I watched a grist mill, once. Powered by water, stone wheels turning, building shaking, gears and posts rattling, tremendous noise as much felt as heard. The miller poured corn, the wheels turned, and out came the meal ready to use.
Relentless grinding turned whole kernels into dust.
I know that feeling.
It's Silly Season, holiday time, the time of year when advertising and social pressure tell us we must give gifts or we are bad people.
Consume! They tell us. Consume and spend and don't think about the debt or the damage you're doing to yourself by being part of this environment, just consume!
And if you can't buy, buy, buy? You're worthless, useless, you don't love your family or your country.
Bullshit.
I'm tired. Tired of being a mother, tired of being a lover, tired of being the friend no one really wants around because she's always fucking broke and can't go out and play, so she either has to be carried or plans have to change to accommodate her broke ass.
I am tried of being a burden, and this time of year exacerbates the feelings, multiplies them one-hundred fold.
There will be no tree at my house this year, second year in a row. I can claim it's for practical reasons - there's the toddler to worry about, pulling on branches, yanking ornaments off, climbing the tree, tearing into gifts and the like - but it's as much about affording one as anything. I hate to admit it, but impractical as it is, I like having a tree in the window. I like driving up after dark and seeing the lights. It makes me smile.
Still, I can't pay the phone bill or even buy toilet paper, so how can I justify a tree?
Shit, I am sweating how I'm going to get gifts for the kids. The toddler won't know any better, but The Boy? He knows there are usually gifts and he will not understand that Mommy has no money...all he'll know is that while other kids are chortling with glee over their new toys and games, he'll be looking at a scarf and wondering where it all went wrong.
His father has money to spend on presents, so he'll get Christmas there. I'm so far behind, so deep in the hole, that even if back child support and the next month's as well were paid, it wouldn't make much difference.
Sigh.
In the end, I have my family and we have a home and food, so I really shouldn't complain...and I know how lucky I am to have what I do, even as I will have to do without a bit. It still wears me out, though.
Unlike the dusty meal at the mill, though, I can't just blow away - though I feel like I have nothing left of me to give, no more resources, no more endurance, well...on I go, slogging along the path towards the inevitable end...feeling the wheels as they grind.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Sunday, November 18, 2012
The Wheel, She Turns
We are each, if our psyches are to be believed, biding our time until we can replace/be replaced.
Tossed away like so much rubbish throughout his life, he has no cause to believe in my love, my strength, my tenacity and determination. He doubts my endurance, even as he seeks to wear me down to hasten his inevitable casting-away, so as not to prolong the pain, the waiting. So much better if I simply throw him out now, is his twisted logic.
Unseen and unwanted throughout my life, walked past, overlooked, I have difficulty believing in or understanding his love. I cannot trust it, trusting love having rendered more harm than happiness, brought me bankruptcy, loneliness, and sorrow.
Such a slippery and difficult to define creature, love. When I am sorrowful and cynical (which, let's face it, is most of the time) I do not believe that anyone can live me, and I wonder what keeps him here, why he doesn't leave me for one of the women who would suit him better. I think he goes through much the same process.
We do not trust ourselves, nor much love ourselves...how can we believe that others can?
And yet...I know I love him. I don't want a life without him. I trust him. Not blindly, as I have given others in the past, but knowing he will be himself only, not some ideal of self that he or I has imposed upon him. Eyes wide open, am I more the fool?
It does us no good knowing what we do about ourselves and each other. We tumble around on the wheel, thrilling at the height, clinging to hope and memory at the lowest point, likely both wishing we could find the center and rest there with each other.
Tossed away like so much rubbish throughout his life, he has no cause to believe in my love, my strength, my tenacity and determination. He doubts my endurance, even as he seeks to wear me down to hasten his inevitable casting-away, so as not to prolong the pain, the waiting. So much better if I simply throw him out now, is his twisted logic.
Unseen and unwanted throughout my life, walked past, overlooked, I have difficulty believing in or understanding his love. I cannot trust it, trusting love having rendered more harm than happiness, brought me bankruptcy, loneliness, and sorrow.
Such a slippery and difficult to define creature, love. When I am sorrowful and cynical (which, let's face it, is most of the time) I do not believe that anyone can live me, and I wonder what keeps him here, why he doesn't leave me for one of the women who would suit him better. I think he goes through much the same process.
We do not trust ourselves, nor much love ourselves...how can we believe that others can?
And yet...I know I love him. I don't want a life without him. I trust him. Not blindly, as I have given others in the past, but knowing he will be himself only, not some ideal of self that he or I has imposed upon him. Eyes wide open, am I more the fool?
