Glad to be here in The Devil Beneath My Feet

If you’d like an idea of how it’s going in my head, might I suggest the song, “Glad To Be Here,” by Bumblefoot.

Fuck man shit is not great, I am straight up not having a good time.

Every time I think, “ok. We’re okay. We’re doing okay, we can do this, we’re doing this, we’re okay.”

👌🏻 WE ARE DECIDEDLY NOT OKAY IN THE SLIGHTEST, in fact we are doing fucking terribly. A few months ago I thought “surely, surely this is as bad as it’s gonna get, how much worse can it get? You’re thinking about the thing you’re not supposed to think about very regularly, this is it, this is the line, anything past this is gonna result in involuntary hospitalization, surely?”

WE STILL OUT HERE JUST RAW DOGGIN LIFE, just white knuckles every morning, all day, all night. I’m thinking about the thing I’m not supposed to think about all day now, it doesn’t even try to go away anymore, I’m gettin real horny for trees and telephone poles but only when I’m barreling along at 80mph.

None of the things that make me happy, make me happy anymore. Not one of em, MY DOG DOESNT EVEN ELICIT THE PURE JOY HE USED TO FROM ME. Happy, what’s happy? I couldn’t tell you the last time I felt truly happy, fuck this. Fuck this, fuck, this.

I feel like a hoarder, but instead of garbage it’s emotional baggage, I don’t even fuckin know where to start anymore. Thats how it’s always worked, I start somewhere, I calmly unpack my shit till I figure it out, and process it, and then I can breathe again and then I’m okay, I DONT KNOW WHERE TO BEGIN ANYMORE and I can’t breathe.

I mean I can’t even think of any kind of words in any language that could really, truly describe just how much I fucking hate this, and even less to describe how much I fucking hate me.

BECAUSE THATS IT, it’s ME.

It’s me, it’s always been me, it always will be me, I am the queen grandmama of all fuck ups to ever fuck up.

And I don’t mean fuck up as in, “oh, Sam can’t do nothin right,” because holy shit lemme learn you a fun thing

I am the epitome of control. My job is only less stressful than that of a fucking AIR TRAFFIC CONTROLLER and to add to that I have an ENTIRE FAMILY OF ADULTS that are so basically incompetent that they are RENDERED HELPLESS WITHOUT ME 24/7. I AM ON CALL, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, to take care of EVERYTHING FOR EVERYONE and I am tired.

I am so fucking tired of taking care of everyone and everything and getting absolutely nothing in return. Nothing, not one thing, not ever. I have never and will never be able to depend on any of them to do anything at all, especially not for me.

My Xmas present? My big “thank you for all that you do!” Xmas present? I felt about a cunt hair away from just crumbling like a tower of bricks with no mortar.

Tickets for me and the boyfriend and my sister to go see The Cursed Child in NYC.

Now, before you think I’m ungrateful, context required.

I hate plays. I hate musicals. I always have. They just don’t do it for me, I find them exceptionally annoying, I do not enjoy them in the slightest. When I was a kid they used to drag me to Rockefeller Center and we’d go see the fucking nutcracker EVERY YEAR and EVERY YEAR I’d BEG not to go. Any time since that they’ve ever gone to see a show i have politely declined. No I do not want to see the lion king. No I do not want to see Sweeney Todd. No I do not want to see any plays or musicals, ever, in my life. Not my thing. Plays and musicals to me are monster truck rallies and death metal concerts to them, they’re fine, just not my thing, I don’t enjoy it.

I also fucking despise NYC. I hate it, I avoid it if at ALL possible, it’s TOO MUCH, I can’t deal for extended periods of time.

So they got me tickets to see a 4 hour long play in NYC.

And what am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to say to that? My sister, LOVES plays and musicals, Boyfriend does too.

So yeah, we went. And I did not enjoy it at all. I tried, but i failed. I considered just leaving, complain of a stomach issue and go sit at the bar but knew I’d be found out and boyfriend would’ve been a cunt about it. I can’t help it, plays are fucking BORING dude. I don’t know how many times I glanced at my watch to count the minutes till final curtain. But ah, the mask.

The mask remains, smiling, having a great time, dying behind porcelain.

That’s my big thanks, my big “show of appreciation” gift was a gift that showed just how little any of them care what the fuck I’d like. That sounds so unbelievably petulant, because it is, by itself. But this is 33 years of this shit. “Presents,” that I don’t like, not because I don’t like them but because they don’t actually give a fuck whether or not I do.

Despite all the times I have been made to jump at a moments notice to rush to them and FIX EVERYTHING, FIX IT SAMMY, SAMMY HELP, FIX IT, and I do. Every time, I do. Without exception. Despite a literal lifetime of that - not one of them even knows me and I get it, because I’m not worth the effort.

I’m not, it’s the only explanation I can come up with that makes any sense. I’ve never been worth any amount of effort and 33 years of penance for that is just finally catching the fuck up with me and I’m just so tired. There’s a finish line in the distance. I dunno how far, but it’s there, and it’s scary for now but I don’t know how long it’s gonna be scary for anymore.

It is what it is.