If I was to take the time to explain what's gone on the last couple of days, you'd be reading for hours. I'd probably have to break it down into several posts, too, as 10,000 word posts don't go over well for me readers. So here is a summary of events.
1. Stu called and left me a message. He didn't sound happy.
2. Called Stu back yesterday and had a chat about me being in emotional crisis, as well as my father being pissed off that the both of us failed to call him on Father's Day.
3. Generated crafty plan to call Dad around the time he'd be off eating dinner, thereby avoid him driving my depression deeper.
4. Enacted the plan, only to have Dad answer. The power of Jewish guilt allowed him to stab me in the proverbial heart from over 2500 miles away.
5. I had a major meltdown.
6. Stu called today and left another message; this one insisted I call my father again.
7. Called Stu to make sure dad wouldn't drive me to a desire to commit suicide.
8. Called Dad and ended up speaking at length to my step-mom. She doesn't get it either, but is trying.
9. Spoke to Dad. He wants me closer to family.
10. Spoke to Stu again. We made plans to make plans to formulate plans.
Number 10 is where I stop, and is from where the title of this post comes. Realizing that I would be unable to afford anything in the way of rent in New York, my family is "conspiring" to have me move to Tennessee. In this way, when I'm in a state of crisis as I am now, I'll be closer to family. The same family that doesn't comprehend the psychological sides of my disabilities.
There is a part of me that likes the idea. No longer will I be completely alone, in a strange neighborhood where there are few, if any, people that care so much as an ounce about me. Alternatively, there would be so much to do in order to make such a move possible. Adjusting to the weather, which my brother believes will only cause me what he called "an extra little twinge of pain." (The boy really needs to lay off the crack.)
Then there's the confusion of whether or not I'll live in Stu's house, or if I should get an apartment of my own. I've lived with Stu in the past. Such events have proven that we are...BROTHERS!
After a major blowout in my parents' home, I threw my hands up in surrender and decided to move out. Stu asked if I was willing to share an apartment with him. After a great deal of drama at our first apartment, where the ownership of the house came into question, we moved into another place with hard wood floors. Here is where I was struck by an evil, and potentially dangerous, practical joke. You see, the bathroom of the place was across the apartment for me. For Stu, it was a matter of stepping out his bedroom door and doing a 180 around a corner to get into it. So what did I do? I bought a can of spray wood polish and did a number on the floor at that sharp turn he had to make. Every time he went to the bathroom, he'd slip and slide, and even came to me asking if I'd noticed the floor had suddenly become more slippery right at that spot. "Why, no, Stu...I haven't noticed a thing." (Insert evil laugh here.)
Now is not the time for me to make such major decisions. I need to get my head screwed on, if not straight, a little straighter. I still have no idea how I'd pull off such a move, anyway. It all comes down to the money...again. So this post is more about what my family is thinking.
Me? I'm just trying to get through until the third of next month without a penny to my name. The money is gone. The food is gone. And I'm in over my head when it comes to stress.