It does us no good knowing what we do about ourselves and each other. We tumble around on the wheel, thrilling at the height, clinging to hope and memory at the lowest point, likely both wishing we could find the center and rest there with each other.
Friday, November 16, 2012
If This Is Love...
Why am I the only one who can change a nappy, do a dish, do laundry, feed a child, clean the floor?
Why is it that when I don't get something done, it's an affront to humanity, but when others don't follow through it's no big deal?
Why am I the one who gets up with the baby at night and in the morning while he sleeps as late as he likes?
Why is it that it's okay to play music or the TV as loud as desired when I'm sleeping, but the slightest whisper of noise cannot be tolerated when he's at rest, even when he's at rest until the middle of the day?
When I want comfort, touch, sex, it's okay for him to be too tired, too busy, too grumpy, but when the shoe's on the other foot? It must mean I don't love him any more and want to replace him.
How is it that it's okay for him to go meet other women, to chat and flirt online, to tell others that I am fat and nasty, to post requests for hot, sexy women to come meet him for sex, but I can't even have a conversation with someone I have never met, don't wish to meet, have made it clear I'm not interested in, then I am actively looking to replace him and must not want him any more.
Why is it okay for him to meet these other women, tell me he's NOT going to have sex with them, then have sex and not tell me, but if I don't disclose every detail of every conversation I have with another man, I am lying, cheating, and hiding from him?
Why is it okay for him to pull a blanket off of me while I sleep (sick, no less) so he can fuck his other girlfriend on the ground outside camp, but I can't even smile at another man without wanting to be rid of him?
If I don't talk about the bills I can't pay or they way I'm feeling or what I "need" or remain silent when I don't like something, then I am not treating him like a partner. When I do dare to speak, I'm told to shut up, told my feelings are invalid, interrupted, silenced, ignored, walked away from, or treated like an imposition.
If I don't answer the phone when he's calling, I am left nasty messages and yelled at, but if he doesn't answer when I call it's just fine? And why is it that he can call me even when he knows I am in the middle of something (maybe even something important), and if I am not ready to drop everything for his call I'm a bitch and don't care, but if I call him and so much as interrupt a computer game I am treated with impatience and rudeness until I hang up.
Why is it okay for him to hang up on me, but if I do the same rather than endure vituperative rants and abuse I am a bitch? Why is it okay for him to call at all hours and be angry and bitter if I don't answer right away and immediately ready to help, but I can't call in the middle of the day without being an imposition?
Why is it my fault he stayed up until the wee hours, long after I went to be, and he's sexually frustrated because I am not ready and waiting for him when he finally settles down?
Why is my weariness an affront to him? But it's okay for him to be too tired...
How am I rejecting him when I reach for him and he turns away?
If I don't ask for help, I do't want him. If I do ask for help, I'm being a bother.
I try to make sure that at least once a week I take the kids out and give him some quiet time because he needs it. I do not receive the same consideration.
I try to make sure that he has ample opportunity to go out without me or the kids so he can have some peace and decompress, and that's fine, but on the rare occasions when I ask (because I have to ask, it's not offered) for a few hours for myself, time not related to working or running errands, I may as well be asking for the moon and am creating a huge imposition.
I have to write, clean, eat, and sometimes even sleep holding the toddler to keep her from whining and crying or risk hearing shouts and angry words, but when others are on the computer (playing games, mind you, not exactly saving the world or anything) and she makes noise, it's an irritant and cause for hard words and anger because I can't make her shut up.
If it needs doing, no matter what else I am doing or have done, I am the one who is supposed to do it, even if I'm sick, hurt, tired, or holding the baby. If I fail to get it done, I don't care about him, don't want him, or am nasty.
Why is it okay for him to be angry with me for days, ignore me, say rude, angry, or mean things, but if I'm not instantly over his anger I am a bitch who is holding a grudge?
Why do I work and work and work, listen and listen and listen, helping him work through his issues, but I can't even finish a sentence when I try to share my thoughts?
Why is it okay for him to interrupt me, cut me off, or silence me, then get angry when I don't speak? And why is it that, just by asking him to let me finish what I'm saying, I want a silent man, I don't care about him or what he has to say?
Why is there always money for beer, but never enough for tires, or nappies, or to pay bills, or buy toilet paper or medicine for the baby? How is it there's money for motel rooms to nmeet other women in, but not to buy warm clothes for the children for winter? And why is it all my burden to carry?
