I Gave At ... Home?

My office is doing some walk to raise money for the American Heart Association, and so far two people have asked me to donate on their behalf.

"It's for a good cause."

My going to New York for a grand total of four weeks, split into one week and then a three week stay, were also for a good cause. My father's open heart surgery.

That was last spring. Right as that was happening my brother began having HIS heart problems, and I wound up going to Los Angeles for two of his heart surgeries.

So quite honestly, I'm feeling like I've given enough. I feel like I gave everything that I'd been for 28 years, and in this last year, everything's gone to shit.

Because all the problems, everything that eventually led to starting this blog with Chloe, didn't start in February when Crazy Girl found my other blog. It all started last spring, when I was in New York. When I sat at the kitchen table with my parents during dinner and they screamed at each other. When I was loading plates into the dishwasher, and as I leaned over, I threw up in my mouth from the stress of living in a household where people treat each other that way again.

I'd forgotten what it was like. I'd stopped being used to it. For most of the four years that I lived in Florida, I did not have a roommate. It was just me. My house was quiet. It was a calm place. I specifically wanted it that way, because I hated the rage I could feel coursing through my parents house.

It didn't start when my father told me he'd found out about my blog and I cried outside the gay Safeway with bags of food at my feet. It started last spring. When I threw up in my mouth.

And it hasn't stopped. And October, when the Parental Unit arrives, is getting closer and closer.

So no. I will not be donating to this heart association. I donated when I slept on a wooden bench of a hospital lobby in New York after having not slept in over 30 hours. I donated when I smiled at my father and said, "Don't die!" before he was wheeled off to surgery. I donated when I told the doctor, "We're NOT leaving" when he wanted to kick us out of the recovery room. I donated when my dad slammed the door of his bedroom two weeks after his surgery and I jumped, scared. And then cried. I donated when my mother asked "But why would anyone call YOU?" in response to my friends calling to check on my sanity and sending me goodies in the mail (my father called them pity packages).

I'm donating now, every day. I donated today when I called my brother at work and he didn't answer and I worried about him. I donate every damn minute. With my time, my emotions, my thoughts. Just not with my money. I think that's good enough.