Part two of the Historian’s accounts

Entry 12/06/2025 10:05:47: Mentat 2613

And comes the rest… 

Peace in the household was tenuous at best. Even after that row, I could tell he was plotting a whole lot of things, and complaining about me behind the closed door of the master bedroom… I tried to being as innocuous as I could about it — but the paranoia was clearly there. I wasn’t going to be leaving the house for any job that I was trying in the Metro Covington area… While my mother wasn’t able to hide her impending dementia, I continued to notice that her memory and her attitude was declining. 

So while I was able to get a job remotely for the bank that I used to work for — all of that money was going to where it could for the rent and utilities, but never to the food as that woman was determined to not use the check card for anything related to food stuffs unless absolutely necessary… So when I saw cards beyond the Discover card (which she forged the douche’s name for) along with at least three other cards that he forged his name to in order to pay for the ever present needs for his always hungry gullet. 

I confronted her on a number of occasions that the spending needed to stop, and to actually use some of the money we accumulated or else he’ll eventually find out about it and there will be hell to pay. Which she always said to me that she’ll handle it when the day comes. 

Eventually that money which I had been giving her dried up as the contract expired, and I didn’t want to leave her side because I noticed that she was looking more like an ancient set of skin and bones than she should have been looking since the last time she was inpatient for malnutrition. I was becoming more and more concerned because her walk was becoming more unsteady. So unsteady that at first it became necessary to walk with the cane that she had when she had broken her hip…. And continued to get worse until she was using a Zimmer frame… That’s a walker for you folk that don’t actually know it’s name. 

I was trying to ensure she was eating during this time… Practically forcing her to eat beyond the less than 1,000 calorie intake she was doing, yet what a fight that was!!! “this gives me diarrhea….” Or, “it upsets my stomach…” or she would just tell me to leave her alone she’s eating something… It was getting so much that during one of her more shaky times I had told the douche about her constant fad diets growing up, and how she would go on these starvation binges in order to lose weight… 

But alas, it went in one ear and out the other. 

He tried a few times to push things with her to eating more during supper, but he rapidly gave up and let her eat what she did instead of intervening much — and simply worried more about what he was eating more than what she was (no doubt because he’s the man of the house). 

And her health continued to fade…

I thought her BPPV returned as she was having problems with it when she was first hospitalized for her malnutrition. And I also noticed that whenever she would bend down and back up that she would almost immediately fall. So I tried to get her to doing her BPPV exercises more to see if it would help her with her issues with her — what I thought was her vertigo.. But it wasn’t helping. 

Honestly there was another fight with the douche. This one was a double doozy. Apparently during this day, my mother was escorted by the douche after they finished their supper and she wanted to have her time playing various Facebook games from her PC in the Office. Maggie — the dog — was following them. It wasn’t raining and there were no thunderstorms, but the dog had been disallowed for being in the office area because she has a habit of chewing holes in the rug out of nervousness. 

I commanded the dog “no” to stop her from bum rushing into the office to scoot under my mother’s seat as a means to setting up territory because the dog — once she’s there — will viciously growl at us to prevent being removed from the room. 

I was having none of it. She had already ate one hole in the rug under my mother’s chair not to mention at least 7 holes in the master bedroom because the dog has completely scratched off the paint down to the dry-walls around the doors to the room along with throwing up under the bed which no one but me routinely discovered and cleaned up when the douche wasn’t in the house. 

But getting back to it — when the dog started the scoot to underneath the chair of my mother’s desk, I tried to grab hold of her collar to stop the trick she routinely pulled, the douche said like he’s king of the household, “don’t you fucking dare lay a hand on the dog!” 

Yeah, I stopped and launched at him. I punched him to the wall, and forced him to go down again. But because my mother was present for this — she thought it was in her best interest to try to stop the fight. She didn’t have the weight, and she didn’t have the leverage and she went down in the process as well. 

There was a screaming match that went on, and the douche threatened to call the police because it was assault, but instead my mother once she was righted, and he disappeared to his room to talk him down and leave things alone with that. Ironically, it was also the first time the dog disobey any of the commands that I gave from that point for the next three months. 

My mother came out of the bedroom about 45 minutes later, telling me that he had calmed down…. And after that she use the words she always used when she thought I would be cowed through guilt that she used when I was growing up, “I alone prevented him from throwing you out of the house and getting me arrested… 

It was then that a realized that her dementia was advanced, because she used the same tone then as she did when I was 17…. Like she alone could make the house work. 

I submitted to her even though I knew then she was farther gone than I thought she was. 

Fast forward a couple of months later. Maybe a year. Her health was failing.. She was back under 90 lbs (40.8 kgs). She had routinely fallen around the house about 8 times and the frequency was getting worse. She had defecated in our bathroom (the guest bathroom) and I remember cleaning it up because she missed sitting down when she started to move her bowels. 