How can anyone claim they care about how their actions impact others but keep on acting like they don't care? And what right do they have to be upset when I don't believe them any more?
Now the toddler is crying, and I have to stop writing because if I don't silence her, I don't care about his need for rest...but if I ever get to "sleep in", it's just fine for her to cry, whine, make noise, for him to play music or the TV as loud as he likes, and if I ask him to turn it down, or if I close the bedroom door, I'm being a bitch.
What the hell?
Why is it that when I don't get something done, it's an affront to humanity, but when others don't follow through it's no big deal?
Why am I the one who gets up with the baby at night and in the morning while he sleeps as late as he likes?
Why is it that it's okay to play music or the TV as loud as desired when I'm sleeping, but the slightest whisper of noise cannot be tolerated when he's at rest, even when he's at rest until the middle of the day?
When I want comfort, touch, sex, it's okay for him to be too tired, too busy, too grumpy, but when the shoe's on the other foot? It must mean I don't love him any more and want to replace him.
How is it that it's okay for him to go meet other women, to chat and flirt online, to tell others that I am fat and nasty, to post requests for hot, sexy women to come meet him for sex, but I can't even have a conversation with someone I have never met, don't wish to meet, have made it clear I'm not interested in, then I am actively looking to replace him and must not want him any more.
Why is it okay for him to meet these other women, tell me he's NOT going to have sex with them, then have sex and not tell me, but if I don't disclose every detail of every conversation I have with another man, I am lying, cheating, and hiding from him?
Why is it okay for him to pull a blanket off of me while I sleep (sick, no less) so he can fuck his other girlfriend on the ground outside camp, but I can't even smile at another man without wanting to be rid of him?
If I don't talk about the bills I can't pay or they way I'm feeling or what I "need" or remain silent when I don't like something, then I am not treating him like a partner. When I do dare to speak, I'm told to shut up, told my feelings are invalid, interrupted, silenced, ignored, walked away from, or treated like an imposition.
If I don't answer the phone when he's calling, I am left nasty messages and yelled at, but if he doesn't answer when I call it's just fine? And why is it that he can call me even when he knows I am in the middle of something (maybe even something important), and if I am not ready to drop everything for his call I'm a bitch and don't care, but if I call him and so much as interrupt a computer game I am treated with impatience and rudeness until I hang up.
Why is it okay for him to hang up on me, but if I do the same rather than endure vituperative rants and abuse I am a bitch? Why is it okay for him to call at all hours and be angry and bitter if I don't answer right away and immediately ready to help, but I can't call in the middle of the day without being an imposition?
Why is it my fault he stayed up until the wee hours, long after I went to be, and he's sexually frustrated because I am not ready and waiting for him when he finally settles down?
Why is my weariness an affront to him? But it's okay for him to be too tired...
How am I rejecting him when I reach for him and he turns away?
If I don't ask for help, I do't want him. If I do ask for help, I'm being a bother.
I try to make sure that at least once a week I take the kids out and give him some quiet time because he needs it. I do not receive the same consideration.
I try to make sure that he has ample opportunity to go out without me or the kids so he can have some peace and decompress, and that's fine, but on the rare occasions when I ask (because I have to ask, it's not offered) for a few hours for myself, time not related to working or running errands, I may as well be asking for the moon and am creating a huge imposition.
I have to write, clean, eat, and sometimes even sleep holding the toddler to keep her from whining and crying or risk hearing shouts and angry words, but when others are on the computer (playing games, mind you, not exactly saving the world or anything) and she makes noise, it's an irritant and cause for hard words and anger because I can't make her shut up.
If it needs doing, no matter what else I am doing or have done, I am the one who is supposed to do it, even if I'm sick, hurt, tired, or holding the baby. If I fail to get it done, I don't care about him, don't want him, or am nasty.
Why is it okay for him to be angry with me for days, ignore me, say rude, angry, or mean things, but if I'm not instantly over his anger I am a bitch who is holding a grudge?
Why do I work and work and work, listen and listen and listen, helping him work through his issues, but I can't even finish a sentence when I try to share my thoughts?
Why is it okay for him to interrupt me, cut me off, or silence me, then get angry when I don't speak? And why is it that, just by asking him to let me finish what I'm saying, I want a silent man, I don't care about him or what he has to say?
Why is there always money for beer, but never enough for tires, or nappies, or to pay bills, or buy toilet paper or medicine for the baby? How is it there's money for motel rooms to nmeet other women in, but not to buy warm clothes for the children for winter? And why is it all my burden to carry?
