Friday, December 24, 2010

Three Things/How I Could Do I/If This Isn't the Lesson You Want Me To Learn, Then Quit Teaching It

I prayed for three things, today.

I prayed that when the baby is born, I bleed to death. If the only future I have to look forward to is watching it slowly dawn on my daughter that her mother is a worthless, useless fuckup...why should I want to live for that? Better she should never know me. It's not that I don't want to be here for her...I do...but if there's not a hope in hell that our future can be happy...why subject her to the added misery of bearing me as her burden?

I prayed that the gods take away my music. Strike me mute. No more singing or song writing. I don't want it. Why should I? What good does it do? No one gives a good god damn. What's the point of wanting to sing, to reach others...if no one's listening?

I prayed that the gods take away the stories. No one wants those any more than they want me. I have proof - rejection after rejection from agent after agent. Why try? Why allow myself to be driven, to shape words into images that no one wants to read?

I'm tired of being pointless.
I have spent the last few hours thinking these thoughts...may as well write 'em out. No one reads them, no one cares anyway, can't hurt to put them here.

I can't kill myself. I made a promise. I have never broken my word. But I can sure want to. And I can think about how I'd do it. I can fantasize about the day my word means less to me than this emptiness.

Not a gun. Too messy. I would not like to give anyone another reason to hate me, to think me worthless, selfish...

There's always aspirin. We've got a few bottles of that around here. I can swallow a lot of pills. But no. It's been done, and it's too easy to catch and reverse...and if it fails, the results can be...unfortunate.

A razor, perhaps? I used to think that was how I'd do it. Draw up a nice warm bath. Two good slices, placed just right, and I could open up veins without touching a tendon, bleed out in minutes. It would be less mess for anyone to clean up after...just remove the carcass and rinse out the tub, no worries.

I think if I was to do it now,'d be poetic. I have several vials of insulin. I could inject the entirety of one in a matter of moments...and there's nothing could be done about it, if anyone even cared to try.
Alright already...I get it. I am worth less than a damned computer game, less than addiction, less than the cat shit out in the garden. My hurt is meaningless and no one, not ONE person, gives a good god damn.

If that's not the lesson you wish me to learn, O Universe, then quite teaching it to me. The point has been driven home enough times in the last little while...I don't need any more reminders that I don't deserve to be happy and any time I begin to feel the slightest joy, I should quash it or accept that you will do so for me.

I am done chasing after people and begging them to love me. I am done believing that anyone actually does, has, or ever could. I am done forcing anyone to endure my love. No more illusion on that front, O Universe, so you can leave me alone and go pick on someone else.

I am NOT loved. I am NOT wanted. I am NOT needed. I am a fat, ugly, disgusting, slovenly, stupid, unnecessary burden to be borne, and I would do the world a favor if I simply quit foisting myself upon it. I get it. Thank you.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

In the Moment

How I'm feeling right this moment:

In Need of Comfort
A Failure

Bah. I'm going to bed and hoping tomorrow is an improvement.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

The Empty Fullness

I have grown accustomed to my love's presence here in our home. Not dependent. Accustomed. I love his presence here in our home. I am often aware of him, of what room he's in, of what he does, or what he needs.

I reach for him at night. Often, I am abed first, sometimes hours before he'll crawl beneath the covers. I know when he enters or leaves the room, though, even in my sleep. When he climbs into bed, I inch close, rest my head on his shoulder, feel his arm wrap around me, and am deeply content.

There, in his circle, the circle of his arms, I feel loved, cherished, protected.

I love to run my hands over his body...his hard planes, smooth, soft skin. I love how my touch can arouse him. I love making love to him, slow and sweet, swift and insistent, always deeply in the moment. I love the way he buries himself in me.

I love his scent, often leaning in and breathing deeply, exhaling and breathing him in again.

I am a glutton for his touch, always greedy for more. With his hands, he tells me he loves me. I do not feel judged...all the flaws of my body are there for him to see and feel, but he does not. He makes me feel sexy, beautiful, wanted, worshiped.

Loving him is exhilarating, exhausting, a sweetness that is at once craved and overwhelming.