The next day she had fallen with the walker, badly too… She was a mess of skin and bones and the walker. The douche and I performed an intervention that after she recuperated from that fall in her bedroom, she was going to the hospital. She gave in to our intervention and after that time — she was whisked to the hospital. I stayed home to watch the dog as always… And the douche and her headed to Tammany Hospital. 

A couple of days later, the douche came home and told me the prognosis. Her blood pressure was tanking. She had broken two ribs from the fall and that one of the ribs had punctured her lung. She was being transferred to hospice care because there was nothing that they could do to recover her blood pressure, and that there wasn’t all that much left to do other than to make her comfortable. 

We waited… The douche never asked me to go with him to perform a visitation. Didn’t even consider that as the son, I should have been allowed a moment to see her before she went. I didn’t ask because the fuck would’ve probably said no because of the dog. 

A couple of days later. My mother… at 82 years of age… Died restfully…. At least I hope she did. Her mind had been completely gone by the time he lasted visited her, telling me about some of the stories of her making spaghetti sauce for a dinner she wasn’t cooking. 

I made all the arrangements to finding the burial papers and the arrangements for her passing. I tried to get the house back in order while the douche was out of the house and once again — not allowing me to visit the crematorium to see/confirm it was what she wanted. 

As far as I know, the remains have been given back to the douche — but I’ll be damned if I knew where they were in the house. Or even whether he was telling the truth about having the remains. 

But then that was where the real fun started. 

I tried to warn him that what was going on with her and the family I come from which are a bunch of alcoholics, thieves, using people, manipulators and I was the only one that didn’t participate in those habits. 

But he didn’t want to hear any of it because he knew her better than I did growing up under her and them for the last 60 years. 

At one point he accused me of taking cards that he left out like I was interested in them. He accused me of fabricating lies and being the culprit of “his wife’s” attitudes. 

I wasn’t listening anymore to it. And that’s when the new piece of information came to me… He walked to the office and said to me… “Come the first, I have removed your name off the lease…” And all I could say was, “fine… no problem…” And that’s when I realized it was time to move out and on as quickly as I could. 

At 3 AM on Monday, the 24th of November. I left the key on the table.. No note… And walked out of the house to find a way to a halfway house or shelter in New Orleans… 

This is where I am at the moment. Laptop adapter died this morning and I still have a ton of things to do to try to contact my family in Rhode Island. I have more to say about this.. But I need psychological help first. And then a replacement adapted on top of that. 

I’ll be back eventually.. I just don’t know when. I don’t even know how. So until the next time. think good thoughts for me as I’m trying to make things work here in New Orleans… Someway…

The Historian in me Comes forward

Entry 12/05/2025 11:23:48: Mentat 2612

All right, this was a rough couple of days landing in NOLA. While I’ve been getting more than my fair share of sleep thanks to being up and down for almost 11 hours; it seems to me that I’m going better than I did when I was living in the house that the douche now owns has exclusively under his name. But there’s moments when I wake up late at night (time unknown because we don’t have public access to clocks) where I’m facing the demons I’ve been fighting through with my 6 years of silence and not being able to vent through any and all of it. It doesn’t look promising at the moment as there’s nothing in regards to public therapy of any sort at the shelter, so I’m going to have to sit here and work through everything one bit at a time while I take some off time until I can get to the thing rolling… 

So first thing, telephone… Something I need to work on when it’s less cloudy and even less rain…. Annoying I know — but things are the way the are…. Neither here nor there until I see the shady setups along the street, at the homeless shelter, or along the places where there are courts and municipal buildings — including the library — and talking to the people there. There’s more to this, but I’m going to have to wait until I can take advantage of being more me, and less a historian of things long since passed. 

The good news is that I was able to get some information on the various resources available in the area, so I might have an idea to take advantage of when the weather gets less…. well…  stormy. 

I’ve tried to reach out to Tracy and Tracy is of course hesitant and in her own world since I dumped a lot on her about my situation. If I don’t hear anything from her sometime today (or tomorrow), I’m going to tell her that I’m not looking for a handout from her anymore. That’s pretty much water under the bridge. And all that I have left from her it to remind her of the friendship we had for the last 29 years. 

Tried reaching out for my aunt, and unless I have a phone number — she’s probably going to be another dead end — but there will be typical Frenchwoman/Frenchman (yeah, my uncle’s included in on this) because what I have to tell them they will have a shit fit.

OP ED: Sorry folks this is going to be a bit of a whirlwind because I’m going through a butt-ton of information and don’t have the time at the moment to be as much of a story-teller that I’m capable of…. So grin and bear it as best as I can. 

