Tuesday, October 11, 2016

The Bad Student, Part Smm Smm

Dear Dad,

Seriously, why does time go by so freaking fast? I swear, it feels like yesterday since I've written to you, and yet it has been weeks! Oh well. I'd much rather be busy than bored. An active mind, especially in my case, is much better than a depressed mind, though, I still hold the firm belief that laziness is absolutely ESSENTIAL and should be practiced in every aspect of life, regardless of what you are doing.

Don't worry, though. I still remember EVERYTHING that was said between Grandmama and I on that crazy September night about Nevaeh and a half weeks ago. And, so does Giovanna. She might not remember it in quite the same detail that I do because of how drunk she was, but she certainly does remember that we talked. I have Smm Smm emails to prove it, though none of them show the SLIGHTEST bit of remorse, as you will soon see when I publish them along with this story. OOOOOOHHHHH… YESSSSSSS!

I am TOTALLY publishing them with the story. Oh, YES-SIR-EEE-BOB!!

Both of her emails sound totally crazy, especially the second email, the one where she is "sharing a mindful thought" with me. It was so bizarre and mind-boggling with pure insanity that I didn't even bother reading the whole thing. But, be my guest and read it all… if you can.

The first email, on the other hand, was written to me Smm Smm Smm Smm days after our conversation and it definitely referenced our conversation as you will see if you choose to view the emails that she wrote me, either forgetting that I had told her, repeatedly, that any messages or emails that she sends me will be published on this blog for all to read at their own leisure and for entertainment's sake, or she didn't believe that I really would do it, though I can't fathom why she wouldn't believe me. After all, I did publish one of her extremely insane, abusive messages on my blog about Nevaeh years ago, did I not? It's still up on my blog, in case you haven't listened to it already. I won't write down what the emails said in this story because, you have eyes. Or at least, you DID have eyes last time I saw you. So, therefore, you can read them yourself…

Can't you?

After I read her first email, I felt like writing back to her this:

I wouldn't be so sure of my undying love that you think I have for you if I were you. You have a lot of nerve writing to me like nothing ever happened, and, I feel that this is worth mentioning, the lack of apology from you in this email is utterly disgusting and appalling! Don't defile my computer with your filthy letters anymore!

HAIL SATAN!!!!!!!!!

But, all noses of my friends urged me to ignore her, so, in spite of myself, I did. After all, ignoring her would hurt her more than writing an angry reply. She wanted to keep the fire going. I, too, wanted to keep it well stoked and burning high and mighty, but I wasn't going to let it burn at my expense. The tables were turning now: the fire was going to turn on HER now!

So, back to our conversation. I was still sitting in my bedroom on my bed, surrounded by all of my imaginary demons.

A couple of seconds of silence went by and, for a fleeting second, I thought that my grandmother had passed out from all the booze. But, then!

"I can't get a good reading on you. All that my third eye can see is thick, white mist and it's blurring everything around me. So, that justifies that my assumption that you are, indeed manic, is correct, is it not?"

"I don't know," I said, not bothering to stifle my giggle.

"Why don't you ask The Creator of All That Is From The Seventh Plane? Maybe you will get an answer if he's not too busy laughing his pants off. Maybe he will take away whatever it is that is clouding up your third eye!"

The Creator of All That Is From The Seventh Plane is basically God to the followers of Theta, though they don't call him God. Actually, they refuse to give the Creator a specific gender at all. Isn't that strange?

"And," I continued, laughing still harder and quickening the tempo of my rocking without really realizing it or giving it much thought,

"I thought that you aren't supposed to go up to Theta when you are drunk. And, before you do a reading on another person, you are SUPPOSED to ask for their permission, are you not?"

"Welllll," Giovanna said in a slow, perplexed voice. "You and I are so connected in spirit that I didn't need to ask your permission out loud over the phone. You gave me permission to do a reading and a healing on you without even realizing it."

"Oh, did I now?" I said in a mocking voice.

"Hmmm, that's funny, because, just a minute ago, we weren't really even talking about you doing readings and healings on people. So, how do you figure that my brain magically consented to you sifting through the insides of my soul or wherever the hell you look into with your third eye when we weren't even talking about that?"

"I just know, Ashlee," she said, very defensively. "I just know and I went with it."

"Well, either your third eye is very faulty, or you didn't really get permission to look inside of me. So… which one is it?"

"It's neither of those things," Giovanna said. "Like I said before, you are too manic right now, completely ungrounded. You are all over the place, fly-away-ee sort of like."

"Well, I'm going to contact Anana and tell her that you are being a very, very bad Theta student if you keep trying to invade my soul," I said, still giggling mirthlessly. "And, I'm going to tell her that you are attempting to "heal" people while under the influence of alcohol and possibly other drugs. She will NOT be very happy with you. For all I know, she might take away your Theta medals or whatever they're called, that you earned from taking all those mumbo jumbo, eight hours a day, three week classes in bumfuck nowhere deep in the jungle of Washington. You are, after all, an EX drug addict, so, for all I know, you got back on the wagon and are under the influence of MUCH more than alcohol. It sure sounds like it from the way you are talking, anyway."

"I have done nothing of the sort," Giovanna half-shouted.

"And, Anana won't believe you. She knows how unstable you are, how much you relish in hurting and saddening my heart. I'll simply tell her the truth… that you aren't taking your prescribed medication for your bipolar psychosis and that you are a danger to both yourself and those around you."

"EEEEEEEEEKKKK, I'm SOOOOOOOO afraid. And, if you really feel that way about me, why call? And, good luck proving that I'm not taking meds. I DARE YOU TO TRY IT!!!"

I said in a very low, pretend shaky voice, then plunged my face into my pillow and laughed my ass off until my sides and stomach burned like I had just swallowed an entire bottle full of battery acid.

When I had finally ceased laughing, I said, "Okay, I'm back now. So, what do you want to talk about now, dear, drunk, hypocritical, dying, terminally ill and in severe denial about it, bad Theta student?"

"Well, I'm wondering about what's SO awesome in your life now?"

Again, I was taken aback by this sudden oddball question. I suppose when you are drunk, it is hard to focus on one topic. But, even if Grandma hadn't been under the influence, I can' only imagine how eager she would be to get onto another subject. This conversation wasn't, exactly, going the way she had planned it would go. None of her plans were going as she had thought or wanted them to turn out.

"I already told you all the goodness that is happening in my life. It's not my fault that you chose not to listen, that you chose to turn a deaf ear to your fancy Smart Phone while I was in the middle of speaking."

Silence again.

Stunned you, did I, now, Giovanna?

Well, that's a first. We'll have to put that in a historical memoir or biography of you sometime.

Oh, that's right! Nobody's written anything about you. Well, nobody's written anything about you that you want to read, that you are proud of, that is.

And, I hate to burst your overweight and grossly infested with grandiosity, bubble, but, nobody WILL ever write a historical biography or memoir about you because, nobody really likes you. You are an evil, hateful, hurtful, destructive person. I highly doubt that I will be the only one celebrating when you draw your last breath.

The silence stretched on. This time, though, I knew that she was still awake and tuned into the conversation. So, I chose to break the silence.

"Tell me, what's so great about YOUR life?"

"Well, as you know, I've sold my condo. Finally, right?"

"Yeah, finally," I agreed.

"And, people are being very generous to me. So many of my friends have opened their doors to me. They have told me that I am welcome to stay with them whenever I want, and Sarah and Dave have let me keep some of my things at their houses. And, of course, your mother has let me keep my really important things at her house, but, I wouldn't expect anything else from her. She is such a wonderful, good-hearted daughter. I love her so much. It's wonderful to know that I will never be destitute. There are always people who care about me and who are willing to help in any way that I can. I am in GOOD SSSSHHHHH-AAAAAAAA-PE! And, as for Dave… well, I've got him wrapped around my little finger."

Translation: My life is going so great! So many people have taken in some of my crap because I have too much of it to be able to keep it all in one, giant, 3000 or whatever it is, square foot house, even though I am currently occupying the largest room in it. I can't stay with Jennifer all the time because we step on each other's toes, so Dave, my faithful friend, lets me stay with him when things at Jennifer's house gets too stressful for me. Dave thinks that we are boyfriend and girlfriend, but we aren't really. I'm just using him like I use everyone else who I happen to meet along the course of my life. But, that's no surprise, him letting me stay there and keep some things at his house. I always knew he would if and when the time ever came for it. He's such a sucker.

As for Jennifer… Well, I've ALWAYS had her wrapped around my little finger, too. My OTHER little finger. Trained her up right from babyhood, I did, and a magnificent job I did, too, if I do say so myself. She does everything I want her to do, no questions asked. Just like every little girl should. I will always remember her as a child. She will always be my baby in my eyes, a child, forever-more… forever-more… forever-more…

"Are you mostly staying at my mom's house?" I asked, genuinely curious about this.

"No, I'm not. The animals at her house drive me crazy, particularly the dog, and I don't want to get in the way of her and Coalie. I sometimes stay over there when she isn't working, but, when she goes to work, I stay at Dave's. It's too awkward to stay at her house with Coalie."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," I told her.

"Coalie isn't, exactly, what you would call, a welcoming host, now, is he?"

"Yes he is," Giovanna snapped defensively. It was so sudden and her voice was so loud that I actually jumped. Since WHEN did she start defending Coalie?

"Oh yeah? Then why don't you stay there when Mom's gone?"

"Because I don't want to get in his way, or to intrude on his space."

"Hmmm, that's funny," I said, the mockery having returned suddenly back to my voice once more. "Because you never gave a damn at all, ever before, about intruding on Mom's space or MY space or Giselle's space before."

"Well, family is different," said Giovanna, speaking in such a tone as one would give when trying to explain that three minus two equals one to an ADHD ridden toddler. "When it's family, you don't need to worry about intruding on one another's space because family are supposed to be close, both physically and emotionally. I've always brought your mom up that way and I raised Giselle to hold those beliefs, too. I know that your mom did everything in her power to bring you up to believe just how valuable and important family is, and I daresay that she did a great job. If it hadn't been for that evil, Satanic boyfriend of yours… CHRIS!"

She spat out the name as if spitting out a Skittle that she thought was a normal, sweet flavored Skittle, but which turned out to be a sour Skittle, its surface covered up with sour powder, just for the sake of surprising whoever dared put it in his or her mouth.

"Everything would be fine. We would all be together, close, united, and happy, as we used to be six long, sad years ago."




Seriously, what planet had SHE been living on when I lived at home? Or was SHE the delusional one in the picture, trying to frame me as being the crazy one to prevent her own crazy self from being totally uncovered… Exposed…

Once and for ALL!!

"Oh yes, happy times, happy times," I mumbled sarcastically. "Wish I could go back in time and relive those happy, precious moments."

"Well, you can't exactly go back in time and relive those happy, precious times," said Giovanna, either misreading my sarcasm completely or choosing to ignore it intentionally, just as she ignored everyone else when they tried to get a point across to her, or their hurt feelings that they would FUTILY, try to voice to her, to make her understand, when she would carelessly trod…



on them until they were reduced to nothing but tiny fragments scattered all over the floor of the minds of her frequent prey, in more instances than not, irrepairable… forever damaged…

Beyond repair!!

"You can, however, make more happy memories by choosing to get close to us again, to move back to Jefferson or Kitsap county and live life the way it was before you met that awful person."

