Each summer during my mother's vacation from work my family would go stay at my Aunt Leah's camp on Eddington Pond. My family wasn't fortunate enough to own a camp so we had to rely on her generosity. As I got older, my brothers stopped going to camp and opted to stay home so they could have legendary parties. While the cat's away the mice will play and play my brothers did!
I hadn't reached the "I don't want to go to camp" stage yet. The highlight of my days at camp as I got older were the boys who had a camp next door. As with any 13 almost 14 year old girl, I immediately developed a crush on one of the boys named Jimmy. I've always had a run of bad luck with guys with that name, but I finally learnt my lesson after marrying one. This "ginger" Jimmy gave me my first real taste of what rejection felt like. How humiliating it is to feel like the ugly duckling and the odd man out. I hated feeling not good enough. I hated being me. Why couldn't I have been born a small, dainty beauty instead of a lanky-legged, awkward ugly duckling?
I've always had self-destructive tendencies as far back as I can remember. Although I've only halfheartedly tried the big "S" a few times, I now wonder what was my actual goal when I downed a whole bottle of aspirin chased by a massive amount of straight whisky. Did I have any idea that it could have killed me? More importantly, was I disappointed when it didn't kill me?
My mother brought a whole gallon of Canadian Club whisky to camp that summer and now I wonder why she did that. My mother wasn't a drinker. Did she have plans of entertaining after the children were tucked snugly into bed in the loft overlooking the pond? If so, I never saw any evidence of it. Were my actions a cry for help or was I just looking for the attention I obviously wasn't getting? So many questions in hindsight, but never any beforehand.
After going on a very animated teenage tirade that probably resembled the Tasmanian Devil going after Bugs Bunny and ingesting the only things available to me at the time...a bottle of aspirin and whisky, I remember continually vomiting until all I could do is dry heave and heave and heave. At that point the desire to die was more than just a fleeting impulse. I felt so bad, dying would have been a welcome relief. The next morning when asked about my "illness" I passed off what was wrong with me as being some type of intestinal ailment when in reality I probably should have been in the hospital.
It always amazed me how strong my mother's sense of denial was. She was a nurse and never "saw" all the classic signs I exhibited of a teenager in crisis. All my stunts went unnoticed until I eventually overdosed on barbiturates at school less than two years later and was rushed to the ER. Since she worked at that hospital, it was out of the question for me to try to cover up that one. Oops! I got too high and forgot how many pills I had taken! Actually, that was the truth. In those days, I ate pills like candy. If 3 were good, 6 or more were spectacular. Who knew how many drugs I had in my system at any given time? Like an alcoholic, one could never be too high unless it resulted in being unconscious or comatose. Oh, what a wonderful gene pool from which I come!
My ears rang so loudly for the better part of a week that I could hardly hear anything, but the ringing. I felt like I had a severe case of the flu. I hurt all over and I couldn't keep anything in my stomach for several days. My best friend, Margie witnessed my descent into a dark, dangerous place. She had accompanied me to camp that summer and fretted over me. When I look back, I wonder how close she came to ratting me out. It must have been difficult for her to watch me be in so much pain and to self-destruct without saying a word. How frightened must she have been for my well-being and ultimate survival. (I'm sorry for doing that to you, Margie! I'm sorry for doing that to myself.)
Now, I look back and wonder where my mother was during all my brouhahas and why she had left Margie and I unattended that evening out in the boondocks in a place without a phone. The unattended theme carried through the next summer as well. By that time, I had a boyfriend (BTW, his name was not Jimmy) and that boyfriend was allowed to come stay at camp with me. Oh, what a summer that was! Skinny-dipping, frolicking in the summer sun and lazy nights and early mornings spent listening to the loons echo their cry across the pond while wrapped in each other's arms. For awhile, I got the attention I needed and wanted and then poof! It was gone and so was I. I stayed "gone" for quite a long time until I eventually allowed myself to start healing, but to this day, just a faint aroma of whisky still makes me nauseous.
K: Worse than cockroaches or bed
bugs?
J:
much worse, look at that disgusting
K: Hey,
I'm a gangsta bee so my species is okay 🐝🐝 Look, there you are with me. We're just buzzing around and doing gangsta bee stuff.
J: ya,
I guess I did. You want me to add it now?