He is away at the moment, out of town. I miss him. The house is empty without him to fill it with his sounds, his motion, his presence. The days are long, the nights longer, without him to help fill them. My body misses his.

I am glad for this ache, for this absence. It will be all the better when he's home again...and really, he's not gone. The daughter I carry within me, the child growing slowly in my womb, is half him, her movement a reminder that wherever he may be, we are home and he will return to us.

Still...I'm missing him...missing his touch, his kisses, his tongue, his love, his fire...there's an emptiness that will remain until he is home to fill it once again.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Things Left Unsaid

What I say here isn't meant to hurt. I know it doesn't matter, though. Tonight, it seems, I could neither do nor say anything right, and rather than further burden anyone with my blubbing, I'll just type this shit up and be done with it...until it's read, and there are consequences. can there be consequences when I don't matter, when what I say, think, feel are inconsequential?
Can't sleep. Head aches. Stomach aches. Heart aches.

Fuck you, he said.

Because I asked what happened. Because I wanted to offer help, if it was needed.

Fuck you, and a tirade about how horrible his life is, and why the fuck would I even ask something like that.

So many thoughts crowding my mind, some there for a while now. I shouldn't write them down...writing things down gives them over to others, opens them up to be misread, misinterpreted, used against me later when all I wanted was simply to have done with them...but fuck it, why the hell else did I start this blog if not to empty the dark things out of my mind? I'm not supposed to have to bite my words any more, hold them in my teeth to keep them from spilling out into my world. I'm supposed to have this place to release it all without fearing what follows.

I asked what happened and was told Fuck You, among other things. In words unsaid, I was called stupid. I though I later heard a shut-the-fuck-up, as well. Earlier today it was I can't even drive away...and so I know he feels trapped here, that he wants to escape, and it's my fault he can't.

I don't have the luxury of crawling off and licking my wounds - I had to make the Boy's bed, read him a story, get him settled. I folded laundry and spoke not a word the rest of the evening...and was not missed. Clearly was not missed.

Was not wanted. Clearly was not wanted.

Was invisible.

And all the while, my head has throbbed, eyes aching, stomach roiling.

I lay in bed, finally, because I could do nothing else without being intrusive, without thrusting my obviously unwanted presence into his. I lay in bed and cried and cried and felt alone. Scared and alone.

I know I'm worthless. I know. I know it's stupid to hope, even a tiny bit, that I am important, that I might even come first sometimes. I know better. Still.

I hoped.

I hoped that my need, that my hurt, might be noticed, might having meaning. Stupid, me.

My love is worthless, it seems, and pointless, and foolish.

I thought I had done with crying myself to sleep alone. Damn fool, me.

He mumbled I'm Sorry as he fell asleep...but he did not reach for me, did not touch or seek to comfort.

I will never, ever, come first. I will never, ever, matter. I will never, ever do or be anything of consequence. Worthless, pointless, stupid...these things I am and will always be. Tonight that was made abundantly clear to me.

I come last, period. I get it.

I'm sorry, too.

I'm sorry I have forced him into a corner, made him feel like he has nowhere else to go, no choice but to stay here where he doesn't want to be. I'm sorry that my wanting him here is a chain. I'm sorry my love is a burden. I'm sorry I ruined his life, and I'm sorry he can't just say so but instead feels he has to smile and be nice about it...until truth finds its way out, here and there, slips through his teeth in fits and starts...

I'm sorry he sees that I'm a bad mother, and now has to worry that I will fuck up our child as much as I'm obviously fucking up the Boy. I'm sorry if this baby just makes things worse. I'm sorry that I can't seem to get it right, and my wrongness just makes things harder for him.

I had a thought, tonight...that when this baby is grown and on his/her own, then I'm done. No one will need or want me any I thought to myself, OK, then when this kid's grown up, then I will, for the first and only time in my life, break my word. I will finally do what I should have done when I was sixteen, and finish the job. Surely I can manage to make it another twenty years, and I KNOW I can finish what I started, because all that's kept me from it so far is my refusal to be forsworn.