"Naw, I'm good, but thanks for the invitation," I said, the idiotic smile returning to my face again, though, this time, I had control of it.

"You know, Ashlee, you don't know someone, I mean, REALLY KNOW SOMEONE, for twenty years."

Again with the random sentence thrown out from who knows where. Seriously, I didn't know that liquor had such a short attention span. I mean, I knew that drunks had a difficult time keeping track of a conversation a bit, but I never knew the utter rapidity in which they could change subjects in the matter of a second. Honestly, it was intoxicating for ME to have to listen to it! My brain was REELING from the effort of trying to keep up. And, I was the sober one here!

"And… your point?"

I was not angry when I asked this. I was genuinely curious about what she would say, how she would justify that random bit of gibberish that had just appeared out of thin air. More than feeling angry by this conversation, I was starting to feel amused. Giddy, even!

How is Giovanna feeling now, I thought to myself as I sat, rocking still, on my bed, though the tempo had slowed a bit now.

And, how often does this thought ever hit Giovanna? Wondering how a person TRULY is feeling at a particular moment?

Was she even capable of conjuring up that thought? In the long-ago past, perhaps?

Is her brain capable of it now?

Has it EVER been capable of sending out empathy or sympathy messages so that she would react accordingly to a given situation?

Was she able to be kind to people before she turned to drugs and alcohol as her vice to escape whatever pain and trauma she had experienced in life that lead her to those toxic substances in the first place?

Had Giovanna EVER, in her entire life, possessed a heart?

If so, what happened to it?

Where has it gone?

Is it still inside of her, somewhere?

Could it ever be unearthed if she wanted it to be?

Can it be unearthed before her illness takes over and ends her life?

Does she even WANT to rediscover her lost heart?

Is this why she has turned to the Theta Healing cult? To fill in the deep, wide, gaping hole that had once occupied a kind, caring, affectionate, remorseful, empathetic, sympathetic heart, with the hopes that, someday, she will rediscover the heart that had, somehow, left her many, many years ago?

"My point, Ashlee, is that you don't hardly know Chris. How long have you known him?"

"Hmmmm, about Smm Smm Smm Smm years."

"Oh, don't give me that stupid Smm Smm crap!" she yelled. Now I knew how she was feeling… ANGRY!

Good! Serves her right!

"Okay, well, four years, then, or, as I like to say, Smm Smm Smm Smm years."

"Okay, well, that means that you still have sixteen years to really, REALLY know him."

"Wow, that's a lot of Smm Smms," I commented, debating with myself about whether or not I should say Smm Smm a whole bunch until the number sixteen was met to REALLY get under her skin.

"Not lazy enough," growled Bryan from over by the window where he was looking out at the velvety black sky, wondering when the next bout of rain would arrive. As much as I water Bryan, thirty-three times a day to be exact, he is always, forever thirsty. He absolutely loves the rain, which is one reason why I don't intend to leave Washington State. I mean, seriously, Dad, if there is another state that rains more than Washington, I would be at a loss of words if someone ever told me of another place that is wetter and soggier than Washington. The great, Northwestern state of mildew!

"All righty then," I said to Bryan. "I will remember that. Thanks for the reminder."

"Your quite welcome."

"Well, in the four years that I've known Chris, he's been nothing but good to me. Kind to me. Loving to me. Unlike," I said loudly, inhaling quickly.


"Oh, come off it, Ashlee," yelled Giovanna, even louder still. "He's possessed you with his black magic. Seriously, every time I do a reading on you, especially lately, there is always this big, black shadow hovering over you. When I asked Anana about it, she said that it is a psychic hook, very powerful and wicked indeed. She has removed it, several times, but it keeps coming back. The last time she removed it, she said that it was lodged deep in your back. She has removed it about six times, and it keeps returning. Which leaves me to come to one conclusion… that Chris is possessing you and that you are ALLOWING it to happen. You are calling the shadow onto you, inviting it in."

"Interesting," I said.

"You can laugh about it all you want, Ashlee, but this is no laughing matter," growled Giovanna. I'd bet anything that her nostrils were flared. She was definitely wired with anger!

"Chris has got you wrapped around his LITTLE finger and he's had you like that for FOUR YEARS!!!"

"You would know," I said scathingly, though not really feeling angry, even though she was insulting my boyfriend. It just all sounded so ridiculous, too crazy really, to get angry. I knew that, if Chris were sitting next to me on my bed right then, listening in on this conversation, he would laugh, too. He would not be angry in the least.

"And, what, exactly is THAT supposed to mean?"

"Well, you've had at least forty years of experience, probably even longer than that, of wrangling people into your life and then wrapping them around your little finger. So, yeah, you would be an expert on knowing when a person has someone wrapped around their finger. Tell me, Grandmama, because I am quite dying to know, how many little fingers do you have now? I'd imagine you have way more of them than Smm Smm, am I right in making this assumption?"

"No, you are grossly inaccurate," she said triumphantly.

"Wow, so you have MORE than what I thought you had! WOW, I've really underestimated you and your evil ways! Congratulations on fooling me yet again!"

"I don't appreciate this disrespect from you."

"Then hang up the phone already!" I said, positively bouncing up and down on my bed, wearing out the aged foam even more in the process, no doubt.

"You know," Giovanna rambled on, completely oblivious to my suggestion that she ought to end the phone call if she was feeling as hurt and disrespected as she claimed to be feeling,

"Anana won't even work on you anymore. She told me the last time that she removed that hook from you that she does not help people who do not wish to help themselves. She only works on people who are working on themselves as well, people who actually want to change, to be helped. I can honestly say that I do not blame her in the least. I have stopped working on you, too, although I must say that when I work on myself, which I have been doing a lot of, that it inevitably effects you and Amira Brigit Allert without me even asking the Creator of All That Is to help you two and to heal you two from karmic trauma, to remove psychic hooks, and so on. All the work that I am doing now affects…"

"Seven generations back and seven generations ahead," I finished for her, clapping my hands in mock celebration.

"Way to go Giovanna! Let the celebration begin! Helping dead people seven generations back! What MAGIC it is!"

"You're right," Giovanna said loudly. "Theta IS magic."


Did she REALLY just say that? Seriously, they must have the best brainwashing techniques of all time. I'd like to know how to do them. I'd like to know how to scam people like the Theta teachers, or, no, excuse me, the Theta "HEALERS", like they are scamming suckers like my grandma. And Chris would like to know, too. He's told me.

"Yes, Ashlee, Theta is magic. It's magic from the light! It's not the kind of magic that Chris…"

Again, she spat out the name as though someone had force-fed her a dead and rotting rat.

"practices. It's not the same kind of magic that YOU practice. Dark magic. Black magic. Magic of the dark. No, this is magic from the light, because, I, Giovanna (She proceeded to speak out her entire name, though I, unfortunately can't write it down on here for legal reasons) choose to walk in the light. I choose to only allow positive energy into my life. Positive, good, radiant energy from the light, sent to me by The Creator of All That Is From The Seventh Plane."

"You must have a very boring life, then," I observed.

"No, Ashlee, it is a life of light, a life of goodness, a life of eternal health, happiness, and healing. Something that you will NOT experience until you break away from HIM, the one who has placed a binding curse on you so that he can continue to control you like he has done for the last four years. And, you want to know what really gets me, Ashlee?"

Actually, yes, I really do. This conversation was really, REALLY getting good now. Thank you Chrissie for encouraging me to stay on the phone. You are the best troublemaker I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.

"What really gets me," she began, though I hadn't actually spoken my answer out loud on whether I wanted to know what really got her or not. But, what should I have expected but that? Could I really have expected anything else? It's not like she's ever waited for an opinion or an answer from me before, so why should she wait now? how was today different from any other day?

"Is that you are CHOOSING CHRISTIAN ALLERT over your whole, entire FAMILY!!!!"


Goes the bombshell.

Dad, in case you are wondering, Chris has no objection to me using his first and last name on here. But Giovanna does. In fact, she and Jennifer tried to get my blog taken down by their judges when they took me to court for basically bullying them back when they wouldn't leave me alone. They, as you can see, were unsuccessful in getting my blog taken down, but my lawyer has warned me to refrain from using full names, so, with much painstaking care and caution, I avoid using the full names of my family. All except mine, of course. My name is Ashlee Rose Levcun.

There, I said it! It's forever lodged into the cells of the never-ending circuit of Internet information and Google searches and I am proud of it! I think that my lawyer might have preferred me to not use real names at all, but, I personally, am willing to take the risk. I mean, seriously, what can a judge do to me? Throw me in jail for telling all the accounts of my childhood abuse, as well as comical conversations that I still continue to have with my nutty grandmother, the REAL crazy one in the picture, though she and Mom have tried for so long and so hard on convincing the rest of the world that I am the true crazy one. Well, there's nothing illegal in breaking the silence of past abuse, so I highly doubt I'll be facing any jail or prison time anytime soon. Anyway, I bet they're still trying to prove to anyone who will give them the time of day that I need to be committed, locked up for good, into an institution for the mentally ill. I wonder if they'll ever give up?

What else could a judge do to me? Give me a hugo, huge, huge, fine that I can never pay because I am well below the poverty line? Yes, hugo is a neat word, isn't it? I bet my mom would hate it if she ever saw it, let alone saw that her not-so-perfect daughter wrote it down on a very dark, evil blog called the Blind Satanist. The very blog that belongs to me, her imperfect daughter, and proud of it! Sure, a judge can make a judgment for me to pay a fine all they want, but they can't take water from a dry well, now, can they?

"Hmmmmm, what a difficult choice," I said, the sarcasm leaping into my throat before I could stop it.

"Let's see… You and Mom forced me to stay home until I was well over eighteen because you two just couldn't face the fact that, once I left home for good, so would the endless supply of social security money that should have been mine, that was intended for ME and only me that you two TOOK without asking my permission or even letting me know what you spent all the money on. Then, once I left home, you tried to take out a life insurance policy on me because you had, once again, spent all your money and needed to borrow money on something else to keep your head above water. Your ex boyfriend tried to form an illegal relationship with me when you broke his heart because he was damaged and well beyond repair from the insurmountable agony you inflicted upon him, so I had to deal with that trauma. Mom physically and emotionally abused me for my entire life as a child and teen, even taking to abandoning me in Naples, Florida, when I got too difficult to care for, which was when I reached the age where I really started understanding and questioning her abusive and undesirable, not to mention, ADULTEROUS behavior, leaving me with a very hurt and foul-tempered stepfather, four thousand miles from home, away from my father and the rest of my family, so she could continue on schmoozing around with her two boyfriends at the time, possibly more of them once I moved, or, rather, kidnapped by Tim, and forced to reside in Florida."

I was breathing very fast now and my rocking was beyond stoppable. If Jennifer had been at my house and had threatened to hit me if I didn't stop rocking, which was something she often did when I lived at her house to try and rid me of that "undesirable habit", I would have taken the slap. Nothing could stop my rocking or the next volley of words that would soon come tumbling forth from my lips.

