Mill Town

This town I live in is what they call a “mill town”. It is a town filled with old mills of yesteryear. I think this might be the reason.

When I first was scouting out places for rent in the areas surrounding my new job, I hadn’t quite fallen in love with any area like I had this one (and I get to live here, now! Lucky, eh?). Being reminiscent of the Goldilocks story, one town was too touristy and bustling, but in all the ways I prefer not to bustle. Another appeared to be virtually untouched by tourists… or much of anyone, like something out of a Stephen King book, really. Which! Would have been perfect to plummet and fully immerse into the madness I love most - writing - however, not ideal for keeping sane at a customer service job anywhere outside of my house.

And then, there was Mill Town. Mill Town was juuusst right. It reminded me of a slightly larger version of the place I called home (also a mill town) and felt as if it had just enough livable/explorable space and was safe enough with just enough of an edge. I returned to Mill Town quite a few times before I landed, scouring the area for anything; a one-bedroom, studio, even a rentable room with common areas. However, once I got here, this darker side fell upon me. Suddenly it didn’t feel livable or explorable or safe. It simply felt strange and dangerous and I quickly wondered what I had done. Where was the fun and excitement and comfort that drew me here? That kicked me into such a high gear to buckle down and get here? Then I realized the problem.

I wasn’t really seeing daylight.

Literally - the job I had entered threw me into a different, sloppy sleep-pattern where I would sleep whenever I possibly could and rise only for work. At night. And return home even later at night. Any days I had fully off were spent hitting the highway and returning for a home visit to spend time with my mother, sister and boyfriend. Of course no place is going to feel great so late at night, and of course it’s going to feel a bit more dangerous; it’s unexplored territory! Unknown lands and people, and there I was alone and afraid of the dark! Once I realized this, I made more of a conscious effort to be awake and stay in town - no matter how it pained me - more often when I didn’t have to work. A little earlier on days that I did.

Since then I have grown to fully appreciate exactly what Mill Town has to offer me; another form of freedom. Being able to get up, get dressed, go downstairs and venture in a new place. Walking here and there, attending new restaurants and returning to my new favorite spots.

A place may suddenly seem dark and horrible, but often you can still find the light.

The Smoking Vegan

And to think, it all started with my refrigerator going.

When I moved to the apartment in my new mill town that I currently reside in, I moved in by myself, anxiously awaiting my boyfriend, B, to join me in three months time. Sure, there were a few quirks (i.e. the knobs on my new stove being installed backward, making every meal an adventure), but nothing too terribly detrimental. Nothing I couldn’t handle, and certainly nothing that bothered me enough to be considered a problem, or much more than something to laugh at. However, that all changed when I opened my refrigerator door to find the contents to be only slightly cooler than room temp. A discovery that was especially disconcerting considering the already sauna-level heat of June filling my rooms. I called my landlord, she had it fixed and simply said the freezer portion of cooling air that is designed to cool the fridge had been blocked due to over-freezing/freezer burn/ice chunks blocking the airway southward.

Long story short, the gentleman that came to remedy the situation came equipped with a hair dryer and plenty of free time to melt said ice chunks. This, of course resulted in me doing just the same in the weeks to follow. Anyway.

After expunging the moldy, melty, putrid foods that occupied my quirky appliance, it was clear a big shopping expedition was in my future. I remember that day I had been talking to and thinking a lot about my older sister, N, and her husband, C, who are both very beautifully devoted vegans. I thought of how lovely it was as an idea, how I always loved the food they shared with me and how their food never filled me with the bloating, sweaty regret of other types of foods. (Foods like meaty stews, mac n cheese, fish n chips, cheesy pizzas, burgers etc…)

That’s when it hit me; now was the perfect time to attempt the lifestyle.

I was out living on my own, so I had complete control over the foods in my cabinets, over the foods I made for myself. My mother wasn’t living with me, creating temptation with the old lifestyle we shared of convenience and boxed/instant foods, and if I failed there was no one living with me to see/judge the rise and fall of my attempts. I remember thinking of how the restaurant I worked at may tempt me, but in reality, they made mostly rich, large seafood plates that weren’t particularly up my alley as it was. Naturally, I could still have french fries.

Not to mention, my refrigerator had just been reborn. And that was decidedly that.

