Mallory's Camera

It's a good thing I had the happy glow of last weekend's house party to warm me because this week was a hard one, mental health-wise.

There was the news of Annie's death, which broke my heart but which also sucked me straight back through the vortex into the peculiar headspace of the little girl I used to be who knew something was deeply, deeply wrong but was powerless to change it.

At five years old, my mantra became, Survive. DO whatever you need to survive, but hang on—because once you're old enough to get out of it, you'll be out of it, & you'll never, ever have to think about it again.

In that, I was mostly correct—due to my superpower of dissociation.

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On the day after Annie died, FB hawked up this most peculiar memory:



It is something I wrote on the flyleaf of an ancient children's encyclopedia called The Book of Knowledge that lived in the basement of the House of Usher, a moldy, dark, cavernous space filled with broken furniture & children's books like Elsie Dinsmore and Patty Fairfield, written sometime during the opening years of the 20th century as cautionary guides to the rewards of good behavior. Of course, I devoured them all! I'd actually taught myself to read somewhere around the age of three.

(Many, many years later, RTT discovered the volume among his mother's books—and signed it.)

That same year, I annotated this photograph of myself:



What kind of odd little changeling spends her childhood drafting her own biography?

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But the mental health crisis also had to do with the presence of Icky, who stayed on three days longer than his usual point of departure because he was trying to bond with the oldest Spawn—who has no use at all for Icky other than as an open wallet.

Thank God the bonding attempt failed. Because otherwise, Icky would have been here through the weekend, and I would be frantically calling my doctor's office for a Lexapro prescription.

I could write a blow-by-blow account of all the pertinent interactions, but what would be the point of that?

What it boils down to is that Icky is a bully—oddly enough, in much the same way my mother was a bully—and like my mother, he enjoys haranguing with long lectures when he is not totally ignoring me.

Icky is self-absorbed and completely unempathetic. That means he lacks the common human decency to coexist with other human beings—and that means I have absolutely no leverage over any of his behavior.

So, this housing situation is a toxic situation.

It would be much better for my mental health if I could get out before November—though I'm not very confident I can due to (a) unavailability of rental housing at my income level and (b) commitments to all sorts of community involvements that last through—yup!—November.

Because when I get out, I won't want to stay here in Trumplandia.

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Of course, I am furious with myself, too. Why was I such a fucking grasshopper? Why didn't I realize I would spend so much time being old with limited options?

And why didn't I realize the moment Icky hedged about putting in that window air conditioner way back when that he was a person who was not in the slightest bit interested in looking out for my rights & needs as a fellow housemate?

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One nice thing: I got a sweet email from the Hyde Park Community Garden: Are you sure you don't want to come back this year?

I love gardening, but I sure don't want to garden with Icky! (That's not the proper way to stake cucumbers! I've told you this before—you're spreading the compost wrong. How many times do I have to tell you?)

And I love the Hyde Park Community Garden in particular. It's just a lovely, lovely place.

So, I told them I would come back.

And received the sweetest note from Claude, the garden patriarch & a middlingly famous chef. He is French and though fluent in English conversationally, is functionally illiterate when it comes to writing, so just the fact that he wrote me—he never writes anyone!—warmed my heart.

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Also, with the thought that it would be prudent to diversify my income stream in the Time of Trump, I took H.R. Block's tax assessment knowledge exam. I scored 74%: 80% is the passing score. But, of course, I didn't study and, furthermore, I know nothing about the tax implications of depreciation—several sections on the test. So, I thought I did pretty well, all things considered.

And I get to take the test again.

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I also got stalked at the gym yesterday.

Unlike, I guess, the majority of women who dislike sexual objectification, I've always kinda enjoyed it—so long as no hint of physical handling is involved. I liked it when construction workers whistled & cat-called me! I missed that when I aged out.

The guy who was covertly watching me was obviously 30 years younger than me.

Maybe he had a kink for elderly women.

But I prefer to think I just look good.

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Today, I'm gonna finish a bunch of tax returns for family members & friends, scribble a bit on the (never-ending) Work in Progress, & generally chill.