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Thirty-Something

Musings and fuckery

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Shitty childhood.  Two words to sum up a plethora of a life.

If I wasn’t being abused, I was alone.

If I wasn’t alone, I was being abused.

Even by myself.

I chased friends who never really wanted me.  

I lied to people on the phone just to get them to talk to me.

My adult life I didn’t spend much time making friends, but I had some.  Some who I was close to.  A few moved, the others reconnected and dumped me after I helped to reconcile them.

It’s okay.  It should be okay.  I’m used to being dumped.  

Living dead

It is redundant to write about the same stuff every time I post.  I think that’s why I don’t post as much.  Yes I’m still depressed.  Yes I’m still angry, yes I’m still lonely and nothing has changed.

I wish I was like a snake and could shed my skin.  I would shed this life and just grow a new one when it was time.  

I believe the loudest sound is the silence.  The harshest words are the ones left unspoken, and when you’ve really given up, you forget the feeling of happiness and laughter. 

I miss smiling.  I miss laughing.  I miss that ache you get because you’ve laughed so much. The tears that spill from the corners of your eyes. The struggle to catch your breath because you’re laughing so hard.  I miss being alive.  This living dead shit sucks.  

Circle 

I am depressed.  Surprise, surprise.  I haven’t had hot water in my house for over two months.  I can’t take a hot bath.  I spent the past few weeks taking care of a baby with meningitis, and making sure his mother didn’t relapse back to Meth.  He is just now 2 months old.  Then I had surgery.  I’ve been alone.  Depressed, in pain, and alone.  My 15 year old has been taking the baby with her and staying with the girl with the baby, helping her stay clean, and I’m honestly pushed to the aide with everyone.  Pushed to the side in this filthy house.  I’ve tried to get my husband to wake up and talk to me, but he is exhausted from running the store.  I hate that I’m alive.  Hating being alive is an ongoing emotion I have.  No matter whatever else gets thrown in the mix, that emotion is always lingering in the background….  Weaving the black ribbons of clutching, life taking sadness throughout my core.  I hate this house.  I hate me.  I’m so unhappy, and I’m just too weak and sick to ever change it.  

I’m lonely.  I’ve been married for 16 years, we own a business (game store)where my husband basically lives but we don’t even have enough money to keep food in our fridge or our bills paid.  I never have cash.  Or a card.  I don’t have the ability to pay for things.  I’m too afraid to ask to buy anything because money is so tight.  I want to go on a date.  I think I want to cheat on my husband who has always been the person I love. The man I’ve raised my children with. But I am so damn lonely.  

The good news

The good news is that I’m sick.  My gallbladder is in terrible shape, blood pressure was at stroke level, I have something wrong with my heart, so if I refuse treatment, I should die of natural causes.  The bad part is I would be leaving a two year old without a mother.  Would I really though?  My husband is a nice guy..  Women would want to marry him.  My other three kids are almost moved out of the house anyway.  It may just all work itself out by itself.  

The colors

If I had a gun, I would blow my brains all over the wall.  I think the image would be beautiful.  The deep scarlet red splattered across the walls like wet paint on a canvas.  I wonder if my dogs would eat my brain matter.  I wonder if I would be heard then.  I suppose I would be accused of overreacting or narcissism.  

I wonder how beautiful the blood would be if I sliced my arms open.  From the bend in my elbow all the way down my forearm…  The bright red against my pale white skin.  

The colors would be amazing.  

Today is the day that I die…

I think maybe I’ve been dead for a long fucking time already, but just struggling to hold on…  Struggling to try.  

Today I took my fourth shower for this year.  Yes, this year.  I did my hair, my makeup looks amazing, I went to the store prepared to create majestic, beautiful pieces of art.  I ended up not having help with the baby, and got stuck with another kid to boot.