Sure, it hasn’t exactly been five years or any amount of time that is close to being impressive on the general scale. And sure I have made the mistake of accidentally ingesting things like worcestershire sauce (anchovies, who knew), or the occasional canned soup (why do they ruin a good veggie minestrone with parmesan? Such a waste), but the important thing is that I try my best. And God forbid I fail at all/any of this and fall off the wagon (recently had such a nightmare and woke up sweaty and guilty), I believe that any amount of animal product I deny now will have been worth the effort. And feeling so good in the interim from better eating is certainly worth trying again.

...Plus I still smoke cigarettes, so I'll take any health I can get.

August 13th

Today is my father’s birthday.

My father and I used to be thick as thieves; laughing at the same punchlines in any given Mike Myers’ comedy, filling our ears with the same nonsense from David Byrne, or the B52’s, he even took me to my first concert and my first stand-up comedy show. We had the same favorite comedian at the time. Which was convenient.

After the divorce we still stuck together. And after that some hard, strange times befell us all as anxiety reared its ugly head. Long story short, my father became less of the man I looked up to and more the thing that I ran from. But I couldn’t run; I was trapped because I was under a certain age and my mother was panic-stricken and finding - it seemed - all the wrong ways to rescue me. And, of course, my sister was not old enough to claim me as her own and was going through some similar, and surely some differing, difficulties of her own.

I will never forget how fucked it seemed to be occupying such a large, beautifully white, museum-like house in the cul de sac, alone, lonely and cold. A place where I was not so much “welcomed” as I was to “not touch anything”, or “locked out of most rooms”. A place where none of my things - including, but not limited to, my heart - were. When I remembered it as the warm, charming house of my childhood and early adolescence. And my mother used to be here, and my sister, and my father and all of us were welcome and happy and my sister and I would have nothing more to worry about than our grades. I wasn’t upset about the divorce. Plenty of people get divorces. I was upset about being trapped. In a place that used to be home and was now the fifth ring of hell. Complete with a cold, uncaring creature who bared an astounding resemblance to my father.

I scuttled between classes in my sophomore year with a hobo-like bag strapped to my back. I didn’t know whether I really was staying at Dad’s, or if I would be lucky enough to get a “forget it, you can stay at your mother’s” text from him once school let out. I never strayed from being hopeful of the latter. Most of the days that year I was not so lucky.

I would leave school, essentials on my back, ride the bus to my father’s, get into his house, leave my coat on, so as not to get a chill, and head down to what used to be my bedroom. Where, merely a year before, I received my dream bed set comforter etc… for my 14th birthday. Where, then, the walls were bare and even my breath echoed. I would lay low, pretending not to exist until he got home, when I really pretended not to. All we did once he recognized my being was fake and fight. He would fake that he really still cared about me, showcasing his ability for dramatics and I would fight him on his false congeniality. I said my first “I hate you” to him in that scenario. Once I had been brought to it, of course. On my best nights there, I would be ignored.

On my sixteenth birthday, I retired to this place after school, he and his fake fuck of a wife were there with their facades of caring parents - complete with homemade cake. Who were they doing this for? Were they trying to convince themselves that they were good people? Attempting to grasp at some kind - any kind - of victory from my mother in this? I surely will never know.

After fighting about how clearly awful I was as a child and me shooting back with how my father may not actually be my real father, the night eventually ended as it typically did then; with me crying so hard I could already feel the headache and physical hangover of it, and finally heading to “my room”, exhausted and very much alone. The next day as my father dropped me off at school, bright morning sun stinging my swollen, shining eyes as it often did then, my father said the words I will never forget;

“I think you should stay at your mother’s tonight.”

And me, being the oh, so clever, freshly sixteen-year-old that I was, came back with a “Gee, ya think?” And I slammed the door of his expensive company car. Didn’t look back. And I did stay the night at my mother’s that night. And when he didn’t attempt to communicate with me, I stayed the next night. And the next. Until I finally realized that I may just be out of the woods and in fact I was. To be melodramatic, my father (ex-hero, ex-buddy, ex-parent) had abandoned me on the day after my sixteenth birthday. But to be more realistic, that is not at all what I am sure he had meant to do. I’m sure he was just tired. Lord knows I was, and I was much younger than he. For a while I had been afraid that it was all too good to be true and that he would surely come back to my mother’s with the police again to claim me, but he didn’t. And I was glad. And I wasn’t hurt. And it was all just as well because I had already began to research how to emancipate myself.

