Hardcore whiner

If karma exists, then it would appear I'm paying back the spiritual debt of an evil person. I was actually prompted to Google "Job" today, just to see how much worse his life was. I came away not sure how living to 140 is a reward. Having been raised Catholic, I know almost nothing of the Old Testament of the Bible. Catholics don't really study the Bible--and I know this for sure because I spent many years slogging through Parochial school--they mostly just include it in Sunday Mass and leave it at that. It wasn't until I was an adult that I knew what the expression "the patience of Job" even meant.

My life isn't bad by most measures; I just feel bad about it in the context of living it.

Last night, I wept in frustration while waiting to fall asleep. Frank asked me to walk through each issue, but I couldn't get through the list. Finally I said, "I have always been a good girl. I've had my moments of manic irresponsibility throughout my life, but overall, I've always done exactly what I was supposed to do. I took care of my health but developed bipolar disorder, so what was the point of all of that healthy living? I came to a tenuous acceptance of the BP and moved ahead with my life, working harder than ever to be productive and to prove I was just as capable as someone who wasn't ill--and to make up for all of the time I lost while my brain was rerouting itself into a ditch.

My reward for that was shingles and then post-herpetic neuralgia, and ultimately, such severe flares of Unhappy Pelvis and muscle spasms, that I've had to give up the most important work I've done in years, the only thing I was passionate about in the last decade. But not my paying job--yet.

I suppose that wouldn't be so bad away from Planet May, but I've been trying not to harbor resentment toward my head for taking away my ability to read books, long magazine articles, or to watch movies. I had to give up bicycle riding, something I loved even when I was too sick to do anything other than go to work. Lithium and neurological weirdness took that away, and just when it was about come back to me, my nervous system malfunction sealed the deal on keeping the bikes in storage, probably for eternity.

I do the right thing in life, but everything goes wrong anyway. I can never get ahead financially. I'm enormous. I pay bills and mysterious new ones come that I can't even comprehend.

I am a good daughter who is taken for granted by a mother who believes I should spend every waking moment of my day thinking of ways to make her happy. When my father was dying, mom wanted me to have check-signing authority on my parents' bank account. She assured me and her bank assured me that this was not creating a joint account--I would just have permission to sign checks.

As it turns out, it is a joint account. In order to get my name removed from the account, there is an entire protocol the bank requires customers to observe. I did everything I was supposed to do. Nothing worked out for me.

As soon as I had my letter ready to send to my mother so she could sign, too, I put together a FedEx envelope and airbill. On Friday, I had an afternoon appointment and I was worried I wouldn't make it to FedEx in time for the last pick up. A coworker said I should use the drop box outside of the parking garage. Hmm, yeah, except I hadn't parked in the garage that day. "I can take it for you..." I hesitated and I don't even know why. I explained that this was beyond important and it had to go out before the afternoon pickup.

On Friday night, I sent an email to my mother (she keeps her phone turned off so she won't know when collection agencies are calling) explaining that the FedEx would arrive on Monday, and she needed to turn around the second FedEx that same day. I knew the clock was ticking. Her bankruptcy court date is this week. My letter has to arrive at the bank before my mother goes to court.

On Tuesday night, it began to gnaw at me that I hadn't heard from my mother. I sent an email asking if she had received the package. Then I sat down to track the envelopes. Nothing. FedEx had nothing. The airbill numbers didn't exist. Nothing was in their system. I tried retyping. I tried searching by account number. Nothing. Panic was setting in.

That's when I went to bed and started to cry. Frank said he would check on it in the morning, but the sense of dread had all but consumed me by then.

5:00 a.m. I woke up and had to pee--an urge I take very seriously now. I flushed the toilet but didn't hear it refill. In the unlit bathroom, I made my way to the sink and pumped two large squirts of liquid soap into the palm of my hand. I turned the faucet handle and heard only a gurgly airy sound. I stepped away from the sink and made my way to the kitchen. I tried the kitchen faucet with the same result. It took me a minute to figure out that I still had a handful of soap to deal with. After wiping my hand with a paper towel, I realized that liquid soap is really difficult to get off of one's hands without water to help spirit it away.

I climbed back in bed and rolled over close to my husband. "There's no water in the house." Frank rolled over and said what only a man would say, "Are you sure?" Apparently, I have no credibility because Frank got up to check for himself. Then we both heard it--the low rumble of a diesel engine. We looked outside.

Sitting outside directly in front of our house were five city water trucks and a backhoe. This did not bode well for a morning shower. Or coffee. I took my morning meds with Pellegrino.

The water main had broken about three houses down. I went back to bed for 45 minutes.When I got up, Frank was on the phone with FedEx. They were mystified by the apparent alien abduction of my package.

Later in the day, FedEx called to tell us that after scouring the pickup area, my package had been located--in the top part of the drop box where the supplies are. My coworker, for whatever reason, thought this was where you place the outgoing package, instead of getting an idea that the big stainless steel drawer handle might be a more logical place to get something to go inside of the drop box. The package had been sitting there since Friday afternoon.

FedEx customer service told us that it is the driver's responsibility to check that area every day for supplies and mistakenly placed packages. Keeping score: Coworker can't figure out a damn FedEx drop box. FedEx driver is too lazy to take two seconds to look in the top part of the box. May's mother neglects to call on Monday to say there is no FedEx delivery. May is a fucking moron for believing anyone on the planet is as conscientious as she is--or ever will be.

It is highly likely that May is now responsible for the entire $10,000 debt her mother has on an account that was never supposed to belong to May in the first place. Don't own the account, but I get the $10,000 debt. I guess. My mother is not checking email either, I guess.

I am appalled that this journal entry doesn't even cover half of what's tormenting me. It's late, I'm tired, I need to go to bed, and I'm trying to ignore the fact that two of the city water department trucks are idling in front of my house again.