I did get invited out for tacos… Other people wanted to come too, including my husband but I said no!!!!!!  NO, NO, NO!!! I wanted someone to just take me out.  To not talk about business, games, whatever… I wanted to maybe have a glass of wine.  To discuss a movie?  I don’t know,a book? When it was the baby’s bedtime we got her home and my daughter who has been running around with her friends decided she needed to go back to her boyfriends, who she’s been with for two days straight.  

Of course I come home…  I am the one who decided to take in a baby, not my daughter.  

I stood in my studio as I prepared to leave and I looked around.  I looked around at all of the beautiful, 1/2 finished art projects.  I looked around at the room where a beautiful, extraordinary person used to spend hours creating art…  Happiness, thicker than the oils spread across my canvas used to drip from my paintbrushes… Now I sit.  

In my recliner.

In my socks.

With the remote.

And the pugs.

And the baby.

And my hair buns.

And my pot when she is asleep.

And my tears…

And my Harry Potter

Without makeup.

Without company…

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Today I said goodbye to my art room.  I know it will be the last time I try.  I know it is my fault.  I shouldn’t have tried.  

But for a minute, people talked TO ME!!  they didn’t fall asleep while we talked, I was told I was pretty, I laughed.  It didn’t last long enough for me to feel it, but I imagine it would have felt amazing.

Today is the day that I accept that my life is over and I’m far too sick, far too gone, and the only thing I can’t honestly do without conflict is to sit.

In my recliner…

In my socks.

With the remote.

And the pugs.

And the baby.

And my hair buns.

And my pot when she is asleep.

And my tears…

And my Harry Potter

Without makeup.

Without company…

Alone.

Alone.

Alone….

I’m too fucking chicken shit to kill myself, but I accept that I am no longer alive, and I never will be again…

I think it is actually liberating….  I can release the sadness of the life I had, and the pain of being alone.  Just know that I am….

Hopefully there’s something good on cable.  

Crazy fucking good girl

Gave her a bath.  A wonderful, wonderful bath.  I combed her hair.  It was so pretty.  

I scrubbed the fridge.  I scrubbed the toilet.  I fought and fought for help cleaning the things that my mind and body would not allow me to look at let alone touch.

Screaming.  Fighting.  Yelling.  Judging.  Screaming.  Hate.

I said “TAKE HER TO THE DOCTOR!!”. So she finally got in.  She was diagnosed with a horrid case of strep.  She is 16, driving, in college, has a job, but refused to take her antibiotic as instructed.  When I tell her ” TAKE IT!!!”. I am mocked.  When she tells me she feels horrible, I tell her strep travels and won’t let your body recover without taking the full amount of prescribed medication….  She laughs and mocks me..”strep travels??” As she laughs to herself.  Treats me like I’m crazy.  

I tell my family that nobody is allowed over until the house is clean…  I’m ignored.  Mocked…  Questioned…  Guilted..  “But she’s like family…  All she has is us!”. ” I thought you had a soft spot for her!!”. 

I ask to leave the house.  To go on a short shopping trip with my husband and his friend a town over.  I made an effort.  An agoraphobic, depressive psychosis, ocd, anxiety ridden me has been trying… Hard…. I was told the car was too messy and I should stay home.  

Of course, I do as told.  

I ask to go to our store to work on my art I’ve so desperately been trying to work on.  I’m told to stay home because the water isn’t working there.

Of course I do as I’m told.  I’m a good girl you see.

I ask for these cubby boxes to be bought so I can try to organize the baby’s clothing.  I ask for a chest of drawers.  I ask for the Cubby’s.  The cycle continues.  I want to try housework.  I want to contribute.  I want to be heard.  I’m told no.  Again…

So I put on Harry Potter and go to sleep because that is what good girls do……. 

Goodnight.  Time to sleep again.  I’m too big of a pussy to kill myself.  Fuck it.  

Curious

I sometimes wonder if god doesn’t keep me alive simply because hehas some sick twisted perversion with watching people suffer….  

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