"Chris, on the other hand, has been nothing but good and kind to me. I give him some money from my social security check because I want to, not because I have no other choice or because I don't even know what I'm getting for benefits because you and Mom had it so well hidden from me in countless bank accounts that I can never seem to access, even now. He only speaks to me with love and kindness, which is something that you and Jennifer have NEVER been able to do unless you wanted something from me. Usually, with Jennifer, it was good grades. With you, it was to conform to the latest cult that you had joined so that… I don't know, you wouldn't feel so alone and crazy because you had a companion. Chris accepts who I am, unlike Mom and you, and he is the one who helped me get free from you two. So, let's see, Chris Allert, who has never harmed a hair on my body or even raised his voice to me, even when I really deserved a good shouting at, or, you and Mom, two very nasty people who cause both havoc and destruction in the lives of those who have the misfortune of meeting you two, or, in my case, having landed, somehow in this family for some fucked-up reason. What a difficult decision."

"Chris IS abusing you. You are under too many spells to realize the DANGER that you are in right now. The spells are fogging your mind. When you are around him, you can't see what he is doing. For all you know, he is casting spells on you with hand signals and other visual cues that you would, of course, miss, because of your lack of eyesight. And, just so you know, YOU are the one who chose to be a part of this family. You were not placed here by evolution or some unknown creator. You chose to live with us, so, the only one to blame for that is yourself, if you are so damn miserable being amongst us. And, also for the record, your mother and I never abused you. Your mother sent you to Florida because she needed a break from you. And, if I'm not mistaken, she offered to bring you back home and it was YOU who refused to come back."

"Yeah, because I'd rather be home alone for seven plus hours a day while Tim worked, than be harassed constantly by a lunatic who never stopped yelling, no matter how hard you worked to please her. There was always something wrong that I did, always, always, ALWAYS! At least Tim was easy to pacify so long as he wasn't too drunk. And, I don't believe that I chose to live with you lot. You only say that to pass the blame onto me when, really, it belongs to no-one other than you and Jennifer. I know that your Theta cult encourages its followers to lie to themselves to make their lives seem all grand and chipper, and to cast blame that belongs to you onto innocent passersby, but, really, Giovanna, the blame for all of this belongs to you and Jennifer. I didn't ask to be born and I certainly did not ask to be placed with you fuckers. You know… just for the record, as you so wisely said."

"I just don't understand why you would choose a total stranger over your family, your family who loves you, who cared for you all your life, who still loves you and wants, more than anything, for you to come back home to us and take Amira with you, too."

"Oh yeah, I'm SURE YOU DO," I snarled back, my protective, lioness maternal instincts kicking in.

Now, I know that I am nowhere near the best mother in the world and that I, by far, can never be a contestant for the mother of the year award, but I do know one thing for sure. I will NEVER subject my daughter to those atrocious people. She would be better off getting adopted out to strangers through a closed adoption process so that they could never find her, than to live with them.

"Well, fine, Ashlee, that's just fine!" sniffed Giovanna.

"Go ahead, choose a total STRANGER over your family. These days, I can't have expected anything else from you. You are so different than the way you used to be. I want my Ashlee back. We all do."

"I'm not anybody's Ashlee," I roared, anger returning with the speed and ferocity of a lightning bolt.

"I belong to NOBODY and I answer to NO-ONE!!"

I answer to no-one like you, Dad. Or, at least, that's what I strive to do. I've got work to do, but I'm working diligently on it. Or, as diligently as I can with a tree of laziness constantly growling at me to be lazy.

"I can't believe that it has been TWO YEARS and I STILL haven't met Amira," pined Giovanna on the other end of the receiver. "Your mom is so broken-hearted about it. She cries nearly every day. I really wish that she would follow Theta like I am doing. If she did, she would learn to let it go, just like I have."

"Let what go?"

"Just… let it all go. Not getting to ever meet Amira or see her, except for in pictures, letting you go and what used to be you go… just EVERYTHING! I am MOVING ON!"

It sure doesn't seem like you have moved on, I thought to myself, and all five of my imaginary friends nodded in agreement, making me click my tongue five times as they each, individually, moved their head, subtley, up and down.

You want to know something really weird, Dad? Or, well, maybe it isn't so weird after all. You might not be surprised, and neither should I be. I have changed a great deal since I lived in pathetic, sheltered, nothing and nowhere Poop Ludlow, but, sometimes, revelations and thoughts occur to me that still surprise me, even now.

What really surprised me during this part of the conversation was that a part of me, I can't tell you how big or small, doesn't want Giovanna to move on. Or Jennifer, for that matter. I want them to feel stuck and sad, commiserating together on a daily basis, or at least a weekly basis, on all that they are missing. I do not think that I have completely accepted this for a fact, though I am working on this as well, but my mother and grandmother will NEVER accept or admit, even to themselves let alone to me or anyone else, that they were in the wrong and still are. They will never admit and accept that THEY are the reasons that they aren't seeing Amira or me now. I will always be the one to blame for it to them. I think that a large and very ugly reason why I continue to talk to my mother and was talking to my grandmother, is because, a part of me inside, has a stupid, useless ray of hope that they will change, that they will come to accept and admit that, maybe, just maybe, it isn't all in my head, about the abuse I endured while in their care as Jennifer so fervently claims that it is. Maybe, just maybe, I am not the crazy one. And, if I am somewhat crazy, which I very might well be and often wonder about sometimes, that THEY are the reason for my craziness, or, in a psychiatrist's terms, psychosis. I would really like it if there could be some accountability for them, that they would stand up to the plate, FINALLY, and take some responsibility for the irrepairable damage that they inflicted.

Chris seems to think that I can repair it and change my ways so as not to be like them, but I am not so hopeful about that. I'd like to be and I try to be, but, realistically, I just can't see any way around it. The damage is done, so the saying goes, and I'm not so convinced that I can fix it, no matter how hard or not hard, that I try.

Until this happens, though, Jennifer and Giovanna admitting and taking responsibility for their wrongdoings, I do find myself finding much satisfaction that they have not moved on, despite my grandmother's constant testimonies that she has moved on. If they aren't going to change their ways, admit and accept what bad people that they are, I, at least, deserve the satisfaction of knowing just how miserable and regretful they are about not getting to meet their granddaughter and great-granddaughter, as well as not being a part of my life very much. I mean, I haven't seen them since December! To me, that doesn't seem like a very close family unit, what do you think?

So, when my grandmother talked about moving on, it made me both giggle at her denial, but, at the same time, fear it, because they don't deserve to get off so easy and moving on would surely let them off easy, wouldn't it? Still, I think I'm right, though, that my grandma really hasn't moved on, that she never will move on, and that she is just giving herself a bunch of hocus pocus pep talks whenever she faces weak moments, which seem to become more and more frequent as her unstable life moves forward, as everything that she has ever done, mostly bad, I can imagine, is finally starting to catch up to her, fast, angry, and unbeatable. She can run, but she certainly can't hide. In the end, it will all catch up to her. And THAT gives me immense satisfaction.

This story is going to have at least another part to it, Dad. There is just so much material and so little time. I find myself needing a break, feeling stiff, tired fingers complaining more loudly as time goes on. And, if I continue to force them, I will have a very unhappy, ten thousand pound tree to deal with, so, I'd better end it here while the going's good then.

I love you, Dad. Please be well, wherever you are, and know that I will never stop loving and thinking of you and remembering you, no matter what life throws at me.

HAIL SATAN!!!!!!!!!


---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: giovanna *** <g***@***.com>
Date: Tue, 27 Sep 2016 00:20:35 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: Sharing a mindful thought
To: "ashlee***@***.com" <ashlee***@***.com>

Hello Ashlee,

This definition of beauty and love and loss and shift in my life
without having control of loss, reminds me of YOU, and our
relationship experience.

I want to share this: it is what I am working through; you are the
beauty in my life. Here it is.

The avoidance of loss, or change of any kind, can be a habituated, if
ineffective, way to unconsciously resist the inevitability of death.
Death of a relationship, or the particular form of a relationship. The
ending of a chapter of life that must complete in totality to give way
to the next phase. Death of who you have always known yourself to be,
in order to become who you really are.

We are not attempting to deny or overcome the often unimaginable
grief, pain and disorientation of loss. The invitation here is to
connect with what was given, and the eternal flower of those things,
those touches of indescribable Beauty, communion, and Love that happen
in a moment, but will echo throughout our lives forever.

YOU, Ashlee, are the beauty I am thinking of here, when reading this passage.

In my own inquiry, what I've found to be true is that the same
annihilation of self I feel when faced with death, I feel in a
different tone when faced with overwhelming Beauty. By Beauty I mean
the unparalleled experience of having true communion with Love and
more than love - when the veils part and the Glory of Creation reveals
itself in luminous clarity. The moment of birth, the moment of
soul-connected orgasm, falling in love with a soul-kindred, communing
with the magnificence of nature, contacting the mysticism of All That
Is, or absorption in the exquisite privacy of your indwelling
Mystery........all of these types of mystical experiences have an
impact on our psyche that can be as strong as the impact of trauma.
There is an obvious tonal difference here. But experiences of trauma
and indescribable Beauty both annihilate the underpinnings of your
life, and usher in a threshold of transformation that insist you
recognize and surrender to who you really are.

Take the experience of falling in love with a soul-kindred, and then
having to release that relationship, either through death or
separation. If you scan through the most pristine moments of time and
connection that you had together, or the steady and unwavering love
that held your relationship through all the changes of feeling and
circumstance, you'll find that there is a depth and a power to the
reality of what is between you that transcends all death and change.
What was brought to you through that relationship, or through a
particular life circumstance, was a gift of the Divine for YOU.
Forever given, and forever radiating nourishment and illumination for
your earth walk.

Similar to the way in which your system can be overwhelmed and unable
to fully process and release a trauma, Beauty leaves a residual impact
in your being that is often so big that you simply can't absorb it
all. When faced with inevitable loss, and asked to surrender to that
loss, one of the greatest gifts we can give ourselves is to take the
time to fully absorb what was given.

When you give yourself the gift of full permission to absorb the
Totality, the grand Beauty that was given and can never be lost
because it resides in the Eternal, you also give yourself the gift of
liberation into loss. You help yourself to anchor in that which never
changes. You also drink up ALL the nectar that was already given, but
not yet fully receive by you, and in that, you may find that your
yearning, your grief itself changes form. Often we are partly grieving
because we feel there was more yet to come. Opening to absorb all that
was actually given may soften your yearning and help you to graciously
turn towards the new unknown chapter of your life with a sense of
nourishment and hope, rather than fear and disappointment.

When you forge a relationship to the Eternal Flower within the things
that change, die, or shift in your life, often beyond your control,
you're also forging a relationship to a deep source of sustenance that
will give you the courage to MAKE the changes that you need to make in
your life. You can't be manipulated by fear of loss or change if you
teach yourself how to navigate change within the context of the
Eternal, and how to truly nourish yourself in the face of loss.

