Wherein I ramble about daily life, and my niece's mental health. in The Big, Blue House, year one.

Taking a break from the daily maintenance cleaning. Don boiled chicken for the cats, I deboned it, and now I’m cleaning the stove. Tomorrow or the next day he’s patching the garage roof. He did the laundry, I get to fold it and put it away. He’s watching murder documentaries in the living room, after he woke up to answer the door twice, for Amazon. The first was a delivery of cat food, the second was to pick up a printer ink return. He always answers the door. I put away whatever is delivered, except for anything that goes in the basement freezer, which he carries down.

None of this was ever talked about or planned. I do what I want, and he does whatever’s left. Except the roof patch. I had planned on doing that myself, because I’m lighter and therefore less likely to fall, but he has experience, so I think he’s the better choice.

I don’t understand why he sleeps in the living room. He has his own room. The bed is huge, there’s an air conditioner, and for lack of a television I set up the projector with a LOT of his favorite old shows, and new movies. He tried it once, and went huffing back to the sofa after a few hours saying, “I’m going back where I belong”. He refuses to give me any further explanation. I think he missed the Roku, and doesn’t want to say so because he doesn’t want me to feel pressured to buy another television.

“Why don’t you sleep together?” A stranger might ask. Because, after twenty years of being woken up by his snoring every night, and kicking him until he woke up too, I got fed up and drug my foam mattress topper to the guest room one night. And that’s the way it’s stayed. I mean it’s not like we can’t do anything. There’s never anyone else here. Theoretically we could do stuff anywhere in the house. But his room has become the de facto room for that, since I put two single beds together in there.

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Side note: My favorite niece has posted several pictures of herself lately, and she doesn’t look well. She looks drunk, and stoned, to be frank. (I once worked with a Frank. I would say “Frankly, Frank, I think you paid too many francs for these franks.” He was not amused.) She wears her make up in stereotypical trashy redneck style, with the eyeliner all the way around, and her hair looks crispy from all of the bleach. She has more lines on her face than I do, and I’m ten years older. Alcohol and cigarettes. Her eyes are puffy, and bloodshot.

None of which is that worrisome by itself. The posts talking about people “trying to sneak around” her, or “trying to mess with” her, and how she knows who it is, because she can “feel” it. - That’s worrisome.

I’m wondering how long it will be before she loses her job, and what she’ll do when that happens. She’s relocated to a very small town, (population less than 13k), so the job opportunities are limited.

What makes it worse is that, at this point, even if she decided to get vaccinated so that she could come here, knowing her mental state, I’m not sure I’d want her in our house.

My, (late), aunt had schizophrenia. She eventually had to be involuntarily institutionalized because my uncle’s partner found her sitting on her steps, with an icepick. She thought that her son was replacing her medication with poison, and she intended to “get to him” before he got to her.

I want to help her, but not at the cost of mine and Don’s safety. So all I can do is watch, and hope.