How can anyone claim they care about how their actions impact others but keep on acting like they don't care? And what right do they have to be upset when I don't believe them any more?
Now the toddler is crying, and I have to stop writing because if I don't silence her, I don't care about his need for rest...but if I ever get to "sleep in", it's just fine for her to cry, whine, make noise, for him to play music or the TV as loud as he likes, and if I ask him to turn it down, or if I close the bedroom door, I'm being a bitch.
What the hell?
Monday, November 5, 2012
Trippin'
We're suppose to drive down to Florida in two day, stay with some friends. Without stops, the trip is better than nine hours.
I am not looking forward to this.
I should be.
I should be excited that I'm getting a rental house, rent free. I should be looking forward to a little beach time with the kids. I should be anticipating relaxing, laughing, having fun.
But?
No.
The way I feel about this trip right now, I'd rather burn my hair. I'd rather have my teeth removed with a hammer and rusty pliers, no Novocain. I'd rather have a cactus shoved up my ass.
Nine-plus hours in the vehicle with two kids who are used to being free range, and another adult who lately seems more in need of a Midol than my company? Woo-fuckin'-hoo.
We're going ona shoestring, and if anything goes wrong, we're screwed. I won't even know if I can buy groceries until we're there. Long story, but it has to do with cash flow.
Once we're there, he'll have fun with our friend, and the kids will have fun, and me? I'll be taking care of everything, all the responsibilities of home but in a strange environment, cleaning up messes, making sure the kids are okay...no relaxing, for me. There is no such thing as vacation for mom.
This sucks. I was looking forward to this trip...but in the last few days all I can think is I should send the man on his own and stay home because he sure as hell isn't acting like he wants me around...only i can't even do that because the wife of our friend is taking vacation time and has plans for us, and I told The Boy I would try to take him to the beach if we're close to one, and I can't be that selfish.
Fuck. Me.
Vacation? Hah!
Friday, April 6, 2012
Inevitable Slide
It must be me.
A pheromone, a hormone, a subliminal signal.
Something I exude.
What else explains it? It starts off slowly, going to bed at different times when he used to drop everything to crawl in with me. A movie on TV is more interesting than the conversation we used to enjoy. Hours and hours on the computer playing games and surfing websites, back turned on the family, annoyed when interrupted, spending more time and effort talking to people online than in the real, live, warm, curious, loving people right here in the same room. Porn sites more alluring than the woman in the next room.
Never reading my words, no longer interested in what I have to say even when it's simply "I love you", looking irritated when I speak and he is reading or typing or playing online.
It happened before...it's happening now...and since I am the common factor, it must be me. I guess I'm just not worth the effort.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Dam
The sweet words he has for you used to flow for me...but they are drying up, a trickle where the torrent once was. I am trying to tell myself that he loves me still, trying to hold onto the belief that I am home...but the thought keeps drifting through my hind-mind that people usually can't wait to get away from home.
I don't feel loved...and now I feel guilt along with this not-loved because he says he has been trying to show me and I'm not seeing, not hearing. He's right - I have looked and looked, and all I see is how much he is pouring into you.
My hurt is not worth bothering with...just an annoyance, something to be hurried up and dealt with so he can get to what he really wants. I see it on his face when I am honest with him, hear it in his voice when he responds, feel it in the anger that only I am special enough to experience.
I have given up with believing that I will ever be so special to anyone that they might, if only for a moment, put my needs first...or that anyone will ever take care of me. Much as I yearn for comfort, to feel valued, protected, and nurtured, I know better than to think anyone can give that to me.
The Hell is, I love him, and I don't mind that he loves other women...I mind that when things don't go the way he wants them to, I am the one who suffers. I mind that I feel like an imposition, that I can't even ask for a little time for US without anyone else factoring into it. I mind seeing how much he wants THEM and wondering if I'm going to get a little of that care, too, or if I'm just on a back burner, old reliable, wanted only when no one else is available. I mind feeling like I'm not worth the time or effort any more, that I don't get to have the sweet words, the gentle touch, without it being resented or some kind of effort.
I don't doubt he loves me...but I can't help feeling sometimes that he resents it, resents me, and would rather be free.
He used to rush to read my words...used to write back. He told me my words won him. Now, though...he walks away from me when I speak, ignores my writing, ignores my words. The thing that supposedly won his heart...he doesn't care about. How is that supposed to make me feel?
I have this outpouring of myself that I must now dam up, because no one wants to swim in a polluted river, and my silence will go as unnoticed as my writing now does.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Not That Complicated
The rules are simple:
Don't lie to me.