"In many ways, the feeling of grief is not just an expression of
mourning what was lost, but also be a signal that there is more to be
received." by Jumana Sophia

In love,

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: giovanna *** <g***@***.com>
Date: Sun, 18 Sep 2016 10:27:57 -0700
Subject: We will always love each other.
To: Ashlee Levcun <ashlee***@***.com>

Hi Ashlee!
I would like to say that you know that I love you with all my heart,
and I know that you love me, no matter what!
Sincerely and with best wishes always,
Grandmother ❤️

Sent from my iPhone

Friday, September 23, 2016

The Bad Student, Part 1

Dear Dad,

Bryan, the tree of laziness, is eating a very large piece of lemon meringue pie right now, and it greatly reminded me of you. I know how much you love, love, LOVED lemon meringue pie! Honestly, I've never tried it, nor do I think I will like it when I do try it, if I ever get around to it, but I feel that someday, I should give it a chance, at least take a bite of it in your honor. Maybe on your upcoming birthday, December fifth, I will take one bite of the stuff, just for you. If I like it, I'll proceed to eat the entire piece. If not, Bryan will take care of it for me. He always knows what to do with leftover or disliked food. His appetite has always been very good, just like yours was.

Life for Grandmama has not been going so well. I spoke with her on Friday night and she is a royal mess! The conversation was so bizarre that I feel I absolutely MUST write about it while it's still fresh in my mind. If I don't, I may forget very important details and I can't let that happen! So, here goes. The saga of Ashlee Smm Smm continued.

Very early on Friday morning, I received a phone call. It was around nine or ten in the morning that I got the call. It was from Grandmama. I didn't answer my phone because Chris, Amira, and I were on our way to spend the day in Seattle, and I absolutely HATE talking on the phone while I'm out in public. It's way too distracting and it causes me a great deal of stress and anxiety. Stress and anxiety that is completely useless, stress and anxiety that does not help me in the least. So, I let the call go to voice mail and decided to listen to the message later.

When we were all safely on the bus, heading to Tacoma to catch our train to Seattle, I listened to the message, wondering to myself why she was calling. I hadn't spoken to her in Smm Smm Smm Smm (4) days, and I wondered what she wanted.

Her message was the usual bullshit: she was thinking of me, missed me, loved me, bullshit bullshit. Erase went the message, and that was that.

All day we were in Seattle, and we had a magnificent time. We went to Seattle Center and Amira got to play on the playground for a while. She played on the swings and the slide for a very long time, then proceeded to explore the area where all the rocks snoozed in the mid-morning sun and she tossed them around for a bit, giggling all the while and, once in a while, trying to hog all the toys in the park from other kids. She is at the frustrating stage in life where she absolutely HATES sharing with anyone! I remember being at that stage when I was five, so I can relate and understand it quite well, but I sincerely hope that she outgrows it sooner than I did.

Then we went to the other playground at the Science Center where kids can wade in a pool with fountains all around it. Amira really enjoyed that, too. She took her shoes and socks off and splashed right in, Chris at her heels, while I sat lazily back and listened to them laugh and splash around in the water. I didn't really feel like getting wet. It wasn't exactly what you would call a water day. The sun was out, but it wasn't casting very much warmth on anything. And, I felt like being lazy and wading around in an unfamiliar pool is not what I consider lazy. I'm sure that Bryan can attest to that also.

Then we went to the big fountain, possibly the biggest fountain at the center, where there are speakers all around and listened to the music for a bit, while Amira sang "na-nee-naaaa" along with it. It was so adorable! We got to go to Dick's drive In and we also got fudge, which we ate on Alki Beach later on that day and at a doughnut shop when Amira took her brief but much-needed afternoon nap, allowing Chris and I about a half hour of uninterrupted conversation and lazy time. Or, as lazy of a time as one can get inside of a rather noisy and cramped doughnut shop. That was okay, though. I'll take what I can get these days when it comes to lazy time with Chris. I don't get much of it, so, when I do get some, I try to enjoy every minute that I get before it gets interrupted again.

That evening, when I got home from the long but fun day in the big, rowdy city of Seattle, I couldn't help wondering, once again, why my grandmother had called. Her message had seemed so vague, but, these days, she doesn't call unless there is a reason. I thought that A: she was feeling really lonely and wanted to talk to someone, ANYONE, who was willing to talk to her or B: She was angry about something that I had done and wanted to confront me about it. All that day, I found myself wondering, fleetingly, whether she had discovered my new postings on my blog. So, fed up with all the useless wondering, I decided to give her a call to see what was up.



I could tell, immediately, that she was off as soon as she answered the phone. Drunk, perhaps?

Or ill?


Permanently destitute from finally burning her last bridge?

These thoughts raced through my mind in a matter of Smm Smm seconds or less.

"Hi, Grandma," I answered sweetly. I was feeling very happy from such a pleasantly eventful day and also from all the chocolate fudge and Dick's Drive In cheeseburgers and fries that I had eaten during the course of the day.

"How are you?"

"I'm good," she said, her voice still sounding quite altered.

"Really… Really… Good."

Drunk! I knew it right then. That slow, fake confident way of speaking.

I should have hung up then, but I didn't. I wanted to have a nice, positive conversation with my grandma, if possible. And, I was still wondering why she had called me in the first place.

"That's good," I said quickly, not sure how to steer the conversation. Either she was too drunk to remember why she had called me in the morning, or she did remember and was going to pounce at any moment.

"Or, maybe she doesn't even remember calling," suggested Chrissie as the seconds went on.

"I doubt that," I told her. Grandmama did get drunk pretty frequently, but, somehow, she always managed to remember what happened and her reason for doing certain things, especially if she was angry. I was quite sure that she did remember why she called.

"What did you do today?" she asked, slurring her words at this point. The longer her sentences were, it seemed, the more difficult it was for her to hide the fact that she was drunk. And, more importantly, to hide just HOW drunk she actually was.

As if I really cared in the first place.

"Amira, Chris, and I went to Seattle," I said enthusiastically, glad that the topic had steered into a positive lane.

"Amira had a wonderful time. I just got home and wanted to return your call. Sorry it took me so long to call you back. I hate talking on the phone in public. Too distracting."

"You don't sound very grounded," she observed.

Indeed, I was talking rather fast. For one thing, I was feeling rather anxious about this conversation that we were having. I was wondering how long I would be able to keep my imaginary car on Positive Lane before she side swiped me in her oversized imaginary pickup truck or SUV, perhaps, and took me into Negative Nellie Alley, a frequent visiting ground of hers these days, especially when she is under the influence of alcohol. Secondly, I was quite buzzed on blissful fudge adrenaline! There was no denying it and I didn't even try.

Fudge makes me happy! What's the big deal?

It's better than booze making me happy!

"Well, I'm a bit hyper," I told her.

"I had some fudge today and chocolate always makes me happy. And, I just had an awesome day and am feeling really good about things. Life in general, actually. Amira's doing very well, Chris is doing well, and that makes me happy. Amira's talking in full sentences now and she has developed quite a fondness for music. And, she is a much better traveler now that she has gotten a bit older. There really isn't much to complain about."

My nerves were still a bit twitchy, but they were relaxing a bit the more I talked about how well things in my life were going. Of course, there were bumps in the road and still are, but that's a given in this world. Nobody's life is perfect, no matter how hard they try to convince you it is. I'm not even going to try to do that because, although my life is going fairly well, it's by far, not perfect. No one's is. And no one's life ever will be. Not a negative statement, it's fact.

Rather than join in the joy with me about all these positive things, Grandmama instead chose to take a dark outlook on things. She decided, just as I had both feared and hoped at the same time, to turn directly into the mouth of Negative Nelly Alley, tugging me along behind her massive vehicle as she blundered deeper and deeper within its dark, grimy walls. I was hoping that she had seen my newest additions to the blog and that she was mad about it, but, at the same time, I wanted to have a peaceful conversation with her, too, as I had just had a pretty awesome day and I felt quite at peace with the world, a part from being rather carsick from the long bus ride from Lakewood to Olympia. But the part of me that wanted to fight won out, hence the whole reason why I called her back.

"When was the last time you have taken your medication?" she asked me, completely ignoring everything that I had just told her.

Disregarding me again!

As usual.

"Yesterday," I lied quickly. I knew what medication she was asking about. She was referring to the bipolar medication that I am supposed to be taking. SUPPOSED is the key word here, Dad. The medication that my family think that I am diligently taking as the psychiatrist prescribed, the abilify. The medication that I am proudly NOT taking. Fifteen grams was the amount they said to take. Fifteen grams that went bye-bye down the drain, never to be seen again!

Yummy, yummy, eat it up.

Watch that creativity fall away as it sucks the life right out of you.

Oh yes, good stuff.

Let's keep taking it, shall we?

I think not.

Truthfully, I haven't taken a drop of that shit since December, so a good nine months ago. The last time I swallowed that imagination killing pill was when I went to visit Jennifer and Giovanna, THE last time I have seen them, also, since December. The medication was useless. All it did was make me feel like barfing, suck all the energy, creativity, and life out of me, not to mention, keep me awake all night, when my body yearned, craved, SCREAMED for nothing more but the sweet release of sleep. But my mom, Grandmama, and other relatives think that I am still on it. I've got to keep the story going, Dad, or else the money from Jennifer will stop coming. Not that it comes that consistently anyway, but, once again, I'll take what I can get. In the meantime, the unfinished bottle of abilify resides in the Pacific Ocean, in the sewer system, and maybe a little bit resides in the bowels of my garbage disposal. Oh yeah, and probably some of it resides in the bellies of fish and other sea creatures that ingested the brain-crushing concoction since, apparently, at least one hippyish person of Olympia is under the impression that I polluted the ocean and got all the fish high when I dumped the entire contents of the bottle down the drain of my kitchen sink, turned on the water, then the garbage disposal, and basked in the sound of pills and gurgling water as all sixty of the pills found their painful and much deserved demise as my very faithful, loyal disposal ground them up into nothing more than powder.

"I don't think so," answered Grandmama in a deadly, quiet voice.

"I don't think you've taken it since we've talked. And that was about…"

She paused, trying to figure the simple arithmetic out in her booze-infested, dying and decaying brain.

"About four or five days ago," she finally said after five seconds had gone by.

"Glad you finally figured it out," I said irritably.

Why was I getting so mad, anyway? I should have been LAUGHING!!!! If she seriously thought that it had only been Smm Smm Smm Smm days or noses (5) days since I had taken my last dose of abilify, then I have been lying quite well. Rather than get angry, I should have patted myself on the back.

Well done Ashlee!

By the way, noses equals five because the word noses has five letters in it. Get it? Smm Smm is a whole different number system, though. Smm Smm numbers only deal with even numbers, like the number Smm Smm (2) and Smm Smm Smm Smm, which is the number four. Noses of something deals with the oddball collection of numbers.

Do you like that dose of creativity? Well, you can thank my abilifyless brain for coming up with that system. It took a while but I am satisfied with the results. Maybe someday, the whole world will live by my rule of Smm Smm numbers. But, until then, I'm satisfied that my closest friends understand them. That's good enough for now!

Well done Ashlee!!

"Actually, I DID take it yesterday, not that it's any of your business, anyway," I continued angrily.

"Are you SURE you took them?" she asked in her demeaning, slurring voice.

"Yes I'm sure," I said loudly.

"I took it and I felt like shit all day. Does that make you feel better?"

In truth, I had taken a medication that previous day. I had taken my Thyroid pill, one pill that I do, actually, take daily, because it actually IS something that I need and it actually does help me. I can feel that it works and my body has responded well to it. And, most importantly of all, it does not alter my imagination or the ability to communicate with my imaginary friends like the abilify had done.

