When I last chatted with you, I had just been diagnosed with a slimy superbug bacteria, had just been told by my GramGram that she was collecting her own shit to fertilize her garden, and had just received a message from my sister, Audrey, that read, "Going to jail. Hit (my ex) with the car. Fight for (my son) with all you have."
Um, y'all, that was just last TUESDAY! And it was such a fucking drama llama that I couldn't fit it all into one measly post, so I wrote right up to the climax (where my husband and I discussed whether or not we were equipped/willing to post murder bail), and then I was like, "Peace out, bitches," stopped typing, and slapped a "To Be Continued" on the end of that rant. And then I didn't do shit for the next week.
Super fucking irritating, right?
Anyway, with my apologies for the delay, let me present you sweet, patient folks with Part 2 of the World's Worst Blog Series...
I got the following private Facebook message from Audrey: "Going to jail. Hit (my ex) with the car. Fight for (my son) with all you have."
"Welp," Chris said, "she's finally killed him."
We sat for a few more seconds, and he had another thought: "She's not expecting us to put up bail is she?"
She sent another message: "Don't have a phone. Skype?"
I know police officers can be super swell and all, but I've never heard of one being like, "Hey, potential murderer, would you like to use my laptop to Skype your sister? My wifi password is 'donut10-4goodbuddy,' all lower-case, no spaces."
But sure enough, a few seconds later, she was Skyping me... from her kitchen. I didn't even get to say "hi" before Audrey was screaming.
"MOTHER FUCKING ASS FUCK DICK BAG FUCK HIM IN HIS ASS DIE FUCK BLOOD GUN FUCK HIM DIE."
Obviously, I knew what each of those words represented individually, but I'd never heard them strung together in that particular order before, so I asked for clarification.
Now, because I don't want my fingers to detach due to excessive typing, I'm going to summarize the shit out of my exchange with my sister.
About an hour earlier, she had driven to her ex's house to pick up their son. They got into a shouting match regarding custody of a PlayStation3. No, NOT a PlayStation4. A PlayStation3. Audrey then put her kid in the car and backed out. As she was reversing, the ex (whom I long ago named Mr. Douche Canoe) tried to stop her. Audrey didn't see him, and the back bumper of her car scraped his leg. She didn't realize her vehicle had contacted Mr. Canoe's calf, so she drove on home. When she arrived, a policeman was waiting. Seconds later, Mr. Canoe was there, having followed her in his car.
He emerged, limping, and hollering about how Audrey had tried to kill him, how he almost died, and how the police needed to arrest her for attempted murder.
Because Audrey's a chill gal, she opted to throw her cell phone at Mr. Canoe, which hit the car and broke, explaining why we were Skyping via her computer. She shrieked obscenities at the cop, declaring that she longs to run down Mr. Canoe and that next time there'd be no mistake as to whether she'd intended to murder him because he'd be dead.
The cop asked Audrey to calm down, and in response, she threw herself on the ground, holding her hands behind her back, squawking, "Just arrest me then, if that's what you're going to do."
He understandably told her to shut her mouth. And that was it. He chastised her, then left.
A few points.
1) She was not arrested.
2) Which meant she was not on her way to jail.
3) Because she never hit her ex with her car.
4) Which meant that I didn't need to fight for custody of her son.
Agreed, my little green beans. This seems so fucking anti-climatic. But stay with me. Because it got so. much. more. weird.
Once I finally sorted the day's events, Audrey hit me with this: "How much money do you have to fight for custody of my son?"
Answer: "Zero. I'm a college student who is paying exorbitant doctors' bills for the gnarly tumor on my thyroid."
But I was curious, so I was all like, "Um, why do I need to fight for your son?"
And then, shit got extra sticky.
"I can't keep my son when I'm in jail for murder, Bekah! And I am going to murder Mr. Canoe. I just wanted to make sure you'd fight for my son before I go over there and shoot him."
Now, my family has always been colorful, and while I've encountered suicide threats from siblings before, I'd not yet been able to cross an honest-to-goodness homicide threat off my clan's bucket list.
So, um, check?
For the sake of brevity, I'll summarize yet again: Audrey had decided that Mr. Canoe needed to die, and she'd already been in jail for meth manufacturing, so she knew she could handle life on the inside. So, logically, that meant that she should get the gun from the attic, drive the dozen or so blocks over to Mr. Canoe's house, and light up his herpes-infested ass.
Yes, I asked her if she was serious. Yes, she assured me she was. Yes, I said I'd call the police if she continued these threats. Yes, she got mad and proceeded to tell me how shitty of a sister I am.
This is when Audrey said some seriously vicious things to me. She told me that I never loved our older sister, who passed when I was 18 (a particularly sore point for me, since that adopted sister and I did not get along well when we were younger and she first came into the family). Audrey told me that I never loved Audrey as much as my only biological sister. She told me that I can't understand pain, because I've always had the perfect life. And then, she told me that I benefit from her mistakes, mainly in that Chris and I have chosen to not have kids because we've seen how hard it is to have children.
1) Fuck her. Fuck her twice. Fuck her three times. Fuck her four times, once for each child. Her four babies are not burdens. They are blessings. My nieces and nephews are the goddamn lights of my life, second only to my husband and kitties. I would ecstatically take any/all of her children and love the hell out of them. I would inform them every day that they are special and perfect and that potential shimmers out of their every pore. I would hug them each morning and pat their heads each night, and I would sacrifice all future Halloween costumes for my kitties so those kids could have whatever their sweet souls desired.