He made a feeble attempt once to reconnect after a year or so, but I worked hard to keep him out of my life and said attempt was crushed, killed and destroyed quickly, and for good. And I know it was for good because he never tried to reconnect with me or my sister.

It wasn’t until after I had graduated (I believe? It’s all a blur now) that I heard any news of him at all. It was through my sister and it was that he had suffered a major and minor stroke. My sister and I visited him in the hospital and it was strange, to say the very least. I saw yet another form of my father (the third, at least, if you’re keeping track). This one was much less powerful, less sinister, but just as scary. He couldn’t walk, really, couldn’t talk, really. As I understand he even had trouble seeing, but who knows, since he couldn’t convey a thought himself.

The years to follow were filled with my sister accidentally showcasing just how strong of a human she was and is, and certainly what a coward I had grown into. His birthday - and special occasions of the like - serving as a cheap excuse to think about him, to see him, lest I be filled with guilt. Bring him some shit gift he didn’t need or even want. He didn’t want things; he wanted my sister and I around more. Or at least I think that’s what he wanted. For all I know he didn’t remember us in the least and just got happy to see smiling faces, not knowing he created and raised them. Many people have the unfortunate event of death to deal with. I hadn’t even been dealt that hand, and yet I still lacked the strength and courage to physically see my father or even go near that beautiful white house he had gotten in the divorce. The house had hit its third form as well, technically speaking, but I would always remember it as a metaphor of my un-freedom. I wasn’t there for my father.

I saw my father one more time, semi-recently, this time with my mother in my sister’s stead. It was his fourth official shape. He seemed infinitely smaller, to match his shrinking voice. He was grayer, thinner and boasted a jean jacket, a cane and a knit cap in the thick of winter. At a glance, he was adorable. Just another strange, sweet old man about town.

Many things have transpired since then, and certainly too much to handle in this one entry, as it is already a gun, locked and loaded. Long story short (too late), I haven’t seen my father in a while. And I honestly don’t feel as though it would be realistic to say that I would again. Word on the street is he has dementia, but is refusing to take his pills, as they are affiliated with the Devil.

Many people have had it worse. And if you think I have it bad, think about my sister. About his wife, my mother, who chose him out of everyone she knew, at one point, to live with and grow with and love. To have so many firsts with, at the young age of seventeen. Think of my father, for fuck’s sake, who thought he was doing right by simply living by what he had read in the Bible. I still don’t know how to feel about any of it. So far I have been choosing to miss and cherish the first form of my father, romanticizing my past, as one often does. Being entirely bitter at the second form of him, what he had put me through and remembering to, everyday, be more than grateful that I am no longer in that position. To be grateful for my freedoms. And a healthy mixture of self-pity, self-loathing and such a deep, deep sadness for what we both have finally become and currently are. Some days I don’t think about it. Some days I cry about it. Some days I miss him and some days I don’t. Some days I choose to be what I have assured myself is strong and choose to live guilt-free about the whole debacle.

Today I am allowing myself to be sad.

Inspiration

If it wasn’t evident enough by the fact that I have taken to a blog that near to nobody reads; I love writing.

Writing is air. Writing is feeling my best self. Writing is the thing that I wish I was doing when I was working, regardless of the job. I also paint, and people assume this is surely my passion, but it is merely a light hobby in comparison.

For so many reasons I am grateful for picking up and moving. One very heavy one is the fact that in the short time that I have had alone in this new spot, I have had what seems to be an enormous amount of events that have inspired me in my writings. My favorite thing to write as of late? Creepy, odd or strange short stories. Thanks to my sister, who hosts a local paper by the name of “the Curious Post”, I have had - and been able to keep - a reason for writing such things. And thanks to my new living arrangement I have received the necessary material to do so.

I work at a beach club that well-to-do guests find beautiful, charming, basically the perfect spot to spend their vacations at. Even just for a day, a night, a meal. In my eyes? It is an ancient, immense beach house, long dilapidated since its glory days of perfection. And on cloudy days it offers just enough gloom to truly propel me into my favorite kind of madness; being an author.