Don't break your word to me.
Don't steal from me.
Don't lie to me.
Don't break your word to me.
Don't steal from me.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Dump
This is just a brain dump, in no particular order and of no particular importance - a bunch of junk and gunk stuck in the cracks and creases that I need to offload so I can accumulate more. You know how it is...
~~~~~
I have an STD, likely given to me by my ex-husband when we first met. I say likely because the doctor can't pinpoint when I got it; he can only tell me that it usually takes about a decade to show up, and since I've only had one partner at the likely time of...erm...infection...it is likely my ex. This particular STD can cause cancer, and it seems like I'm one of the ones in whom it is more possible, since it has already cause abnormal cells on my cervix. I've had two procedures to test/remove the cells and am now waiting to find out if they are just weird or if they are cancerous. Joy.
Meanwhile, because of the nature of the second procedure, I can't have sex for two weeks. Double joy.
Because I can't have sex, my sweetie is feeling the absence, and isn't happy about it. Yes, there are things besides traditional sex, and yes, I'm game, but it's not so easy when I'm wiped the fuck out at the end of the day because I've been caring for two kids, four cats, and the little housework I can manage. I fall asleep fast and hard while he's still up and at 'em. Sucks.
I can't help but feel as though the next time the doctor tells me he wants to do a test or a procedure down there, I am going to tell him "No." It isn't worth it. I don't need the bleeding, the worry, or the strain at home (complete with snide comments and porn-a-plenty on the computer). I'd rather risk cancer. Yes, I am serious.
I haven't told my ex, yet - I'm waiting for the test results. If he still reads this blog, I guess he knows, now. Cheers.
~~~~~
Some words keep rolling through my poor, tired brain, of late:
Selfish
Self-Centered
Angry
Inconsiderate
Careless
Cruel
Useless
Unloved
Unwanted
Pointless
Stupid
~~~~~
I am tired of the constant barrage of messages from the media telling me how lucky/unlucky people are in these difficult financial times. Luck doesn't enter into it. I am where I am because I made poor choices, not because I was unlucky. People who accrue wealth don't do so out of luck. People who hang onto wealth they've inherited may have been born with good fortune, but they don't hang onto that money because of luck - act stupid with wealth and it will find someone else to hang out with. Quit trying to make it all even by taking it away from the "lucky" and giving it to the "unlucky".
~~~~~
In the immortal words of John Galt: "Get the hell out of my way".
~~~~~
I am tired of liars, manipulators, and thieves.
~~~~~
I am tired of feeling like I don't matter in my own life. I am tired of feeling like my pain, my sorrow, my depression, my needs, my wants, come in last to everyone else's. I am tired of feeling as if I am doing something wrong on the rare occasions I try to do something for me...as if I have no right to try an be, if not happy, at least content.
~~~~~
I'm tired of feeling as if I cannot do right. Make a salad, don't make a salad - if I make it, then I'm nurturing when it isn't wanted, creating feelings of guilt, and causing anger and resentment. If I don't make it, then I don't care and am just being lazy and manipulating, rewarding or punishing, with food. Can't win.
~~~~~
I'm tired.
~~~~~
There...that oughta do it for a minute.
~~~~~
I have an STD, likely given to me by my ex-husband when we first met. I say likely because the doctor can't pinpoint when I got it; he can only tell me that it usually takes about a decade to show up, and since I've only had one partner at the likely time of...erm...infection...it is likely my ex. This particular STD can cause cancer, and it seems like I'm one of the ones in whom it is more possible, since it has already cause abnormal cells on my cervix. I've had two procedures to test/remove the cells and am now waiting to find out if they are just weird or if they are cancerous. Joy.
Meanwhile, because of the nature of the second procedure, I can't have sex for two weeks. Double joy.
Because I can't have sex, my sweetie is feeling the absence, and isn't happy about it. Yes, there are things besides traditional sex, and yes, I'm game, but it's not so easy when I'm wiped the fuck out at the end of the day because I've been caring for two kids, four cats, and the little housework I can manage. I fall asleep fast and hard while he's still up and at 'em. Sucks.
I can't help but feel as though the next time the doctor tells me he wants to do a test or a procedure down there, I am going to tell him "No." It isn't worth it. I don't need the bleeding, the worry, or the strain at home (complete with snide comments and porn-a-plenty on the computer). I'd rather risk cancer. Yes, I am serious.
I haven't told my ex, yet - I'm waiting for the test results. If he still reads this blog, I guess he knows, now. Cheers.