K:
Some things never change. Crazy as a loon and I don't care what anyone thinks
of me. Hey, if M,
drops by here tell her you haven't seen me but you heard me buzzing.
K: Hey,
is it okay if I tell people you said I'm worse than a cockroach or a bedbug?
J:
I’d be honored...
K: I'm
a free to be me GANGSTA BEE 🐝
J:
whatever floats your boat. lol
J:
well, then whatever floats your hive
K: I
got honey in my hive
J: no
comment
K: I
got honey in my hive and it's good to be alive
K: Gangsta
bees rhyme like a dime in a crime
K: And
what is the crime?
J:
littering
K: swarming,
swarming, global warming
J: that
too. lol
K: Litter
is for quitters
K: And
to think I'm like this naturally. That’s scary!
K: Now,
buzz off, right?
J: But
please spread it in a nice way
K: I'll
spread my honey on my buns because honeybuns are fun, fun, fun…
J: that
explains it.
K: I
think I'll copy and paste this masterpiece to my blog
J: I
think you should and give me ample prompts
K: This
lovely chat we've had and a picture of the decubitus on my ass should keep
everyone happy for a while. And of course, I’ll give credit where credit is
due.
J: The
what on your ass!!??
K: Since
it's glaringly apparent that you don't know how to use Google...a bed sore, an
open ulcer on my arse... want to see?
J: naw,
I’ll pass. Hope it's better soon
K: and
I'm losing my hair, but it's all good because gangsta bees don't need no hair.
K: Losing
the hair on my head...not on my ass
J: I
can relate to that one. Nope, gangsta bees don't need no stinking hair
K: I
had debated posting the pic for my profile pic on Facebook, but the verdict is
still out on that one
K: What's
next? Shall we talk about our bowel movements or the virtues of menopause?
J:
Do what makes you happy!
J: Only
if you make me talk about that crap (pun intended)
K: Did
you know years ago I posted my colonoscopy pictures on Facebook?
J:
cool...bet you got a lot of comments
K: I
sure did...it would have freaked people out if I posted my prostate pics
J:
ah, I didn't think women have a prostate
K: Prostate?
Fooled you! Gangsta bees come well equipped, so when people tell me to go fuck
myself, I can do exactly that. No problemo!
J:
wow, glad I’m not a gangsta bee
K: That's
what BOB is for? Who's BOB, right?
K: BOB
is not a bee, but BOB buzzes like a bashful bee. BOB is a battery-operated
buddy BTW
J: The
honey's gone to your head
K: Uh
oh! We have company! I had better behave myself (you know how well that usually
works out)
E: Yea, it was all good until we
discovered words like: disposable, no deposit/no return, plastic, Styrofoam,
bic lighters, disposable bags, razors, diapers, throw it away not caring where
it goes...
K: What about words like GANGSTA
BEES?
K: Hi Ed!
K: Hey Ed, J said I'm worse than a
cockroach or a bedbug. I don't think she loves me anymore.
K: What am I gonna do? I guess I'll
retreat to my hive and lick my wounds.
K: I don't think Ed needs to be told
anything by me...you seem to have that nicely covered.
K: I said lick my wounds, not lick
my ass!
J: isn't that where your wound is?
K: They say a picture a picture is
worth a thousand words. Okay, I'm off to the next hive now. You two play nicely
or else, I'll be back, and you know what that means! Shock collars for
everyone!
J: [sigh]...have fun
K: Oh J, you weren't supposed to tell him where
my wound is. Now, I'm embarrassed. Instead of being yellow and black like a
good gangsta bee, I'm red and black. I’m a mess!
K: Good night ❤️
K: 🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝
I bet you thought you were viewing the surface of the moon. Well folks, this is my "moon" and it has Hairy Ass Rot! |
Wow! I have hair on my ass! Where the hell did that come from? I guess that's what old women are suppossed to do. [They don't hand out booklets about the finer points of growing old, so I'm pretty clueless as what to expect] As our locks grow thin, hair starts to sprout everywhere it shouldn't...faces and asses are a favorite spot. How charming is that picture?
Tell me, how is one supposed to age gracefully when you have hairy ass rot going on? I can hardly wait for the next thing to short circuit or fall apart. Perhaps my mind will go next and then I simply wont care what I look like or how I feel.