Of course my place of business only accounts for a slice of my time. The other bits have been spent resting my head at an equally old, creepy apartment building that plays host to three floors full of locals, along with surely enough asbestos to gag a mule. And if that weren’t enough, there are plenty a strange happening to occur inside and even nearby. Think about it; there are strange enough things that happen to any one soul throughout the duration of any given lifetime to fuel a decent chilling story. Now take that consideration and multiply it by three floors full of individuals, added by the intense setting of an old mill town, full of those struggling to survive paycheck to paycheck.

Some strange things happen to a person. Even stranger when that person is left to rely on their creativity - as opposed to money - to occupy their time.

Does this place feel dangerous? Of course. But every place does. The human race may be made up of statistics, but the individuals who the race is made of? Completely unpredictable and, in many cases, irrational. I’ll gladly live with the edge this town provides, provided it allows me a few more stories to write.

April 11, 2017

April was an incredibly hectic and wonderful crazy time, and I have just stumbled across an old entry I had been unable to publish. Here it is.

Sometimes the friend you need is a laptop.

In light of recent events (the new job coming next month, the search for a new apartment, and as such the all-around change of lifestyle), I can’t help but reminisce about the latest few moves. I remember how immensely shitty it was being in North Conway with quickly-dwindling funds, only left over from my tax returns, being held captive in such a tiny motel room. The worst part? No doubt, hands down, the loneliness. My mother was with me at the time, and looking back now, we allow ourselves to romanticize the situation and downplay the misery, but at the end of the day, I can’t help but remember how painful it was being so far away from my friends and loved ones.

Not to mention, I had been in a managerial position so I was forbidden to make friends at work, and it was North Conway, New Hampshire, so if I were to somehow luck out and meet someone somewhere else, chances were? They were just visiting. Maybe even spoke a language I didn’t understand.

Clearly there are differences here.

For starters I will be moving to Biddeford (fingers crossed, anyway) by myself. And as strange as it may sound, being lonely by yourself is much more reasonable, even expected, as opposed to experiencing loneliness whilst in the company of other(s). In addition, I will only really be alone until August or so, a mere few months instead of a year. At this point B will be taking the plunge and moving in with me. I will certainly not be in any way management here at the new job, so there goes the whole alienation from co-workers process, and of course, let’s not forget the fact that my new boss will be one of my oldest and dearest friends and confidants, K. She is magnificent and her husband is a well-matched partner in crime, so if I really do get in a lonely fix, I will at least be able to schedule a coffee or local draught with them every once in awhile. I do have a car, as well, so, provided Pip doesn’t “shit the bed”, I will, in desperation, have the option of driving up to Lewiston to, say, my incredible sister and her wonderful husband. (The infinite cure-all; my sister and brother-in-law.)

And although I will be shaking money out of my tax returns once again for this move (happens every year), I shall not be in such harsh financial territory. With only a 17-20 minute drive separating me from T (the new jobby), and most other things quite within walking distance, I do believe I should be able to pull myself up and out of whatever financial terrors that are sure to follow the move.

I think that perhaps, as long as I bring my laptop, phone, my books, some paper and pens I should be able to keep myself from becoming entirely lonesome throughout the duration. And as long as I bring only enough things and not too many, I should be able to busy myself by arranging and rearranging said things in a new spot (this always seems to work, I am not completely certain why). I will simply have to focus on being calm, quiet and safe whilst in this new spot (physically, emotionally, mentally). And hopefully I will recognize the need for companionship and make a phone call before I find myself crying into my cup at the local coffee shop.

And Suddenly, I Was There

I have officially been at my new job (T) for 2 months, my new apartment for 1.5 (moved on Mother's Day again...) and I just bought my new whip! He is a black Fiat 500 whose name is either Jack or Jasper. Can't quite decide. Not to mention he is only my second car ever and my first that I have bought through a dealership, which has been an exciting heart attack in and of itself.

Turns out no matter how good your credit is, you are still entirely a no-good scamp if your job is not at least 90 days old. No matter! It all worked out and I will do my best to prove that they have not made an enormous mistake.

Once I get over the 90 day hump and pay off a bit more of my car, I'm certain things will really start looking up, credit-wise. I would like to keep the security of optional loans open to my future self. Pip, my old car, is still so very dear to my heart and in great driving condition, so I offered her to my sister and husband as a secondary ride, to which she said "perhaps you should sell it". Turns out there are plenty of people who are in the market for a little monster (Pip's a big Gaga fan) for their first car. The first day I bought Jasper I heard tell of a young man in my home town who may have interest, and the second day - today - I heard of more people at work! I'm glad people are interested, and it would feel really great to help someone get their first car, but I will certainly miss her. I bonded with her for three years. That's longer than any of my relationships. Cars and sentiment of them aside!