~~~~~
Some words keep rolling through my poor, tired brain, of late:
Selfish
Self-Centered
Angry
Inconsiderate
Careless
Cruel
Useless
Unloved
Unwanted
Pointless
Stupid
~~~~~
I am tired of the constant barrage of messages from the media telling me how lucky/unlucky people are in these difficult financial times. Luck doesn't enter into it. I am where I am because I made poor choices, not because I was unlucky. People who accrue wealth don't do so out of luck. People who hang onto wealth they've inherited may have been born with good fortune, but they don't hang onto that money because of luck - act stupid with wealth and it will find someone else to hang out with. Quit trying to make it all even by taking it away from the "lucky" and giving it to the "unlucky".
~~~~~
In the immortal words of John Galt: "Get the hell out of my way".
~~~~~
I am tired of liars, manipulators, and thieves.
~~~~~
I am tired of feeling like I don't matter in my own life. I am tired of feeling like my pain, my sorrow, my depression, my needs, my wants, come in last to everyone else's. I am tired of feeling as if I am doing something wrong on the rare occasions I try to do something for me...as if I have no right to try an be, if not happy, at least content.
~~~~~
I'm tired of feeling as if I cannot do right. Make a salad, don't make a salad - if I make it, then I'm nurturing when it isn't wanted, creating feelings of guilt, and causing anger and resentment. If I don't make it, then I don't care and am just being lazy and manipulating, rewarding or punishing, with food. Can't win.
~~~~~
I'm tired.
~~~~~
There...that oughta do it for a minute.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
I Don't Have Answers
There are so many things I don't understand. So many things I do not know. So many things I cannot do...and in trying, I can but fail.
The Angel is a person of words. She speaks, in earnest, and that is all she has. All I have.
Words won...what? What can words win when there is no faith in them, when they mean nothing, less than nothing, are tossed around like so much chaff to be swept away and forgotten?
Why should I bother speaking, when it has no meaning? I cannot fathom how the two things...words won...they're just meaningless words...how the two things are supposed to coexist. Ether they are, or they are not, real. I have no in between.
What more must I do, what more must I give or give over, before there is faith, trust? Does anyone believe in me? Have they ever? Or has it all been words, words, words, empty, useless, stupid, manipulative, worthless words?
I'm tired of words. I'm tired of wondering what things mean when they clearly don't mean what they're supposed to. I do not have a dictionary, a lexicon, that gives me insight into the warping and twisting that others so clearly comprehend. I speak several languages, but apparently not the right ones because I feel, more and more, that I am lost among strangers who have no care for my confusion, only for their own needs which I can clearly not meet because I do not understand them.
I'm tired of hearing sweet words and wondering where the barbs are hidden. I'm tired of hearing sweet words and wondering when the hard words will follow.
I would like to believe, again, in the one thing that gave me a sense of power, of strength, of ability, of pride...the one thing that I now find failing me completely.
I would like to be done with words, since they're so useless...but as useless as my words are, as useless as I am...they're all I have.
As I cannot be done with them, I suppose I will have to learn how to empty them of meaning, to speak or write empty things and keep myself to myself...excepting here and one other place...so not entirely silent or devoid of content, but only where I live and with people who are more real to me that you few who linger here in the shadows with me, as ephemeral as my own self is to you. You shadows will have the truth of me, then, and the people who should know, well...they won't see and won't miss what they clearly never had or wanted in the first place, if I am to believe their words more than they believe mine.
Do not ever tell me that my words have meaning to you. I cannot afford to believe, to hope, that there's truth somewhere in the lie, not again, not any more, not when I will be constantly waiting to hear that they're worthless, after all.
The Angel is a person of words. She speaks, in earnest, and that is all she has. All I have.
Words won...what? What can words win when there is no faith in them, when they mean nothing, less than nothing, are tossed around like so much chaff to be swept away and forgotten?
Why should I bother speaking, when it has no meaning? I cannot fathom how the two things...words won...they're just meaningless words...how the two things are supposed to coexist. Ether they are, or they are not, real. I have no in between.
What more must I do, what more must I give or give over, before there is faith, trust? Does anyone believe in me? Have they ever? Or has it all been words, words, words, empty, useless, stupid, manipulative, worthless words?
I'm tired of words. I'm tired of wondering what things mean when they clearly don't mean what they're supposed to. I do not have a dictionary, a lexicon, that gives me insight into the warping and twisting that others so clearly comprehend. I speak several languages, but apparently not the right ones because I feel, more and more, that I am lost among strangers who have no care for my confusion, only for their own needs which I can clearly not meet because I do not understand them.