2) I know this because I've dreamed of doing exactly that. I am almost definitely infertile. I have been seeing a fertility specialist these past few months, and my doctors are not optimistic. Chris and I did not elect a child-free existence. My ovaries did. And if/when we confirm our inability to procreate, we'll start the arduous adoption process, because I know with absolute certainty from my personal experience with my siblings that I can love an adopted family member just as much as a biological one. So, for someone I chose to love to tell me that her flesh-and-blood are anything less than the miracles they are that I would love to have... well, something broke inside of me. Something deep and something sacred.
But I digress...
As if on cue, as Audrey yelled about shooting her ex and her children's audacity to inconvenience her with their existence, my 6-year-old nephew popped up on the screen.
"Hi, Aunt Bekah! I miss you!"
And I then realized that my nephew had been in the room for the whole conversation. And he is so used to overhearing these sorts of conversations that he wasn't even fazed. Instead, he launched into a(n admittedly well-planned and practiced) pitch for me to buy him a GoPro for Christmas. (In case you're curious, yes, I will sell all the blood in my bloated body to buy him that damn gadget.) Then he wandered away, and Audrey picked right back up with her threats.
Dear sweet, patient readers, I'm sure you have at least one question, and it probably looks like this: Why didn't you hang up and call the police? And I don't have a superb answer.
My priorities seemed at that exact point like they should be these: ascertain the threat's credibility, determine whether the gun had ammunition nearby, and try to dissuade Audrey from breaking my family again.
And then there was this: My nephew was there. My 6-year-old nephew. Did she plan on leaving him home alone while she killed his daddy? Or did she plan on taking him with her? Was he in immediate danger? Could I mitigate that in some way before I inevitably called the police?
I know that this post (or at least its predecessor) started out somewhat humorous, and now I've dragged you into my harrowing pit of shit. I am sorry about that. You know I adore mocking my other people's problems. It's how I cope with absurdity. I look at the bizarre, and then I laugh and laugh at our fucked up world. It's healing, this laughter. So, let me skip to only part of this shindig that was in any way humorous.
I asked Audrey: "If you go and shoot Mr. Canoe, what happens to your son? Do you really want him to wake up all alone and scared and not knowing where you are? He might wander into the street looking for you and get hurt."
She avoided my gaze and said, "He won't be alone."
Me: "Oh, really? Who will be with him?"
Her: "A friend."
Me: "What do you mean, a friend?"
Her: "A guy I've been seeing."
Me: "Okay. Can he be trusted around your son?"
Me: "Okay, so you say he's trust-worthy. What does he think of your plan to kill Mr. Canoe?"
And then she said, "Why don't you ask him?" and turned the computer so I was face-to-face with some stranger who had been listening to what I had thought was a private conversation.
What. The. Fuck?
Brad was nice enough, in that he wasn't a dick about it all. When Audrey stormed off, Brad promised to try to restrain her, and he gave me his phone number, so if something did happen I could reach him, as he'd have my nephew.
Then, I asked him, "So, how well do you know Audrey?," and he said, "Well enough, I guess. I met her a week and a half ago."
That's HILARIOUS, right?
That I was sitting there Skyping with some guy I don't know about how his girlfriend of 10 days was going to murder her ex so he was in charge of her son?
Anyway... now for the end.
The gun had no ammo, and Audrey refrained from murder. Later that week, authorities cited her for improper backing, which is quite less problematic than attempted vehicular manslaughter.
Then, I contemplated sending her a PowerPoint e-mail, where I used bullet points to tell her exactly how she hurt me, what boundaries were in place for future conversations, the specific actions required to apologize, and the benchmarks she needs to reach to have me involved in her life.
She's since said she's sorry, and I appreciate that. Because people (whether they be me or Audrey or Mr. Rogers or Kim Davis) are flawed and fucked-up. But we all deserve grace. Mind you, we don't deserve free passes. But grace, I can do. I can do it with boundaries and benchmarks and a wall that requires permission to scale. And scaling it will be for Audrey, because the drawbridge to my self is drawn shut against her and her poison. She doesn't just get to waltz in through the gates anymore. She has to climb that wall around my heart. She has to crawl it inch by inch.
So, that's the story, y'all. It's not a fun one. It's one where the sister I love said things that leveled me. It's a story that involves my nephew in danger. It's a story where children go uncherished. It's a story that relegated my relationship with a family member to a dark place from which it might not emerge, if she doesn't want it to.
It's one of those stories that I always harp on about. Stories that are not always perfect. Stories that are not the ones you want to tell about your life, because society has told you that these stories aren't the ones we should tell. But they deserve to be told, and they need to be relayed exactly as they happened. Who wants to read a story that involves rainbows and unicorns and cotton candy clouds when you didn't have to slay the dragon or destroy the wicked witch to gain access to Utopia?
Mwah, my lovelies. Happier posts are on their way.
True story: Life would be super swell if we all embraced our OMG side instead of living a Facebook-friendly existence. So, let it out. What is your worst family experience? Have you ever felt like smothering your sister with a pillow? Feel free to disclose details. You're safe here.