Pretend I’m in Mexico.

Hi people. I fell down again. Honest to Smoking Baby, I fell down. Again.

This is my knee:I was walking home from my Al-Anon meeting and I stepped on one of those plastic folder things you put in a Trapper Keeper. It was just like the skating incident but slalom. A nice boy poked his head out of the bodega door to ask, “Lady. Are you okay?” (Fucker. It was like when I went back to Italy and the waiter called me Signora instead of Signorina.) The three kids behind me giggled for about three blocks. Not the point of the story. Just thought you’d like to know.

So. I get home tonight (with my broken head, ass and knee, in order of altitude) and I’m in a pensive mood. A and V left today after a four day visit. We spent almost the entire time not speaking about Mom, except for E’s occasional slip up about something crazy Mom did or how we had a wacko family or something. Something about V makes you forget that she’s a kid. She’s acts as if she’s much more mature emotionally than she is and you start to talk around her as if she’s an adult. Then there are times when you’re talking to her about how crazy things have been lately and she’ll break your heart with, “Oh, I’m so used to it by now. I’ve seen it all.”

Sorry. Is that too sullen a thought? I had a friend tell me recently that my blog was too heavy for him. (But without the hip verbiage.) I can’t help it. And I don’t think of my stories as sullen or morose. It’s just what’s going on.

Anyway, I came home tonight after my meeting and I asked E for a night alone. I assured her that it was only because I just needed to process some stuff on my own and I took off. (It’s my first time ever asking for some space in the five years we’ve been together. I am learning so much!)

“Pretend I’m in Mexico. I’ll see you later.”
“Okay! I’ll watch the L Word.”

I do have to admit, I was disappointed in her lack of disapointment.

Anyway. I grabbed a bottle of wine, my laptop and I headed for the loft. I’m at the end of this seven-engine train of family shit and I’m tired. I have gotten through the intervention and the sister visit. I just left an eye opening Al-Anon meeting and I wanna just be alone. With all of you.

You know. I’m writing down all of this stuff you’re reading, and I recognize that when I post here, I’m not making a journal entry. I truly know that I’m writing for an audience (of millions), but there’s still this sense of anonymity that comes from the fact that instead of speaking, I am typing. And it is more anonymous than physically writing because you hit save or send and it’s over. There’s nothing tangible left over to prove it ever happened. And there’s something about that that allows me to write freely about things I would usually never broadcast. Especially considering the fact that there are already members of my family reading on a regular basis, and as soon as that Oprah deal comes through (Oprah, can you hear me? Oprah, can you feel me in the night?), Mom will find out (if not earlier) and there’s a part of me that is terrified of that. But there’s also a part of me that feels that, as Dr. Drew said on Celebrity Rehab, “You are only as sick as your secrets.” And, my people, I am tired of being sick. When I was in Georgia for the latest drama, I opened to my Mom up about things I’ve never confronted her on … and in front of her brother.
It rocked.

Mom later told me, “I remember what you said in the hospital. I can’t believe you would talk to me like that. And in front of B. I am so embarassed.” I, enlightened Princess that I am, replied, “I am sorry that I hurt your feelings, but that doesn’t mean what I said wasn’t true.”

Right on, Princess.

People, I am taking care of myself these days. And, to be honest, it’s a fucking chore. Not only do I have a lot of family baggage to deal with, I am unpracticed at self-love … however. Watch out! I’m on a crash-course and it’s only a matter of time before I’m writing (and performing) cheers for myself.

So, thanks for reading. And, to those friends of mine who are only finding out what’s happening to me through the blog although you’ve called and written, I’m sorry. I’m a little overwhelmed right now but am working it out. I’ll holla at ya when I’ll be more fun to talk to. (Or when I get the cheers ready … Guh-oooohhh PRINCESS!)

Patient #4606 aka Patient #7928

I realize that for the benefit of her experience, I should probably be addressing this question to Martha Stewart. But you know how I feel about Oprah – all-knowing talk show Queen that she is — and I don’t want to chance hurting her feelings by asking Martha a question to which she, omnipotent Oprah, would know the answer to.

So, O, what is the proper etiquette for thanking intervention participants? Do I send thank you cards? Flowers? Wine and Xanax?

Turns out Mom is deeply, clinically depressed as verified by the finest General Practitioner in all of Fitzgerald, Georgia. (How long have I been telling you people this? Why won’t anyone listen to me?) To combat her depression, Mom started using too much of her prescription medication. Now, let’s run down the litany of complaints and concerns I have had about Mommy since I started posting about her on this blog.

Delirium, falling, constant fear of dying, constant self-diagnoses of a variety of very scary cancers, losing ridiculous amounts of weight, breaking multiple bones in a very short time (who besides a nine-year-old boy does this?), not knowing what day it is, atrial fibrulation and her insane tolerance for pain pills.

What else can I say besides, “Duh”?

When I got the call from A, my sister, about Mom’s recent fall and busted head/staples incident, I declared that I would no longer be party to the lies and secrets our family has treasured for so long. I called both of my uncles, told them everything, then I went directly to one of Mom’s multiple doctors with detailed information on what Mom was taking and in what quantities. Together, we all talked her into checking herself into a psychiatric hospital for a few days.

She has since been released and is doing well. She has a degree of clarity for the first time in many, many years and she gained the ability to empathise with crack heads and cutters. She understands that she is not a bad person, she has an illness and we’re on the Road to Recovery.

My family and friends pulled together for me in ways I couldn’t believe. Although I have no cell service in Ben Hill and the surrounding counties in South Georgia, when I got back to AT&T country, I had over fifteen messages of love and encouragement. I also received multiple emails, text messages and one honest-to-god handwritten letter in the mail. I also got the funniest invitation to a Super Bowl party ever from a friend who didn’t know what was happening, but who helped me feel better anyway.

I’m back in Brooklyn but am taking a few days to decompress so that I can remember what my real life is like. My people, I have eaten more McDonald’s food in the past week and a half than I have in the past five years and I was forced to shop at Wal-Mart repeatedly because, in the country, there are no other options.

I am tired, I feel fat and greasy and I feel I should be wearing a hairshirt airbrushed with the phrase, “I am a loser who supported Wal-Mart.”

Until I get the call from Oprah, I’d like some feedback on what you think I should do regarding the thank you notes. I checked and they had nothing.