Happy Thanksgiving!

This is a Really Real Mental Health post.

I haven’t written in a few days because I just haven’t had anything to write about.

I don’t want to just post a day by day accounting of my life.

I like the posts that have substance,

meaning,

direction.

I’ve been dreaming a lot about my dad recently.

Weird dreams that take place after he died, but he’s still there talking to me.

Dreams where I’m giving him advice that I am trying to give to myself.

Telling him it will take time for his antidepressants to work.

Telling him he needs to slow down with spending money.

Also telling him how he traumatized me.

How he inconvenienced my sister and I.

How much work it’s been since he died.

I keep trying to look at the positives that will come from his death.

I no longer have to force weekly phone calls that are boring and uncomfortable.

He’s no longer making people miserable.

He’s no longer degrading me and telling me how I’m not good enough.

And, he may be buying me a house.

But that seems like such a foreign concept to me.

The idea of owning a house.

I don’t feel like I’m adult enough to own a house.

I still have a lot of research to do about my benefits,

my disability and my health insurance.

I have to make sure they won’t penalize me for actually owning something.

God forbid someone starts to pull themselves out of poverty,

I have to make sure they won’t rip the rug out from underneath me.

But at the same time I’m excited.

And it feels good to be excited about something.

It’s still months away before I can really start looking.

Probate takes forever, I’ve learned.

But I’m browsing on Zillow, looking at Real Estate websites, searching for homes within my price range that have pictures.

Starting a mental list of what’s important to me.

Of wants and needs.

I know I’m hyper-focusing,

I know it may end up never happening.

And I know I’m anxious even thinking about the idea.

Because I’m not adult enough.

But what if?

What if?

What if I don’t every have to worry about being homeless, ever again?

What if I never have to worry about someone taking my home away?

What if I never have to worry about being kicked out?

What if?

Maybe, just maybe,

something good can come out of his fucked up death.

Maybe he can give me some sort of financial stability.

Maybe he can take away some of my worries.

I remember, when I was younger, he would threaten me with taking me out of the will.

He planned, for the longest time, to give me less than he gave my sister.

And he made sure I knew.

He didn’t want me to get his money when I couldn’t take care of myself.

I didn’t deserve the help, he felt.

Well, fuck him.

Fuck him.

And it would be nice if one day I can say,

fuck him,

while I’m sitting in my own home.

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