Also truthfully, I had felt like crap that previous day, but that was only because I had stayed up too long and hadn't gotten enough rest. I needed sleep and I would feel fine, I knew, and ended up sleeping all day on Thursday and most of Friday morning in the very early hours, and, sure enough, I was good to go and eager for a Seattle adventure with my family. I also know that, had I taken the abilify like I told my grandma I had done, I know for a fact that I would have felt like shit because that's how it always makes me feel whenever I take a dose of it, so, yeah, I wasn't really lying all the way! I would have felt like shit if I had taken the abilify, that is a true statement 100 percent! I would have felt even WORSE if I had taken it to boot!

So, I'm only lying a little bit, I thought to myself as I sat there on my bed, wondering what annoying question or demeaning comment that Grandmama would bark at me next.

Is that the way Jennifer thinks, Dad? Is that how she has justified all of her lies for my whole life? That she only lied a little bit but that some of what she said was true so, therefore, it was all okay?

God, if that IS what she has done, and continues to do, than THAT makes me just like her, and not in a way that I am proud of at all.

Not in a good way.

Not in a way that I want to embrace and live with for the rest of my life.

Chris tells me that I can change how I am if I simply try and understand the way my mom thinks and why she does the things she does, but I'm not so sure it is that easy. I'm not so sure it is so easy to change, nor am I so sure that it is as simple as understanding, or trying to understand, how Jennifer and her evil mother think.

And, I'm not so sure that I even WANT to understand it!

And, I'm not so sure that I want to change, even if I knew how to! It just seems like too much work! Too much work that I'm not even sure will be appreciated in the long run by Chris or Amira, or by anyone, really.

Is that what kept Jennifer from being different from her mother? That kind of thinking?

Did she, too, like me, think that changing was near impossible? And did she think that it was too much work, like I do, and maybe just not worth it in the end because nobody would appreciate or even notice all of her hard work?

No, she can't have. Jennifer embraces anything that has to do with work! She is, what she calls herself and proudly so, a "work horse." She would never say no to a project or anything that involved work.

Unless, maybe it was work that made her delve deep within her soul, work that made her look at herself, truthfully, for the first time, and really made her see what kind of person that she is.

The kind of person who I am today because of her.

Because of her and Giovanna!

"No, it doesn't make me feel better," replied Grandmama.

"I don't want you to feel sick. When are you going to go to the doctor and get put on a different med?"

"I don't know," I answered tartly, feeling even angrier than I had a minute ago.

Seriously, what the HELL was going on?!!!!

"Well, you sound completely ungrounded to me and WAY too hyper," she continued.

Continues the hypocritical, drunk, slurring, barely able to figure out basic math, decrepit, old, dying woman, I thought bitterly to myself, rocking back and forth on my worn out bed.

When, oh when, am I going to find the money and the energy to replace the damn thing anyway?

"Have you been eating a lot of sugar?" she demanded suddenly, no longer speaking in the soft voice that she had adopted a mere second ago.

"I did," I admitted shamelessly. Normally when I speak to Giovanna and she asks me a question that is so personal like this, I generally feel ashamed to answer truthfully because I know that I am going to be reprimanded for it. Sometimes, so ashamed, that I lie and tell her what I think she wants to hear. And, still on other occasions, when I don't feel ashamed, on those rare instances, I lie anyway just because I don't want to hear her nag me to death because she can't or won't accept the fact that this is MY life and that I am going to live it the way I choose to, whether she likes it or not! The same goes for Jennifer. I lie to her, too, sometimes because I am ashamed and other times, just because I don't want to be reprimanded or given a stupid guilt trip all because I'm doing something, or have already done something, that they don't agree with or approve of.

Just like Jennifer, once again. Lying my ass off.

And, for what?

On that day, though, I felt no shame at all. I wasn't going to cow down to that hag, not like I had previously done on our more recent conversations when she had attacked me for, literally, no reason at all, other than the fact, possibly, that I had called her back. What a bad girl I am!

The war was OOOONNNNN!!

"What did you have?"

"Well, before we boarded the train to Seattle, I got a sixteen ounce pint of chocolate ice cream and I ate the whole, bloody thing right on the train during the trip," I said, smiling so hugely that it probably would have looked moronic to someone if anyone but me had been inside of the apartment. The smile didn't feel right to me, either. It didn't belong, and that disturbed me. It was like something was taking control of me. Something that I could not name, see, feel, or reason with. That happens a lot with me, Dad, and, as much as I hate admitting weakness, it really scares me.

Is that what happens to Jennifer, too?

To Giovanna?

What is it?

Why does it happen?

What triggers it?

And, most importantly, how do I find out what it is and how do I stop this thing, this evil, unseen, unpredictable thing of madness once and for all before it destroys my family even more than it has already?

How do I stop it before it hurts my daughter, Amira Brigit Allert?

Do I really want to stop it, though? It has come in handy quite a few times, this thing.

"And THEN!" I half-shouted, becoming angrier, still by the second, more at myself for being so angry and not knowing why and about what was taking over me that I couldn't stop more than I was angry at Grandmama at this point,

"I ate a bunch of chocolate fudge from Seattle Center today hours later. It was rich, milk chocolate fudge and I'd bed you anything that I ate more of it than Chris did and I'm PROUD OF IT, TOO!"

Ever since Grandmama has joined the Theta Healing cult and since she has seen me after I had Amira, she has been stressing the importance of living life sugar free. She has also been making a point of going out of her way to cut on the fact that I was overweight even though I'm not overweight anymore but she hasn't seen me since I've lost the weight so she doesn't know how much I've actually lost over the past nine months. She actually had the utter audacity to point out my "double chin" as she called it, right in the psychiatric ward of Behavioral Health Resources within five minutes of our visit when she visited me the first time I was admitted into a psych hospital a little over a year ago. The thought of that, even now, absolutely makes me want to go find her and punch, punch, PUNCH her wrinkly, pallid, thin, worn face in. I mean, come on, that is NOT one of the first things that you should point out and say to a person who is in, of all places to be, a PSYCH WARD for an emotional overload, not to mention, saying that to a person who you supposedly love that you haven't seen in over Smm Smm years! A person who she calls "family."

What does family mean to her, anyway?

What does family mean to Jennifer?

What does family mean to ME?

What SHOULD family mean at all?

And, why am I so afraid of having a family? Why do I find it so threatening?

Is it the closeness of it all? The binding, trapped feeling that I feel when I even THINK of living with Chris and Amira again?

Why does it make me feel like that, anyway? Most people have a warm, fuzzy, loving feeling when they think of family.

So why doesn't it for me?

"That's not taking care of yourself, Ashlee," the drunk hypocrite said, not even bothering to hide her slur at this point. Part of the reason why I was feeling so angry was because, here she was, talking down to me, telling me that I wasn't taking care of myself when she was on the other side of the phone, drinking her heart out and all I had done was eat a little fudge and indulge, maybe a little too much, on ice cream. But at least I was SOBER! At least I would be able to remember our entire conversation the next day instead of remembering it the way she most likely would, with chunks here and there missing, gaps in the puzzle of events. Fucking hypocrite she was!

Fucking hypocrite she IS!!

"Did Amira get to have fudge?" asked Grandmama, knowing full well that Amira is not allowed to eat anything that has sugar in it. It's more Chris's decision than mine, but I respect it because he's with her twenty-four seven and I'm not. He says he doesn't want to deal with ice cream and candy tantrums all the time. Honestly, I don't blame him. I wouldn't want to deal with them, either.

I don't feel as strongly about Amira not eating sugar as he does, but, again, he's stuck with her all the time, so I feel that he has the right to decide. Besides, he IS right! She will be off to a healthier start in life if she doesn't become addicted to sugar at a young age like him and I did. And, as much as I love sugar, it really is bad for you.

I've explained his views on the matter to my mom and grandmamma more than once, so, when she asked this, a spark of fiery red anger ignited inside my head.

"What do you mean did Amira have fudge?" I snarled at her.

"You know that she isn't allowed to eat that junk."

"Did Chris have fudge?" she persisted. I sat there, wondering why it mattered whether Chris had fudge or not and how it was relevant to why she had called me that morning in the first place.

"Yes, we both did."

"Well, don't you think it's a bit unfair that Chris got to have fudge and you had fudge but she didn't?"

"I don't know… maybe," I answered, a little taken aback by this absurd question.

"I guess I hadn't given it much thought. Actually, yes," I added suddenly, on a whim.

"It is fair."

"Oh yeah, how do you figure?"

"Well, you wouldn't give a child a cigarette if she was hanging out with you and you wanted to light up, would you?"

"Of COURSE NOT!" she said defensively. I guess I had finally pushed a little button on her switch. FINALLY! It gave me immense satisfaction to know this.

"Mom, you should just hang up now," Nevaeh warned me quietly.

"Remember what we discussed? If she started attacking you when you returned her call, which she most certainly is doing right now, we decided that you would hang up the phone. You would not keep egging her on, adding fuel to the fire. You agreed to this, Mom, really, you did! This conversation is going nowhere. Just end it before you get even angrier than you already are."

"Fight, fight, fight!" roared Chrissie, flinging her arms around in the air, punching the air with her tiny fists.

"Don't hang up, the fight's just starting to get good. Keep talking, Mommy, make her mad! Don't keep silent like you always do! It'll just give her satisfaction of knowing that she won yet another argument. Don't give her the satisfaction."

"I won't," I told her vehemently.

"I absolutely WILL NOT give her the satisfaction."

Chrissie was right. Grandmama and I have had pretty negative conversations the past Smm Smm or Nevaeh (3) times that we have talked, and, each time, I just remained silent and took it and took it. Like I am a submissive or something.

Am I? Am I a submissive and just am not willing to admit it, even to myself?

Or maybe I am a switch. A dominant and a submissive. There really are people that are both, though I don't really understand that concept. How can you be both dominant and submissive?

But, maybe I am.

Maybe I am a living, breathing, walking, talking example of a switch, the very concept that I don't understand because…


Because I don't want to?

No wonder I don't get along well with therapists who I have tried seeing. There are just so many things that I don't want to know, don't want to see, don't want to hear…


Although, it is worth saying that most therapists suck and really shouldn't be in practice at all.

"Well, then it's not unfair to withhold something that you, yourself, say is toxic for people to eat from a two-year-old who doesn't even know what fudge is."

"I just think that you two should eat healthy food in front of her. I mean, wasn't she ASKING for some of the fudge?"

"Actually, no, she didn't," I answered honestly.

"We ate it while she was sleeping and while she was busy throwing rocks in the water at Alki Beach when we took the water taxi over there. She didn't even have a clue that I was eating fudge. Chris was chasing her when I ate the fudge."

And, why am I even bothering to explain all of this to her in the fucking first place? That was the thought that was going through my head as my face began to grow uncomfortably hot with rage now. Not anger any longer… RAGE!

Why did I feel like I had to explain all of this to her? She wasn't even going to remember it tomorrow, not completely, anyway. And, even if she did remember it, she wasn't listening to a word I was saying. She never does. Because the only thoughts that matter, the only voice that deserves any kind of recognition, the only opinion that should be valued, in her eyes, is hers. Everyone else can just go and eat shit!