I'm tired of hearing sweet words and wondering where the barbs are hidden. I'm tired of hearing sweet words and wondering when the hard words will follow.
I would like to believe, again, in the one thing that gave me a sense of power, of strength, of ability, of pride...the one thing that I now find failing me completely.
I would like to be done with words, since they're so useless...but as useless as my words are, as useless as I am...they're all I have.
As I cannot be done with them, I suppose I will have to learn how to empty them of meaning, to speak or write empty things and keep myself to myself...excepting here and one other place...so not entirely silent or devoid of content, but only where I live and with people who are more real to me that you few who linger here in the shadows with me, as ephemeral as my own self is to you. You shadows will have the truth of me, then, and the people who should know, well...they won't see and won't miss what they clearly never had or wanted in the first place, if I am to believe their words more than they believe mine.
Do not ever tell me that my words have meaning to you. I cannot afford to believe, to hope, that there's truth somewhere in the lie, not again, not any more, not when I will be constantly waiting to hear that they're worthless, after all.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
A Bit of Wist
Sometimes I feel terribly lonely.
Sometimes I feel as though I do not matter.
Sometimes I feel as though my words are unseen, unheard, unheeded, unwanted, unwelcome.
Sometimes I wonder how long I'm supposed to keep reaching, when what Iam reaching for pulls away.
Sometimes I wonder if I am only here to do the work so that someone else can have the love.
Sometimes I wonder if I will ever feel as though I count for anything.
Sometimes I wish I, too, had another lover, someone to talk to, someone who didn't make me feel unseen, unheard, unheeded, unwanted, unwelcome, someone who would help drive away this hurt, lonely feeling that weighs me down, wears me out.
Sometimes I feel as though I do not matter.
Sometimes I feel as though my words are unseen, unheard, unheeded, unwanted, unwelcome.
Sometimes I wonder how long I'm supposed to keep reaching, when what Iam reaching for pulls away.
Sometimes I wonder if I am only here to do the work so that someone else can have the love.
Sometimes I wonder if I will ever feel as though I count for anything.
Sometimes I wish I, too, had another lover, someone to talk to, someone who didn't make me feel unseen, unheard, unheeded, unwanted, unwelcome, someone who would help drive away this hurt, lonely feeling that weighs me down, wears me out.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Holes
A friend sent me this.
~~~~~
There was once a boy with a fierce anger. He lost his temper often, screaming, throwing things, saying hard words.
One day, his father took him out to the back yard. There, where nothing had been before, was a long board fence. Beside the fence was a box of nails. The father handed the boy a hammer.
"Son, whenever you get angry, you come out here and hammer nails into these boards."
The boy did as his father told him - every time he felt himself losing his temper, he went out into the yard and hammered nails into the boards, working his way down the fence.
When he reached the end, his father said "Now, son, when you are angry, pull the nails out."
The boy did.
One day, he pulled the last nail out...and he found that he no longer needed to hammer nails. He no longer lost his temper.
His father pointed at the fence. "You see that, son? All those holes? Thoes are your angry words - every time you spoke or acted in anger, you made a hole in someone's heart. You can say you're sorry, but the holes will always be there. Remeber this, and think about what you say and do."
The boy learned.
~~~~~
~~~~~
There was once a boy with a fierce anger. He lost his temper often, screaming, throwing things, saying hard words.
One day, his father took him out to the back yard. There, where nothing had been before, was a long board fence. Beside the fence was a box of nails. The father handed the boy a hammer.
"Son, whenever you get angry, you come out here and hammer nails into these boards."
The boy did as his father told him - every time he felt himself losing his temper, he went out into the yard and hammered nails into the boards, working his way down the fence.
When he reached the end, his father said "Now, son, when you are angry, pull the nails out."
The boy did.
One day, he pulled the last nail out...and he found that he no longer needed to hammer nails. He no longer lost his temper.
His father pointed at the fence. "You see that, son? All those holes? Thoes are your angry words - every time you spoke or acted in anger, you made a hole in someone's heart. You can say you're sorry, but the holes will always be there. Remeber this, and think about what you say and do."
The boy learned.
~~~~~
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Scorched Earth
I reached for you last night, and you pulled away.
I reached again, and you flinched from under my hand.
I reached a third time, and you pulled away once more.
Then you leaned into me, and I though you wanted me...until you shrugged off my hand and instead leaned down to my belly. It wasn't me you wanted, but the baby.