Shit fit? Yeah, it’s going to be a shit-storm. As I’ve said yesterday (and this is definitely going public because I can’t hold it tight anymore). My mother’s health was failing for the last 4 years and try as I might — by hook and by crook for me riding her constantly, trying to get her to eat, and to maintain a healthy existence — she was having none of it. 

Four years ago, when I wasn’t actually paying attention because I was too busy laying low because of the amount of criticism and nitpicking I as receiving from both my mother for what I was typing in my journal, coupled with trying to network and be friendly with people online — the douche that’s her husband was constantly complaining of the noise I was making because of his precious watching television. Of course, this excludes the amount of noise he was making when he was on the phone; as he was louder than me…. it was just logical for him to cast blame on me that I was the problem. 

So this was the first time my mother was diagnosed with malnutrition as one day when she was taking a nap, she was unable to get up because her energy was shaky at best and her equilibrium was completely whacked out. An ambulance picked her up and the her and the douche were en route to Tammany General to diagnose for other potential problems. 

The diagnosis? Malnutrition.. She hid this from both of us with her weight getting down to 89 lbs (40.37 kgs). Her magnesium count was completely shot and she was suffering from dehydration. I never once did visit her at the hospital because her dog — Maggie — had serious separation anxiety and without anyone in the house she could easily wreck it.

No problem, I thought.  This is something that she could bounce back from including being able to eat and take care of herself through the help of me as I’ve been doing the nutritional thing since I was diagnosed with Hypertension back in 2015, and was slowly losing weight from 225 lbs (102 kgs) and was about 175 lbs (79.37 kgs) at this point.

Man, what a fight that was even with the Visiting Nurses that we had coming over for a month or two after her discharge… but with a lot of Stubborn French negotiations and her near incessant nit-picking of something being “too salty”… or “too bland…” or a simply not liking it — we were finally able to get her up to 115 lbs (52.16 kgs). Not only was she steady, but she was also pretty much back to normal physically if not mentally…. 

Mentally was another story. My mother began showing symptoms of Sundowner’s. Enough for me to be showing concern even though she was vehemently denying it the entire time. Every time I brought it up, and every time she denied it — she was showing the symptoms more and more evident. So much so, I watched her slowly try to change her patterns based on the things I told her. Sure more of them were true — but sometimes I would throw one in that wasn’t remotely — and she began changing them to the opposite of what I told her. 

Douche and I were having our typical passive-aggressive fights. Basically his nitpicking…. And my bull-headed “I’m tired of your bullshit” attitude. That’s when…. Well I don’t remember the details… A friend in discord heard me as we were chatting (and I was a bit louder than he liked). He began making threats at me (with the attitude I’m a pansy little faggot to his “I served in the marines”attitude. And just like my brother he came at me with the scowled look and a first up like he was going to punch me. 

The Douche didn’t realize I was fed up with his empty threats. The douche didn’t realize I remembered the time in 2017 when he threw a serving knife and fork at me because I didn’t tell him precisely the size of the piece of pork I wanted leaving it to “his judgment, I was happy with whatever piece he gave me… (yeah, that was said three times before the knife and fork flew… The douche totally forgot in his attempt at intimidation that I was a Southpaw. So pinning just my right hand is useless when my left has been left free. It took him more than a bit to realize I wasn’t a right-hander like he is…. 

But I’m going down the rabbit hole a bit too much with this. 

So he was coming at me first with the veiled threat he was going to punch me for my surly faggot mouth…he didn’t say that F word, but his attitude was clearly implying it) Yeah, he’s 6’1″ (185 cm) weighing in at a a mere 250 lbs (113.4 kgs), and I’m 5’9″ (175 cm) and about 170 lbs (77.1 kgs). He got pushed to the wall with more force that he thought I contained. After a bit of working leverage, I pinned him to the ground and yelled at him, “I win.. And don’t think I don’t know how to do worse…” 

What did the douche do, you ask? When my mother woke up and came out of the room he looked at her and like my youngest brother did said, “he started it. I didn’t do anything to provoke him…” 

I’m honestly not sure whether she believed him (although she definitely acted it for his benefit). But at the same time she either remembered or didn’t how Jon (my brother) used to do this sort of things to me for decades when we were growing up. She gave me the routine scolding I got when my brother and I were growing up, in spite of the protests I made that if you threaten me, I’m not going to permit it or else it’ll get worse… 

In her mind it was settled. In my mind, it was far from settled as I knew what sort of energy the man had and he holds a grudge in ways that only the youngest sibling does when it comes to being bettered. 

And still, her dementia was getting worse… 

The next part covers her deteriorating mental state that followed her health once again… Until the next time.