This whole living-in-a-new-city thing is not at all what I had pictured; I had forgotten to take into account the hours I would be working while living down here. Other than this current week, my day off per week average has been two while my daily hours clock in around 10 (2-12). That's fifty hours a week. Which, I'm sure, plenty of people do, however I was not at all ready. I had become accustomed to an average of four days a week, each swimming gracefully around 6 hours. Yes, of course, there are pluses and minuses to both scenarios, and as this current job is seasonal I should certainly be soaking up all the hours and shifts my body can possibly take (I love saving money)! However, my body simply cannot take so much abuse as I would like it to, as I get sick without the recommended amount of sleep. As was evidenced by the fever I was so fortunate to experience one of my first weeks down here. I had pushed myself too far. Perhaps not too far for everyone, or even most people. But too far for me and my old, anemic, hypoglycemic body. 

This is turning out to be the longest and least entertaining blog thus far. Perhaps ever. Bear with me, imaginary audience, as filling this page with excruciatingly boring details of my life is sure to be quite therapeutic for me. And I need therapeutic, after physically shocking my body (at a late-ish age), and mentally; going from living with someone you talk to all the time about everything (my mother) and filling even your short work days with friends you have known long enough for them to love you and being within reasonable driving distance from your big sis to living in an apartment all by yourself, in which you try your best to not exist or make a mark as you arrive there so late, and the only people you know/love/care about are either at work - the exhaustion station - or what feels like forever away. No regrets, but geez Louise. If there ever was a time to give me a break? It's now. Not that I'm asking for special favors and/or attention; I've done this to myself and I have had it pretty good so far. The point of this paragraph is that I'm not exactly adventuring this new city I've been blessed with as I thought I would, so I'm slowly attempting to make up for lost time. 

This place is much more fun for me in the day time. It loses its sense of city and danger and trades it for that of a friendlier, fun atmosphere - albeit, still not without it's cool edge. Ergo, whenever I have had to wake up early (car appointments, phone calls, generally taking care of business) I have made it a point to enjoy something solo. So far I have hit up a sick cafe and an adorable donut shop. Which, having typed it out, hopefully isn't the highlight of this entry, but most likely will be. 

I have also started writing again. Which is doubtlessly the MOST thrilling thing that I have done for myself since undertaking this fascinating transformation. Whether it's blogging, writing in my journal about my day or creating a new spooky short story for my sister's local paper (which naturally is the most rewarding, as it involves my sis). I really would love to get all of my paintings somewhere else to clear my creative head space and just focus on this writing thing for a while... We'll see.

Caution be Damned!

My caution has successfully been thrown to the wind!

There is a change in my future. I am taking the job at T for K, moving to somewhere an hour away from where I currently reside and I could not be more excited! All it took was a conversation with K. Suddenly everything feels a little less heavy. I feel as though I could do some good work for someone I so immensely care about. I have applied today to two different housing locations (rental property) and may even have a back up plan at said restaurant, my tax returns have been returned and my car will have a brandy-new inspection sticker on her as of next month.

The job starts in early May, so this will give me a proper month to get my ducks in a row, head out of my current job spot (let's call it "M") and housing situation and into the new ones. My last day at M will be on my birthday, the 27th of April. This will be choice as it will give me the last bits of April and the beginning bits of May to finalize anything that I would not have been able to without the time off. There is so much that can be done throughout the duration of a work week; packing/selling/cleaning etc... However, as with TAXES (see blog: "TAXES 2017" for reference), there always seems to be that one bloody last thing that you just can't seem to accomplish unless you have a complete day - or two - free of work. And those days off had better not fall on a Saturday, Sunday, or holiday weekend or you may as well not even have them.

K has been my main source of support through this specifically, of course, but my incredible sister who, somehow, is in a state of continual pride of whatever I am doing, stays behind me the entire way. My mother was wonderfully understanding of me moving out/leaving her to nest-tending and my boyfriend has been nothing short of terrific. L, yet another killer friend of mine (at least a triple-threat) has recently moved south as well, and as such will be about 20-30 minutes away from the new rental property, should I score it.

This is more support than I think I have ever gotten for one specific move. I can't help but feel a little optimistic.