A final time I tried, and was rebuffed.
So I moved over as far as I could to give you room, to keep from intruding upon you, so that I wouldn't accidentally brush against you with my obviously unwelcome touch. All night, I hoped you'd reach for me...with a brush of your fingers tell me it was OK, that I could move back into the circle of your arms, that I could have your warmth again. And all night, nothing.
This morning, I hoped again...perhaps he'll touch me now...
Nothing.
I could have made the effort. I always have in the past. But I thought, no, he doesn't want me right now. When he does, he'll touch, or speak, or show some sign, and until then I won't pester.
So I went downstairs to be out of the way. I felt as though simply being in the room was an intrusion. I didn't bother with breakfast or the computer, just took myself out of the way. Twice, when you came downstairs, I said "Good morning" and twice was met with silence.
When I finally came back upstairs, I looked your way, but you didn't turn from the screen, didn't want to see me there. So I went and folded laundry and kept company with my lonely thoughts.
I wondered...if I stopped writing, would anyone notice? If I stopped singing, would anyone hear the silence? If I stopped going out into the world, would anyone miss me? If I stopped reaching, making the effort, would anyone care?
I have my answer. No.
I wonder - should I have reached one more time? Should I have risked being shunned in the hopes that this time I'd be welcomed?
I feel stupid for hoping that some day, maybe, someone will reach for me, for a change. Why would they? No one ever has...no one ever will...and I'm tired of being burned and blackened and left behind, wasted, worthless, and worn.
If I'm not heard when I speak, what difference will my silence make? If I'm not read when I write, what difference does my stillness make? If I'm not noticed when I'm there in the room, what difference will my absence make? If I'm not felt or wanted when I seek to touch, what difference does my withdrawal make?
None at all.
Because you can't miss nothing, now can you?
I reached again, and you flinched from under my hand.
I reached a third time, and you pulled away once more.
Then you leaned into me, and I though you wanted me...until you shrugged off my hand and instead leaned down to my belly. It wasn't me you wanted, but the baby.
A final time I tried, and was rebuffed.
So I moved over as far as I could to give you room, to keep from intruding upon you, so that I wouldn't accidentally brush against you with my obviously unwelcome touch. All night, I hoped you'd reach for me...with a brush of your fingers tell me it was OK, that I could move back into the circle of your arms, that I could have your warmth again. And all night, nothing.
This morning, I hoped again...perhaps he'll touch me now...
Nothing.
I could have made the effort. I always have in the past. But I thought, no, he doesn't want me right now. When he does, he'll touch, or speak, or show some sign, and until then I won't pester.
So I went downstairs to be out of the way. I felt as though simply being in the room was an intrusion. I didn't bother with breakfast or the computer, just took myself out of the way. Twice, when you came downstairs, I said "Good morning" and twice was met with silence.
When I finally came back upstairs, I looked your way, but you didn't turn from the screen, didn't want to see me there. So I went and folded laundry and kept company with my lonely thoughts.
I wondered...if I stopped writing, would anyone notice? If I stopped singing, would anyone hear the silence? If I stopped going out into the world, would anyone miss me? If I stopped reaching, making the effort, would anyone care?
I have my answer. No.
I wonder - should I have reached one more time? Should I have risked being shunned in the hopes that this time I'd be welcomed?
I feel stupid for hoping that some day, maybe, someone will reach for me, for a change. Why would they? No one ever has...no one ever will...and I'm tired of being burned and blackened and left behind, wasted, worthless, and worn.
If I'm not heard when I speak, what difference will my silence make? If I'm not read when I write, what difference does my stillness make? If I'm not noticed when I'm there in the room, what difference will my absence make? If I'm not felt or wanted when I seek to touch, what difference does my withdrawal make?
None at all.
Because you can't miss nothing, now can you?
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, though...it'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.
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, though...it'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:
Fat
Lonely
Unlovely
Ungainly
Bloated
Sad
Bereft
Afraid
In Need of Comfort
Unwanted
Unhappy
Wanting
Alone
Tired
Careworn
A Failure
Bah. I'm going to bed and hoping tomorrow is an improvement.
Fat
Lonely
Unlovely
Ungainly
Bloated
Sad
Bereft
Afraid
In Need of Comfort
Unwanted
Unhappy
Wanting
Alone
Tired
Careworn
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.
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. Although...how 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 more...so 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...
~~~~~
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 more...so 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
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.
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.
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 hand...music...there 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.
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 hand...music...there 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.
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