Why do I still continue to feel like I have to explain myself to my relatives? Not just relatives… friends, too. I always feel like I have to explain myself for just about everything. And I hate it! Another reason why I was so angry during that conversation, I am realizing now, thanks to you giving me the space to write it out and think about everything in a different way now that I have calmed down, somewhat anyway. I am still pretty angry when I think about this conversation. And I don't really feel like I have calmed down, actually. Honestly, I don't. I don't think that anything but revenge will make me calm down, but I don't quite know what to do yet and I don't want to act on an impulse and get myself into trouble and go back to court again. I don't want to be impulsive like Jennifer and Giovanna. I want to break that cycle…

If I can.

But HOW????

"Instead of stuffing your double-chinned face with fudge, you should have been running along the beach with your daughter," snapped Grandmama.

"It would have been a much healthier thing to do, a much wiser thing for you to have done. It would have been for your highest good and the highest good of all."

Her and her stupid Theta talk again.

"The highest good of all, huh?" I asked, the sarcasm so thick in my voice that, if it were smoke, it would have set the fire alarm off.

"How does it effect anybody else when I eat fudge."

"Because your daughter would have gotten to play with both of her parents instead of just one," Grandmama answered simply.

"And, the things that happen in her life, whether positive or negative, does not just effect her: it effects seven generations ahead and seven generations behind. When will you accept this concept? Even our ancestors are effected by what we do."

"Well, that's not what happened," I said carelessly, so angry now that I honestly didn't give a fuck what came out of my mouth. And, even if I did care, I don't think I would have been able to stop the angry words from spewing forth from my lips because that unseen thing had a tighter and firmer grip on me. It was gaining ground. I could tell because, at this point in the conversation, I was no longer scared of how out of control I was. In fact, I liked it. I embraced it. I welcomed it. Whatever it was, it was giving me the courage, the strength, the fearlessness to say just about anything that I wanted to say to Giovanna, and that didn't happen regularly enough for me. So, I wanted to keep the conversation going for as long as I could, at this point, to say everything that was on my mind before "the thing" lost its grip on me, either from distraction or from loss of strength, and I lost my courage once more to freely speak my mind to this atrocious woman, who I knew was only intending to cause me as much emotional harm as she possibly could, despite all the crap she always says in the middle of attacking me about how much she "loves" me and only wants the best for me and Amira. Again, more bullshit. I had to fight back. Fight back or surrender and hang up, handing her yet another victory, another conversation where the power was all hers.

I was going to fight! Even if it got me into trouble!

I just didn't care anymore.

"I wanted fudge, so I ate fudge, and I enjoyed every tasty bite that came to me. It was very lazy, very blissful, and, if I could go back in time, I wouldn't change a goddamn, mother fucking thing. So, what do you have to say about that?"

"I say that you are very manic right now and that it is highly apparent that you aren't taking care of yourself."

"Well I can hear that you are highly drunk right now, given all the slurring that you are doing with every syllable of every word that you utter, and, from that alone, I can only infer that you, also, aren't taking very good care of yourself, either, so you, therefore, have no room to talk. It's like calling the kettle black. And one of the people whom I hate the most are hypocrites. Are you a hypocrite?"

"No, I am not," Grandmama said defiantly.

"I've had two glasses of wine on an empty stomach, but I can absolutely say with 100 percent conviction, that I am WAY more balanced and grounded than you are."

"Yeah, well, when you can tell me the meaning of the word infer, I'll believe you. But I won't expect that definition until tomorrow when you have managed to sleep off your intoxication."

This felt so exhilarating! Is this why so many people in the world have so many anger issues? Because it feels SOOOOOO freaking good to tell people who bully and abuse you what you really think and feel about them?

Is this why Jennifer enjoyed abusing me so much as a kid? Because her mother made her feel so powerless that she could think of nothing else to do to boost her self esteem but to use me as a scapegoat and hurt me again and again until, finally, I rebelled at around twenty years old, and shook her up for life by creating this blog and thoroughly exposing her once and for all after so many years of tormented silence?

Because that's what her mother did to her.

Or did Jennifer just abuse me because she was a power hungry monster who wasn't being abused by her mother at all.

I kind of think it is both. Unlike me, Jennifer never broke away from her mother the same way that I managed to break away from Jennifer. She is still on Giovanna's phone plan and she lives in her mother's house in Poop Ludlow. And, the old, beater car that she drives actually belongs to… Yeah, you guessed it, her mother as well.

So, I think that my mother is still a victim of my grandmother's emotional abuse and that she often tries to project it onto me by being abusive when we talk sometimes, although it's becoming less and less because Jennifer knows that I won't tolerate it like she tolerates Giovanna's abuse.

On that note, I also think that Jennifer is also a power tripping monster who also likes to beat people down in the form of bullying because it gives her power that she can't otherwise get by doing something else. Or, that's what she thinks, anyway.

And, here I was, bullying my grandmother back. And it felt so good!

Am I an abuser, too? A perpetrator?

Well, this story is ending up to be quite a bit longer than I planned on it being. And, I am growing quite tired and hungry at the moment, so this is going to have to be continued. I assure you, Dad, comedy is up next! That's when Grandmama starts to lose her own self control and really say some pretty bizarre, outlandish stuff. I'll write soon! I love you!

HAIL SATAN!!!!!!!!!


Sunday, September 11, 2016

The Inside Scoop

Dear Dad,

Fall is fast approaching. August has finally reached its last day, and, for that, I am grateful. It's supposed to rain today, much to Bryan's great delight. We've had quite a large handful of extremely, wickedly hot days this summer, and I am quite glad to say good-bye to them all, to summer as a whole.

I know that it is fall because the smell in the air is different. You can smell rain when you go outside, a sweet but also sad sort of fragrance that is impenetrable and always present, wherever you go that is in the realms of the great outdoors. A bitter sweet sort of smell, I guess. The air is becoming more nippy and brisk, and Bryan's leaves are starting to turn… just a little bit. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what sort of tree Bryan is. When I created him, I was under a great, heavy blanket of suffocating grief, having just discovered that you had died, so I wasn't really concentrating on the logistics of it all when the giant beast of a tree was being created. I only knew that I wanted the tiny seed to hurry up and hatch from its shell so that I could hold something alive, even if it was only alive to me, to cradle it in the palm of my hand, rock it, talk to it, sing to it, watch it grow, tiny bit by tiny bit, to care for it, like I would have cared for you if I had only known how to and what, exactly, you needed. I think that Bryan knows what kind of tree he is: he MUST know, but, like everyone in this world, real or imaginary, carrying at least one secret to your grave feels good, and I think he wants to keep that particular secret to himself. For now, anyway, and that's okay. All I know is that he has a lot of long, sturdy, towering branches with a lot of leaves on them, that he is going to shed within a couple of months or so, and that's enough for me to know. As long as my demons are happy, so am I. And, as long as he helps us all be lazy, allowing us to lounge around in his branches whenever we are starting to become overwhelmed with worry or whatever other unpleasant emotion that often comes, unwelcome and unbidden, to bother us, I feel that he is allowed to carry that secret with him, even if it is to his grave, which will probably be long after I am gone from this earth. Trees do tend to live quite a bit longer than humans, like the trees that even normal people can see. So, just imagine how long imaginary trees can live for! And, although Chris seems to think that my demons will cease living when I do, I disagree. I believe that they will continue to wreak havoc and mayhem on this earth to keep my wicked spirit alive, as I have requested them to, should I die prematurely, until their time has come to an end, if that does happen with imaginary creatures, and then, if it does end, they will cease living and join me, wherever I will end up when I die, and we will all be united, once again, the Smm Smm Smm Smm Smm Smm of us, ready to wreak havoc on wherever we are then, if there is an afterlife after death.

Anyway, slightly cheered up by the slow, upcoming arrival of fall, I am still quite angry at the moment. Yes, you already know… Jennifer again, right?


I am so incredibly SICK of her empty promises, her empty offers. And, even more than that, I am absolutely DISGUSTED at myself for still believing them, for falling for it EVERY STINKING TIME!!!!

Okay, fine, I'll tell you. I'm still talking to her, all right? I was planning on ceasing contact with her once I started writing on the blog again, but it seems that I am either unwilling to stop talking to her or I am unable to, for some really bizarre, fucked up reason that I'm not quite sure I understand, nor am I even sure I WANT to understand.

Once I started writing on the Blind Satanist again, I thought it would be really easy to break off contact again because she would have seen my newest post and she would have balled me out about it. When I am not angry, I find it extremely difficult to confront people, even, most times, impossible! It's like, this part of my brain just shuts down, rendering me vulnerable to whomever wishes to, to walk all over me and get what they are seeking, whether it's good or bad. Whether it's in my best interest or not. And, usually, it's not. When I am angry, however, it is easy to confront people, and that was what I was planning on doing if she brought up my new material that had so suddenly popped up on my blog, then cease all contact, once more, and try to live my life as freely and happily as one possibly can with all the issues and bad memories that they have to deal with on a continual basis like I do.

So, I was prepared for her to call me, on the brink of shouting, telling me how horrible I was, how she thought I had out-grown all that dark, Satanic stuff, yadda yadda. But, she didn't. I went for about Smm Smm days without contacting her, both anticipating the fight, as it would mean another stroke of newfound freedom, perhaps, the final, permanent stroke of freedom from Jennifer and the rest of the family for the rest of my life. The other part of me, on the other hand, was terrified to call her, terrified about the explosion that was sure to come the moment she answered the phone. Why was I so afraid of that? Why was I so afraid of her anger? Why AM I so afraid of her anger? Why AM I afraid to be free? I mean, it's what I want, to be free from her forever, isn't it? So, why am I so afraid of it, too? Why do I keep pushing away the platter of freedom when it is in the process of being passed around the table and it has come to rest, in midair, at my chair? Pushing it onto the next person, saying, "No thanks, you go ahead and take some. I'm not hungry."

I do want to be happy, don't I? There are people in this world who actually don't want to be happy. They don't admit it, perhaps they never will (that may be THEIR secret that they carry to the grave), but I'm not like that. I'm not like them. I want to be happy…

Don't I?

So, anyway, I forget who calls who first. I think I did, because my financial situation was getting more and more dismal as the days wore on and I was really starting to actually regret, just a little bit, that I had started writing on the blog. I had even started to feel guilty about it, and that felt horrible. I wanted to see if I could nonchalantly get money out of my mom…





Well, to make a long story short, I was quite shocked by our conversation. She appeared quite jovial, even giddy! And, for the love of all that is unholy and evil, it didn't appear that she HAD noticed the new additions to my blog. She didn't mention it once during our fifteen minute conversation, and I didn't dare mention it, either.

Even better yet, I was able to nonchalantly get out of her when she might give me money, asking her something like, "What are you going to do today?", and then after she answered me and then returned the question, I answered something like, "I don't know, try and do something fun with Amira that doesn't cost money. Something like take her to the park or to feed the seagulls."


"I'll go to the bank tomorrow (or whatever day she had said, I can't quite remember), and help you out a bit more this week," Jennifer had said, and the relief washed over me like warm bath water the moment those blissful, heavenly words left her mouth, first tending to my lower half, releasing tension that had been lingering there, then slowly, slowly, working its way up my body, making it possible for me to actually breathe correctly for the first time in, oh, I don't know how long, at least Smm Smm days.

So, that time, she kept her word. I think she gave me seventy-five dollars. By all means, she could have given me more: the woman is, by no means below the poverty line like I am, but, hey, I'll take what I can get. Beggars can't be choosy, after all, and that was that.

