that the environment of being at home (with Grandma) was too stressful, and that I would move out. In the end, as Mom will frequently explain, she chose my health over that of her mother's. She has said repeatedly, "You are my first priority."

The problem is rather complicated, and my grandmother, even in her diminished capacity, has provided a few good argument points. One, she accuses me of wanting for her what I think is right--not what she wants or how she wants to live her life. That's absolutely true. I have these ideas in my head about how I would want to die (with peace and with my family), and she strongly holds onto the belief that certain actions made by her son cannot be forgiven. That she simply refuses to. And why? Why hold a grudge when you're a few years away from death? I believe that it is profoundly sad for both her and for her son. The worst part is: most of these injuries she places on her son for blame--well, they never happened. These are delusions on her part. He doesn't sneak in and out of her house to steal her belongings (he lives over four hours away), he never sold her truck without her permission and then kept the money (it was repossessed for non-payment). He doesn't actively try to control her. If it was left up to him, he would ignore her until she died, alone and in that fucking house out in the middle of Ridgecrest. Perhaps it's her realization that largely, her family has abandoned her that is driving her insanity. After all, if her son continues to "control" her, he is at least paying attention to her, and she therefore is not totally alone.

Most of everything can be explained by a high schooler's quick review of the symptoms of dementia. In that context, almost everything she does fits that model--and makes sense. Her forgetfulness. Her delusions. Her insomnia. The enduring and increasing lack of self-care, including batheing, combing her hair, etc--and more importantly, her refusal to monitor her diabetes. She said to me yesterday, "I'm more worried about my mental health than my physical health. At least with the physical stuff, they can fix it. They can't fix the other stuff." I told her that it was the same with my disorder--doctors can help, but they can't cure. However, as I said to her, there are medications that can slow the deterioration. That can improve her quality of life. I also calmly explained to her that the average life span of someone who has dementia is about seven years from date of diagnosis. "That's a long time when you're someone my age," was her response. I view seven years as a blink of an eye that is clouded by cataracts.

Yes, I'm the Biggest Asshole in the Family

"I am a bigger asshole than [Uncle] and [Mom]. You can either go voluntarily, or I will get the legal means to force you into treatment."

"You can't do that without permission from [Uncle] and [Mom]."

"Oh, yes, I can. I've already talked to a lawyer about it. All it takes is some paperwork and a judge."

--Me speaking to my grandmother, who suffers from dementia, yesterday as I tried to persuade her to go see her GP in Yuppieville

One Long, Lost Memory, Part II

(September 2016)

"You know how many women I talk about sex with?" He asks, looking down at the island in the kitchen that separates us. He holds up one finger.

One Long, Lost Memory

(September 2016)

Morpheus goes into a cabnet in the kitchen and offers me two pills.

I take them without hesitating. "Is this speed?"

"No, of course not. I don't take drugs."

The Gift of French Fries

I had my salad and I was wandering around the community college's cafeteria with Beck trailing behind me in her blue super Service Dog vest. I was looking for an open chair at a decently clean table, which after one o' clock in the afternoon was a difficult find. College students don't clean up after themselves. I knew the Stanford University Hospital's dining hall for their G2P to be less messy.

"Are you looking for a place to sit?" He says to me.

I recognize his eyes, he has these bright, clear, blue eyes. Big, like a curious cat. "You're [Robert], right?"

He nods. He has stopped to pet Beck a few times during the past weeks, and he has talked to me a little bit about his life. He owns two Border Collies, which he insists need a job to do (which was totally true of my Border Collie, Russ). The dogs were strays that someone dropped off near his ranch. He lives a few towns away, in an even more rural area than Yuppieville.

After we talk for a little bit, he hands out a french fry, "Do you want to give this..." He leaves the question open ended.

I know he's talking about Beck, but I ask, "Is that for me or for the dog?"

"Beck," he says, remembering her name. "Come here, Beck."

Beck jumps to attention, and walks from the aisle to his side of the table. She looks at him in anticipation.

He gives her the french fry. Now, Beck is completely taken over by a large urge to consume fries, as many as she can stuff down.

"You don't have to worry. She has a gentle mouth," I say, in case he was wondering about hand feeding a ninety pound Doberman.

He keeps eating and handing her french fries. "If you don't mind me asking, what are her duties?"

I look away. Then, I decide just to be honest. "She wakes me up in the morning, and she reminds me to take my meds." Lately, however, Beck has been as lazy as I am, and is in her bed sleeping all morning long.

He smiles at me, and doesn't question which meds or what they are for. He explains that one of his relatives has a service dog, who can tell when her blood suger is too high or too low.

"That's amazing. I've heard of that, but never knew it in person."

He hasn't said my name, so I assumed he forgot.

Finally, he gets up from the table, "Well, [Jae], I have some studying to do in the library, so have a good spring break."

About thirty minutes later, I'm in the library, and I find him in one of the study rooms. He smiles at me, and waves.

I go sit down in the back where Beck won't be in the way.

The Manchurian Candidate

"Her long and extremely beautiful legs were stretched out before her on the chaise longue, and any man but her son or her husband, seeing what she had and yet knowing that this magnificent forty-nine-year-old body was only a wasted uniform covering blunted neural energy, might have wept over such a waste."

--The Manchurian Candidate by Condon

To See Reality More Clearly

"A novel, Burgess writes, might be inspired by an 'uncontainable concern or anger with something taking place in the real world.' Novelists, in other words, do more than invent and fantasize. They try to see reality more clearly than the rest of us."

--by David Remnick, the New Yorker

Wholeheartedly

"Sometimes I think you don't want to meet with me," the case manager says as she's reaching for her paper calender from the trunk of the Civic.

"It's not you. It's not your fault," I tell her, which is mostly true. Sometimes I'm just in a bad mood for other reasons, like today, dealing with back pain, or sometimes she just says something that I disagree with wholeheartedly.

Earlier, I was eating my salad at a local cafe when she told me that since I had refused therapy in the past, I needed a current history of being in psychotherapy in order for the county to recommend me to a therapist once I leave this program, which immediately didn't make sense to me.

"Why would that matter? What if I refused therapy and then later because of growing self-awareness, I want to attend. Why would anyone hold that against me?"

The case manager gave a lame explanation that the county has financial restrictions, that they're just doing their job.

"Why should that be my concern?" I answer honestly. "The care of the patient should always come first."

"I agree with you," she says.

I was irritated. Issues with county mental health tend to do that to me, especially when someone defends their ill practices. My epic battle with them over allocating the funds from Medi-Cal to pay for my residential treatment program was just the largest of many. County, as disclosed decreetly to me, doesn't like being told what to do by Stanford University Hospital. They refused to give me access to treatment even when a team of doctors said it was in my best interest. Why? No one ever gave a decent answer, even after Stanford hired a lawyer to talk to them about my problem. One county employee told me that it had to do with spending county funds on programs outside the county--and for someone who is not seen regularly under their local hospital system.

But I lost the battle, even after hiring a lawyer of my own to straighten the issue out. Since then, I've had little faith that county mental health has my best interests at heart.

So, I didn't want to discuss the topic with my case manager, whose program is closely tied with the county mental health. I tried to leave our meeting after I had finished my salad. My case manager asked me to stay.

I explained to her my feelings, and then I left.

Feral Hogs

"In 2011, a Brownback ally in the legislature named Virgil Peck said, about a bill proposing that feral hogs be shot from helicopters, 'Looks to me like, if shooting these immigrating feral hogs works, maybe we have found a solution to our illegal-immigration problem.' "

--"How Moderates Took Back Kansas" by Benjamin Wallace-Wells, the New Yorker