No one will miss me, and more than one will likely ask what took me so long.
So yeah, if you think this is about you and you want to discuss it, I'm game...but please don't feel you have to. I hate being an imposition. That's why I hide when I cry...I don't want anyone to feel obligated to care when they'd rather not. I'm not trying to lay on a guilt trip, here. And you should know...these thoughts...they're real, they swirl around in my mind...but...I know they aren't real, at the same time. They still hurt, though. I had to get them out. Please understand.

And my head still aches...

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

I Don't Know Why...

...but all day, I've felt like crying.


Tuesday, March 30, 2010

It's Like That, Sometimes

Sometimes I make mistakes. I don't see what's there. I'm sorry.

Sometimes I crash so fast, it's from one heartbeat to the next that I'm up and then down.

Sometimes, I want to drink myself stupid, cut myself to ribbons, swallow pills and pills and pills, crawl into bed and never come out again.

Sometimes I am terribly tired of failing, of never seeming capable of getting things right, of being useless.

I was a bad wife. I am not much better at being a girlfriend. I am long past suspecting I suck as a mother, too.

Sometimes I think it would be better if I went away, was just gone, better that I didn't poison the world around myself, took my curse and disappeared.

I can't.

I'm too selfish...I love my son and want to watch him become a better person than I am...even as I think I do him a disservice.

Sometimes I don't want to say anything or bother anyone, and there's a voice in my head screaming "Who gives a shit?????" and I want to hide.

Again, I can't.

And I won't. Because it isn't always that way.

Just sometimes.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

#%#$@!!@&**&^%$$#@! Birthday

I hate my fucking birthday.

It's not because I had a bad one this year - it was quite nice, as birthdays go (despite my distinct non-winning of the lottery). I happily began tidying my sewing room and started the big freezer defrosting, and went out for dinner to a local hot dog joint that has the best chili-cheese fries for clogging one's arteries on the planet.

No, I hate my fucking birthday because of ghosts and shades of birthdays past.

When I was quite young, I'm sure there were cakes and parties. I vaguely remember one birthday spent at Burger Chef, my favorite dining establishment as a child. See a pattern, here?

But somewhere around the time I hit double digits, birthdays became something of a...meh.

I saw other kids having parties, but I didn't have them. Other kids had family and friends to celebrate with them...I usually spent the day alone, perhaps the recipient of a half-hearted wish for a happy birthday from someone who felt obliged if I happened to mention it was my natal day. I started thinking I didn't like my fucking birthday.

I got tired of begging people to notice or care, so I was quick to quit mentioning it. I was almost certain I didn't care for my fucking birthday.

I watched other kids get gifts and phone calls and visits from family when I was in boarding school, but again, I spent most of my so-called "special day" largely unnoticed, although my mother did try to make sure she called and sent a gift, and that meant a lot to me...but at that age (early teens), one wished one's peers might give a damn. I didn't even harbor a tiny hope that my father would make an appearance of any sort. Or my grandmother would orchestrate a birthday fiasco that was basically a bribe to the other kids to be nice to me for a day so they'd get dinner out and cake.

I firmed up my notion that I hate my fucking birthday.

I spent my high school years without so much as a ruffle on the "happy birthday" waters, and that was fine. I couldn't be bothered to care that I was alive, why the Hell should anyone else.

In my early twenties, I was part of a large social group that sometimes made a fuss over birthdays and sometimes didn't...but I always felt loved. Still...I hated my fucking birthday out of habit.

Mid-twenties, my birthday became a death day, too - a beloved friend and member of my social group died on that day and I was once again firmly entrenched in the idea that my birthday fucking sucks, and I hate it.

Now in my...never mind what age...I'm still not convinced that it's worth the bother. Oh, don't get me wrong...there are people who love me very much who make sure to tell me so (and not JUST on my birthday) and who make an effort to let me know that they're glad I was born. I know I'm loved.

But I'm still that kid who kept getting the message that she didn't matter to anyone, wasn't worth the effort, time, or care. As an adult, I can't shake that old hurt. I also, in recent years, can't help but think I've wasted my life, that I'm wandering through the years in a daze doing nothing of worth...and that maybe it's to late.

