The good news: we found a new place. It's on the small side, but it's a one-bedroom, the owner doesn't care if we fill the windows with indoor window boxes (as long as we don't damage integrety of the structure, and if the tiny stove dies, will replace it with a full-sisze one. Our neighbors behind us are family, and vouch for the landlord ("he's really cool!"). He's letting us move our stuff in since we handed over the deposit, although we can't sleep there until first month's rent is paid. OK, more than fair, to my mind's eye. Also, water access.
Including utilities, it costs the same as renting the room we're in.
Other good news: I'm pretty much acclimated to the Topamax, and it's working. There's also a CSA with room in it for us, and we're signing up. Om nom nom. Makes up for losing the garden.
Bad news: My storage locker was auctioned off. We received no notice. All the furniture I restored, my fabric (good linens & wools), the pictures of my kids, tons of kitchen stuff, bedroom stuff, bathroom stuff, gone. An entire life, erased. Because Sarah wouldn't listen to me and drove in snow, and the savings that were earmarked for the storage unit went to getting a new car after she totalled my paid-off car.
All the furniture I hand-restored myself. My great-great-grandmother's rocking chair :( a Boston Rocker made of cherry. A rock maple table I restored myself. Same with an absolutely antique school desk.
My entire fucking library, including the first editions.
My kitchen. Including the stainless steel industrial kitchen work table that would have make our tiny kitchen workable along with the rock maple table, and the hanging pot holder. (Did I mention my first husband had money connections?) My cube freezer.
All 30-odd afghans my grandmother made me, stored in a sea chest. A real one.
All the paperwork to prove to the kids that I'd been fighting for them from the start (I'd be crying now, but I'm on too many of my meds so that I don't self-mutilate).
And you know? I don't care that I'm on the pain meds I was on before I found this out (back spasms), and 5 mg of Clonazepam (almost due for a redose), and that I've had a half-glass of mead and most of a glass of beer. Sarah ran away rather than help, and turned her phone off.
And when I went down to do the fucking things I'm supposed to do today, Carrie told me point plank, "It's not (Sarah) [used male name] I want out of the house. I want you to know that it's YOU."
I don't even have the picture of my uncle holding my my birthday cake in front of me anymore. It's gone with everything else. The only fucking birthday I ever had that was MINE, with the only brother that I ever really had.
Fuck it all. I've been abandoned again. What's the fucking point?
Yesterday was the same. Our fucking five year anniversary, and she didn't come home until I called until 0400. She says she was at the new apartment, but with her record...
I'm just something to use until something better comes along. That's what I was to my parents, my extended family, my ex, most of my friends, and almost everyone I know.
And now I can't even furnish a fucking one-room apartment. No bed, no table, no desk, no chairs, no fucking ANYTHING. And even Sarah wants to be away from me (and is using up what little money we have to go out to eat by herself--when we didn't even get an anniversary dinner).
Everyone would be better off without me. Who needs a disabled, mentally fucked up queer anyway.
But no one will come and save me. It's my job to save everybody else. I'm alone, and always have been. I have to pretend around 99% of the people, or they'd avoid me completely. Yes, Sarah gets blacker moods, but she acts out, and people understand that. My shell adds another layer, and they praise me on how well I cope, when I'm breaking into a million pieces.
I wish I could get a fucking job. I wish I could turn back time. I WISH I COULD BE NORMAL FOR ONE FUCKING DAY, BECAUSE I NEVER HAVE BEEN.
Do you hear my crei de coure? I don't even know how to FAKE normal, because I've never BEEN NORMAL!
They should hae just killed me. Less pain that way. My father certainly threatened. My ex punched me in the solar plexus hard enough to break bone (testified in court as such, after in the criminal hearing, at custody (still got the kids)). Money talks. So does disability.
And I'm worthless. No matter how many hours Sarah works, we won't have enough for a bed and all other furnishings, and to get our stuff from Vegas (from an uncooperative Mother-in-Law) for at least a year.
I don't know what to do. I'm lost, and I just want it all to stop.
I'm so fucking tired of pretending.