For a day or so, I sat pondering this strange thing that had happened. I absolutely couldn't believe that she had still given me money, even after I had just written about her. I mean, how had she managed to not see it? Didn't she get notifications of my blog posts when they come like some of my followers do?

"You got lucky this time," said a nasty, female voice in my head, that sounded horribly like a mixture of Jennifer's and Giovanna's voices, all grouped into one voice, a voice from the bunny, who is still trapped and on constant watch by my demons to ensure that it doesn't escape again, but it doesn't stop it from talking to me, or, rather, sending a mixture of male and female hateful voices to circulate, unbidden and unwanted, through my brain at the most inopportune and unexpected times. And, when it's not deafening me with constant, highly distressing voices, it sends me silent, intrusive thoughts and memories to marinate on as well.

"You ought to consider yourself lucky and stop writing these dreadful stories at once! You know, in your heart, how evil this is, how disgraceful what you are doing is. You aren't just disrespecting your mother, who bends over backwards for you and Amira, but you are also disrespecting yourself. You have a good heart, Ashlee. You know that you don't want to do this. You KNOW IT!!!!"

"Oh, shut up," I snarled at it, immediately filled with rage. But, an idea had come to me just then. Maybe, just maybe, I could continue writing after all. Maybe I didn't need to cease writing just yet. Maybe I NEVER have to cease writing. After all, I did just tell you why I needed to keep the Blind Satanist alive, why I resurrected it from the dead after a mere year of total silence from me, didn't I? So I would be a total laughing stock to you, if you can see these letters, and my followers (if I even have followers anymore after such a long, dismal silence, a part from my one, strong, forever friend and fan of the Blind Satanist that I am in regular contact with), and I don't want that. I don't want to be a laughing stock to anyone! And, I certainly don't want to be one of those people who say that they are going to do something and then not follow through. A flake. A person who's word isn't good, a person's word that can't be relied on for anything at all. A person who's words mean absolutely nothing because they don't mean what they say. A person like my mother. A person like Jennifer. A person who spouts off promises like a fountain, but the promises are empty and, so is, you come to realize after closer observation, the fountain that you were under the impression, was filled to the brim with clear, meaningful, fresh water, ready to spring to life from its mouth once you turned it on for the day to cool you off, or to let kids play in during a hot, blazing afternoon in the sun, before you took that closer look that would confirm everything. The real facts about the broken fountain. The empty fountain. The deceitful fountain. The dysfunctional fountain. The dysfunctional fountain that is beyond the realm of repair. The fountain that you must discard at once or hold onto, despite the fact that it no longer serves you anymore, hoping, fruitlessly that it will one day work again, only to find yourself disappointed again and again by it every single day that you continue to keep it close at hand.

So, I continued publishing letters to you and noticing how much better about life I was feeling. Now and again, thoughts of suicide still creep up on me, but they aren't as persistent, nor are they all-encompassing like they had been a month ago. Then, I spoke with Jennifer again. That time, she sounded annoyed, like something was definitely bothering her.

"Shit," I thought to myself, my heart skipping a beat as the tone of her voice slashed the air around me, drowning me in terror. Just like it had been when I was her full-time prisoner.

"She's found out about it."

Then "Why are you feeling GUILTY? For Satan's sake Ashlee, be proud of your works! Don't be ashamed of them! That is what your mom wants you to feel. She wants you to feel ashamed of yourself. She wants the blog to be shut down," another thought burst through.

"Well, maybe I SHOULD shut down this blog," I snapped fiercely to myself, not even stopping to think for a second that, quite possibly, the bunny was once again busy at work, having just started a raging battle roaring, unpleasantly, into my already aching brain, causing my heart to hammer, painfully, against my Adam's apple and my forehead to break out into an uneasy, icky, cold, panicky sweat.

"My mom's the only one who's supporting me right now since I'm giving most of my social security check to Chris so he can have a place to live with the baby and the things they need. He's not giving me money, but she is. Jennifer is. And this blog is going to ruin it for me! I keep thinking that it will pay off, that my stories will pay off, but they aren't, and they never will. What am I going to do if she stops supporting me? She's the only one I've got, the only one who's got my back right now! I'm biting the hand that feeds me and that's an awful thing to do. I ought to be ashamed of myself. And, I SHOULD feel guilty about the blog. It's horrible, absolutely HORRIBLE!"

"MMMMMMMMOOOOOOOMMMMMM, shut UUUUPPPP for a second!" shouted Chrissie. Her voice was just barely audible through the haze of confusing, disconcerting thoughts that were racing through my wrought mind.

"You don't even know that's what she's mad about. Just TALK to her and find out what's bothering her. She'll tell you. She's dying to talk, just listen to the tone of her voice!"

"Helllllllllllllooooooo?" Jennifer snapped moodily into the phone. Clearly patience was even shorter than usual today with Jennifer and that was never a good thing. Thankfully, I thought to myself as I quickly answered her with a short "Hello",

I don't live with her anymore. All I have to do is hang up if the waters get too choppy to swim in.

"Mom, I'm sorry, I got distracted. I'm a little tired today. Anyway, are you okay? You seem very down or something."

I don't call her Jennifer when we are talking. That would be one sure fire way to get the money to stop coming and I just can't have that right now. Or, can I? God, I hate all these contradicting thoughts! I wish I could just come to a decision already and be confident with it. Proud of it, even.

"I've got a lot on my plate right now," Jennifer said with a great, heavy sigh. I could hear her driving. It was Monday morning and she had said that she was on her way to work before all those intrusive thoughts started creeping in, distracting me and almost making Jennifer completely lose her cool with me.

"I'm at my max right now."

Translation: I'm at my breaking point. Too much going on right now and I'm losing it!!

"What's going on?" I asked her.

"I mean, I know that Baba isn't doing too well and that ought to be sad but… what else is bothering you?"

The moment I said it, I knew how incredibly insensitive that sounded. There was a slight pause, probably to give Jennifer time to think that exact thing, I thought to myself, panicking once more, and quickly amended, "I mean… Sorry I said it like that. What I meant was, is something else bothering you besides that? And is there anything I can do to help you?"

"You see," snorts an evil, indistinguishable, somewhat muffled and whispering, cackling voice in my mind again. The voice sounds like it's speaking underwater, like a mermaid.

"You're words are just as empty as your mother's. You don't intend to help her at all. You know that and so does she. She isn't stupid."

Actually, she IS pretty stupid, but that's to be discussed, perhaps, another time, in another letter to you.

"Shut up you fucking retard," I hissed back to it inside of my head , willing myself not to shout out loud like I sometimes do when the voices or thoughts get too intrusive to deal with or sort through, a pretty usual occurrence, honestly. It's easier for me to tell you this because you are dead. I'm not sure how, exactly, I would broach the subject with you if you were sitting in my furnitureless living room with me, perhaps eating some Rainbow Sherbet with chocolate ice cream on top in a cone or bowl. I mean, it's not exactly an easy thing to say casually, "Oh yeah, Dad. By the way, your daughter is a total nutter. I hear voices. But, don't worry, it happens all the time these days. I'm pretty used to it now, so carry on, all right? Oh yeah, and don't worry about me. Just forget I even mentioned it, all right?"

It is times like these, when I am just a teensy bit relieved, that you can't react, talk to me, or, really, do anything about it. About what I say, I mean, what I tell you. I often wonder what you would think of me today, if you were still here, if you would still love me, despite my newfound crazy tendencies, like hearing voices, perhaps. Would you hold me in your loving arms and hug me and tell me that everything is going to be all right? Or would it have sent you sliding back off the wagon into booze land, the land of virtually no return. The land of which I certainly wasn't able to reach you when you would go there. The land with a path in which only one could walk upon because it was so narrow, while leaving the people who love you and care about you, like me, in your wake to watch as you drifted farther and farther from sight.

The only times that I ever am grateful that you aren't here, is when I worry that you wouldn't love me anymore if you could see the person I am now, the person who I have become. I don't think I could bear it. After all, you and I left off on a rocky note, but I was pretty darn sure before you died, that you loved me. And that notion, alone, was one of the main things that kept me going. If that were taken away, your love, I mean, I don't know what would become of me. Perhaps I would be plunged once more into a locked mental ward, only this time, there would be no reemergence from the place. I might be stuck in there until the day I died. I might have no more will to carry on.

Your love, Dad, is one of the few seams left in me that keep me going. It is you, Dad, that keeps me strong, or somewhat strong, anyway, when times are hard, when I don't know what to do. I wish you were here, I long for you to be here, but, at the same time, I fear that you would grow to hate me, just like your mother has, like your brother has, like Herbert, who I often enjoy calling my Fake Grandpa these days has, though I really, honestly don't give a fuck what he thinks. He could drop dead and I wouldn't know the difference. He was virtually dead to me when he was in my life, and he remains so today, so, really, his death would mean nothing to me.

"Well, your grandma is moving into my house next week. She has finally sold her condo."

Grandmama? Moving into my mother's house? NOOOOOOO WWWWWWWWAAAAAAYYYYYYY!!!! I mean, they are pretty tight, those two, but if they are in close quarters for more than a couple of days, they start jumping down each other's throats!


"They'll KILL each other!"

"Good," growled Bryan in his deep, rumbly, growly voice.

"That'll be one less thing for Mom to have to do then, killing them both! More laziness that way."

"Wow, she really sold it?" I asked in utter amazement. I knew that the wretched condo of Giovanna's had been on the market for a couple of months, but I really couldn't picture anyone actually buying the place. I mean, it is so dark, dingy, and unwelcoming, in the deep bowels of the basement in the building, that I honestly couldn't envision someone actually wanting to own it. I guess the saying "Different strokes for different folks" really does ring true.

"Well, the paperwork is still in progress and Grandma has to have it inspected and put some work into fixing a few little glitches, but, yeah, if all goes well, it's sold and she's moving into my house in the first week of September."

"YOUR house!" bellowed Smm Smm, chortling loudly.

"What you mean to say is your MOTHER'S house!!!"

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing and kicked my left foot out at Smm Smm, who ducked out of the way just in time, and ran to the fridge for some Cherry Kool-Aid.

"Where is she going to stay?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Your room upstairs," Jennifer said simply.


The telltale sound of the tires as Mom drives her beater car over the Hood Canal Bridge.

"Cool," I said, and I found myself quite surprised at how I felt absolutely nothing about the fact that Giovanna was moving into MY room in Enoch. Before I had moved away to Olympia, I used to be so protective of my bedroom. I didn't want anyone to go into it because, more often than not, whenever someone did go into my room, things got moved and it took me a very long time to recover them and put them back to their original places.

Most of the belongings that I so cherished when I lived there are still residing in my room. For instance, the lock box that your mom bought me to keep Andrew from getting into my most prized belongings, the CD's that you burned for me before you had died, as well as the mood ring that you got me at the Ye Olde Curiosity Shop in downtown Seattle and the fake, metal license plate with an actual accurate spelling of my name. I can remember right now how utterly excited we both were at the prospect of finding something that actually had the correct spelling of my name engraved in it. Most people spell Ashlee with a Y at the end. Rarely can an Ashlee be found with two EE's like me. With Smm Smm EE's, I mean.