So I still hate my fucking birthday and am just as happy to get past it and on with the next downhill slide to aging gracelessly.

Monday, February 1, 2010

The Art of Him

Oh, how I love him.

I'm going to photograph him...his lines, curves, dips, shadows, planes, in black and white, in sepia, I'm going to map his body inches at a time.

Long ago, people made maps by exploring territory.

I like that idea.

Sometimes, it's overwhelming, this love. It's huge, and old, and new, and comfortable and frightening. It's a challenge, and a blessing, and as easy and natural as breathing.

I love this beautiful man.

Beauty...more than skin deep, his, and complex, and fine. I wish I could paint him...paint his likeness with oils, acrylics, watercolors. The oils and acrylics for the bold, the strong, the powerful, the anger and the love and the smile and the intelligence...but the watercolors for the soft, the shades, the subtleties.

Or to sculpt...but how would I sculpt what isn't seen? Clay or stone...they can't capture the nuances of personality that I see, that add to this love, layer upon layer...

The soft voice when he speaks to the cats, coaxing them to come take a treat from him or accept a gentle stroke from his warm is no instrument with which I could convey the tones...and it goes right through me, melts the frozen places, transforms my stone or leaden heart onto a warm and beating thing, fluttering in my chest.

Dear Goddess, if a person of words finds it indescribable...

I'm at a loss.

I think...I cloud fill a museum...and still never quite convey what a marvel I find him...

There is no art so fine as the original.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

About the Light

You think the words are gone? That you took them away, sent them away, frightened them away?


About that light...the one on the ceiling...

It reminded me of you, Sir. The flame swayed and the shadows danced, but the light itself didn't falter or fail. In the small hours, as you spoke and spoke and poured yourself out and drew yourself back in, I stared at the candle before me, at the pattern of circles and lines of light that made a sun on the ceiling. I was cold, Sir...

And you were this great, blazing thing. I felt as insignificant as a mote of dust caught up in the wind, made bold to try and gather some of your warmth into my frozen core...and stared at the light, alone.

It was a sun, yes, but also an eye...golden, wide pupiled, hypnotic, it stared back at me as I tried to find my way into its center. I was a shadow, and I was listening from my corner. I heard the hard edges of your words when you spoke to yourself, and how you softened when the little cat Tiger caught you attention, and I wished I could bring that softness, that gentleness, to you and I wished I could get lost in the center of that light, immolated, turned to ash, remade. I wished that I could be lost in your eyes, Sir...

And while you were in one place, within your own darkness and struggle and rage...I was in another. Lost in my world, I couldn't reach yours, so I kept my distance and stared into the light.

That light.

The candle lit to help guide you to where you needed to be. The flame kept alive for months. I watched it move, listened as you paced, felt myself fall farther and farther away...held in place at last by nothing more than that small, tenacious light.

Friday, January 1, 2010

What to Show

I woke up this morning and felt the crash coming.

Look - I don't know how to do happy.

So...weeks upon weeks of roller-coaster ups and down, culminating in one big rejoicing...there was going to be a crash. It's nothing personal. It's just me, being me.

I woke up worried about things that are mine to worry about, and feeling this sticky blob of shadowy stuff trying to envelope me, envelope my psyche. I need a cry. A good one, the kind that leaves my eyes red, my face sticky and wet, my nose stuffed and of those emptying, unattractive cries that should never be witnessed by loved ones lest they be forever branded by the horrible sight.

I feel...useless. I feel...pointless. I a drain. I feel helpless, feel hopeless..and I'm trying not to drag anyone else down with me.

I keep trying to hide it. I'm used to internalizing, to denying anything's amiss. It's easier, really. Again, it's nothing personal - I love the people in my life - but if I don't want to deal with this crap, why should I expect anyone else to?

Trouble is...that's not fair. Not fair to me, not fair to the ones I love. They have a right to know I'm not happy...don't they? they? Is it a privilege or a burden?

I don't want anyone to be weighted down. And I don't want anyone to be hurt. And I don't want anyone to think I'm shutting them out. Conundrum.

What to do...

What to show...