I should have taken the lock box back to Olympia when I went to her house, which is coming up on nine months ago, but I just didn't, for one reason or another. I think the main reason was that I thought that I would be coming back for another visit to Poop Ludlow soon and that I could just pick it up then. There was a time, more recently than I like to admit, when Jennifer's persuading ways got to me and I did, once more, after Smm Smm years of not going to Poop Ludlow, visit Enoch and all the ugliness that lies within him, but I've been more savvy lately and have not returned there since December 2015, after a particularly nasty visit, which I will write about another time.

There are also some stuffed animals that reside in my room that I like a lot, but the lock box is the most important thing that is in my room as far as I am concerned. And, of course, the drums, with it's magnificent cowbell and set of chimes and extra bass petal, but I am not so into drums these days, so, sadly enough, I have detached, considerably, from the drum set that you bought me when I was nine. Sorry Dad, I really did enjoy the drums, and I am most grateful that you bought them for me when I was young and eager to learn how to play them, but they really are too noisy for my sensitive ears to deal with, unless I wear earplugs when I play, but even if I was still attached to them, I really can't play them where I live now, an apartment complex, so I haven't bothered taking them to Olympia with me either. They aren't actually in my room anymore, come to think of it. When Coalie moved in with his kids, Jennifer moved them into the upstairs storage room so that there would be more room for all their junk to take the place of the drums in the drum studio section of my bedroom.

Despite the fact that the lock box with all your treasures in there are still in Poop Ludlow, I really didn't feel, and still don't feel, really perturbed by it. I mean, it's not like Giovanna can unlock it unless she breaks it open, which I don't think she will bother doing. I did leave the box behind, but I did have the wisdom to take the Smm Smm keys to unlock it with me, as well as the mood ring and license plate, when I moved, so nobody can open it rightfully except me.

Perhaps this is why I feel so utterly detached about the whole thing. I do think that it also has a great deal to do with feeling so far removed from my mother and the house, a process that has taken nearly Nevaeh Inside the Nose (7) years to start noticing at an optimal level. As far as I am concerned, she can do whatever the hell she wants with the room. And, if she does do something to the lock box, there isn't much damage done, for all the songs that you burned on CD's for me, I know by heart, the names and a lot of the lyrics, and I can just look them up on YouTube if I want to hear them, which is what I do anyway because I don't have them with me. I don't even have a CD player anyway, except for the one on my computer, so it really wouldn't be practical to worry about it anyway.

"How do you feel about her moving in? How long do you think she'll stay?"

"I'm not sure how long she will stay," Jennifer answered.

"She, like all of us, likes her freedom and independence, though, so I don't think she will be here long."

"Wishful thinking!" cried Nevaeh as she bounced around from wall to wall, dancing and singing merely, apparently finding this news quite amusing indeed. I found it amusing then, but was more amazed at my lack of attachment I felt about Giovanna occupying my room upstairs. I mean, I was SOOOOOO protective of it, and now I just don't give a flying fuck what happens to it! It honestly blows me away!

"As far as how I feel about it… Well, I don't know. I feel overwhelmed. You see, when she's anxious, it makes ME anxious, so I'm trying to figure out how to make the transition for her as stress free as possible so that she isn't anxious and, therefore, doesn't make me anxious."

"How's Coalie taking the news?" I asked, curious. He never really did like it when I would come up to visit my mom over the weekend or for five days at a time sometimes. He didn't ever say flat-out that he didn't want me there, but every tone in his voice and his continuous silent treatment towards me spoke volumes. He might as well have just shouted "YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE!! GET OUT RIGHT NOW!!"

I can only imagine all the visual cues that he was emitting while I was there. Honestly, I am glad that I couldn't see them.

"He's been such a champ about all of this." my mother said. But then, she added, or, rather boasted quickly, "Well, he knows that he doesn't have a choice. If he was the sort to be like "She can't live here", then it wouldn't work for him to stay with me."

Translation: It's either we all stick together and you be okay with it or you and your son and cat are out of here and you know it. So, choose wisely, or reap the consequences.

"I'm glad he's taking it well," I said, though I found myself not feeling much of anything at all.

"Do you think that Baba is going to move in, too?" I asked, not so much because I really cared or because it would effect me in the slightest (I am all the way in Olympia, far, far away from Poop Ludlow, so it wouldn't effect me at all because I don't live there. And thank Satan for that), but because I wanted her to think that I cared about the family, which would win me a brownie point. Brownie points equals, sometimes, anyway, money! And, I was, in a way, curious about it all. It would be good writing material, for sure, and it made me feel happy to know that everything bad that she had ever done in her life, including all the bad things she did to me, and all the ways in which she used me throughout my childhood and even into my adult years, was all finally starting to catch up to her. And Giovanna, too. For one thing, Giovanna doesn't have a job anymore. She quit it almost a year ago, and now she doesn't have a home to call her own. Well, there is Enoch, of course, but Jennifer is now living there, so, if she wants Enoch all to herself, she's going to have to evict Jennifer to get her out or drive her and Coalie so crazy that they'll just move out on their own accord and figure out what to do next. Which, given her innate power of driving people up the wall, isn't, entirely, out of the question. Not at all!

And, to make matters worse for Giovanna, her health is failing. She won't admit it, but I think that she has a terminal illness. For one thing, she is a toothpick now. She went from 140 pounds to 114 pounds. When I hugged her the first time, I thought that I might break her in half, she felt so brittle and weak. Her hair is also falling out in great lumps, which she is trying, in vain, to stop and re-grow back to its usual standards. And, she has joined a cult called Theta because it is the only place where people actually encourage their followers to lie to themselves about what is really going on in their lives to make them feel better, without really solving the underlying problem at hand, the real problem, which, I strongly think, is cancer.

Several years ago, when I was fresh out of my mother's grasp and was attending college at Evergreen, my grandmother was complaining of noticing blood in her stool. At the time, she blamed it on acupuncture, telling all of us that she had fallen asleep and accidentally knocked one of the needles away from the spot where it had been and sent it poking another area on her head where it wasn't supposed to poke. I thought that it sounded crazy and just pushed it aside, thinking that it was just another one of her crazy conspiracy theories that she had come up with. But, obviously the problem got worse over the years and now, she tells me that she goes to the doctor at least once a week to get blood drawn. Yet, when you ask her why, she gives you a vague answer about just trying to stay healthy since she's getting older, and then she quickly changes the subject clear out of the way from the sticky topic of her poor health. When I asked Jennifer about her frequent trips to the doctor, she said that she was just as befuddled about all of this as I am and that, whenever she asks Grandma if she can go with her to one of the appointments, Grandma just comes up with one lame excuse after another about why she doesn't want Jennifer to go.

Now, she's making all these "hair brained", as you would call it, decisions that don't make any sense. She randomly quit her job almost a year ago. Then she put her condo up for sale and began selling, or, rather, trying to sell, all her junk, so that she doesn't have much to move when the condo sells. And she has no idea where she is going to work or where she is going to live. She is just randomly and, to me, thoughtlessly and impulsively, making these bizarre decisions that only lead me to Smm Smm conclusions. Either she's gone COMPLETELY mad and she needs to live in a crazy house or nursing home, or she's dying of terminal cancer. There is only room for those Smm Smm ideas with those kinds of compulsive actions of hers. And, when I talk about it with Chris, he agrees with my conclusions, though he tends to believe the latter one, that she is dying of cancer and that she only has about Smm Smm Smm Smm Smm Smm months or less to live.

All I can say to this is, "Can't we do anything to speed up the process?"

I mean, I'm SURE I'm not inheriting anything, what, with all the debt she undoubtedly has accrued during the course of her life, but, just the mere idea of her being gone forever from this world, really does have a comforting aspect to it. A calming, tranquil feeling, though a part of me thinks that I will probably have more confused and unpleasant feelings emerge when she actually does die. And that yes, as much as I don't want to, I might cry when I hear of her passing, though I have absolutely NO intention of attending her funeral at all. Even if it does mean temporarily being cut off from my mom's money supply once every week or two. Or maybe even permanently cut off. I don't know what will happen or how mad she will be about me not going. All I know is, I'M NOT GOING!!! And I don't care if you don't believe me, Bunny, or you, either Dad, you'll see, and, judging by the looks of her, as well as her bizarre actions, you'll see soon!

"Do you think that Baba will come up to Seattle to live with you soon?" I asked.

"I just don't know. She's thinking about it, I can tell that she is, but she's scared, you know? She's been in that house of hers for nearly fifty years! And she doesn't want to give up her independence. But she's really not doing well at all, honey. Last time I was there, a week ago, she fell. There was blood all over her face and everything. I woke up to the sound of all these weird, funky ass noises. So I got up to investigate and…"

Her voice trailed off for a split second as she gathered her wits about her, then continued.

"I found her in the bedroom, on the floor, covered in blood. She had fallen down because her legs are so swollen and pained, she can hardly walk."

After another bout of heavy silence, she said in a very small, scared, almost child-like voice, "I don't think she'll live past this winter. I will be very surprised if she makes it past another year."

"Really?" I asked, more for a lack of having anything sympathetic to say, than anything. I also marveled, too, at how detached I felt while hearing, what should have been, very sobering, tear-worthy news.

"Yes, really, Ashlee," Jennifer says, irritation flaring up in her voice again.

"She's not doing good. I don't know how I can spell it out anymore to you. She's very ill indeed."

"Yes, I understand," I said quickly, feeling that familiar surge of fear that I often feel whenever I make her angry. Even though we were many miles apart, the fear was hot, smothering, and heavy, almost squeezing the air out of my lungs.

"Relax," I told myself, rocking back and forth soothingly on my foam mattress inside of my bedroom, the only piece of furniture that I have inside of my house. That is, if you can even call it furniture, pointed out a very sarcastic, snide friend of mine before, just a few days ago.

"She's not here. She can't hurt you. Just try to get off the phone soon and do it tactfully, okay?"

"I'm really sorry all of this is going on right now," I said, hoping that my voice sounded, indeed, sorrowful and sympathetic, Smm Smm feelings that I was not feeling very strongly, if at all, at the moment. I mean, how can anyone expect me to love and feel sorry for people who have been nothing but mean, demeaning, and secretive all of my life? It's really an unfair thing to ask of anybody.

"Well, I can't do anything about what's going on with Baba, but I am here for you if you need to talk. And, Mom, I do love you."

Do I love her?




A little, perhaps?...

It can't be a yes all the way, can it?

Fuck, I don't know. It's all too hard to sort out right now. Fuck all this confusing shit. Why can't things just be SIMPLE?

Why can't my life be simple?

Why can't life, in general, just be simple and peaceful, for everybody?

For those who deserve such luxuries, anyway.

"Thank you, Ashlee, for saying that. I love you, too, and I am so grateful and blessed to have you as my daughter."

Okay, I'm leaving off here for now. Time to unwind with some chocolate ice cream. No Rainbow Sherbet in stock, unfortunately, but my imaginary friends, especially Bryan, will have some in your honor because of the absence of the Sherbet in my freezer. I'll put it on the grocery list very soon! It does sound rather tasty, come to think of it.

I love you Dad. Thank you for giving me a wonderful space to write and share my thoughts/feelings with you. It almost feels like talking to you, like confiding my deepest, darkest secrets to you, what I used to do many years ago. Almost a decade ago. In December, it will be. It really does feel like you are here with me now, like we are having a face-to-face conversation.


But not quite.