May 9, 2021
My life is currently full of Heres that I don’t want to be in.
I don’t want to be here,
in this house,
mothering these kids,
at this age,
in this mental state,
and/or alive.
Perhaps if I were able to change some of the Heres that I’m in, the others would be endurable or non-existent…
But…
It’s been a month of looking up from the bottom of the grave I dug, staring at the pointy toed dress shoes of my friends standing around it, waiting for me to figure my way out of the hole. They all reach down, holding out their hands, but even when I grab for them, it doesn’t help. I’m so tired from putting myself down there, that now I’m unable to climb. I think it’s safe to say, we’re all tired….but if my heart eked out one last beat and then seized into flatline, to be honest, it would be a relief. For more than just me.
But the heart still beats, still forces blood on unwanted expeditions to parts unknown and then welcomes them home to tell about it….
So, there’s the alcohol…my longer, slower suicide on ice. Brain dead with numbness on demand.
I hate fucking Mother’s Day. My own mother and I have not been talking for a few weeks now. I don’t know what she’s even mad about—aside from possibly a comment she overheard when she was picking the kids up. Bridget, who bucks my parenting at every turn, was arguing with me about something I had asked her to do—because my mom had told her something different. After a tense, taffy-stretched morning of arguing with B before my mother got there, I snapped, “That’s fine, but Mom outranks Mimi in this house.” Since then, my mom hasn’t talked to me. So the queen hath taken offense, I suppose…
Still, I took the kids there yesterday to give her gifts. These days of obligation are such bullshit. All Land of Make Believe. Make believe you care about each other. Make believe you don’t care about the ways you have hurt each other. Make believe your relationship is between different people than you actually are. It’s fucked and I’m tired and I don’t want to do it anymore. Any of it. But…she takes the kids on Wednesdays and they love her, so I took them there to give her gifts. She couldn’t have cared less about the gifts. Or the daughter she gave birth to. She and my father spent the whole time arguing and pecking till my mom got pissed and verbally attacked my dad & my dad gets pissed and storms off…Our family drama…It’s a sitcom I watched a million times growing up and still see in syndication when I return home. I can perform the script from memory, but I’ve never once contributed anything that can be used in the laugh track. I had promised them I would go on the computer and pull up the information for Bridget’s show, so they could buy tickets. I had to go on Facebook to get the link. When I went to the site, I saw my mom had an account logged in. I didn’t even know she had an account. She’s not friends with me on there obvi, but I’m wondering if she looks at my posts. Heh. After spending an hour being ignored by everyone (including my brother who my parents insisted should come out of his bedroom………so he could watch them argue….and not say a word to me or my kids….), I left….and cried in the car on the way home, quietly, so my kids wouldn’t know how bad I felt.
Everything hurts like broken bones.
Bridget and Rowan have been difficult. In my current state of Overwhelmed with a capital O, I just want to leave. Most days, I hate being a mother. Some days, I feel like I don’t even like them. Trying to do all of this on my own feels like that medieval torture Peine Forte et Dure….where they would put a board on your chest and keep putting more and more weight on it, till you entered your plea or your chest caved in. I know it sounds overly dramatic…but lately I feel like I am one pebble away from a chestful of dust.
My ex, henceforth known as John Q. Dickhead, has been a real peach. MC wanted to take me to the drive-in on Saturday because there was a double feature, one of the films being a favorite of mine. I asked my ex if I could go out Saturday this weekend, since I usually work around my ex’s schedule. He gave me a hard time about me wanting to go out Saturday night because he already had plans and didn’t think I would want him going out on Sunday. I said, “Why? You gonna rip my mother’s day card up and throw that in the garbage too? You could have gone out on Sunday. It’s not like you think I am a good mother anyway.” Like a wax figure, just stared at me. Mute. “Oh good, ok, thank you for confirming what I already knew anyway—that you don’t think I’m a good mom. So happy you’ll be home Sunday to celebrate that.” As it turns out, John Q. Dickhead didn’t even end up going out on Saturday night…because, yeah, penis wrinkle.
I can’t stay here, but I haven’t been able to find an apartment that I can afford or that will rent to me. I found a couple 2 bedrooms in my price range, but even private landlords want proof that you make 3x the rent here. At this point, I don’t know if I’ll be able to move out. Or if I do, I may not be able to take the kids. Or the dog. I’m going to have to compromise on something…And I don’t know what to compromise without it equaling out to me being either miserable or selfish.
Earlier in the week, it was my younger sister’s birthday. She doesn’t talk to me anymore. I just kept thinking about her. Like, she’s honestly just never going to talk to me ever again? This is just…it? It’s been 3 years of silence and I have to assume at this point, there is nothing in her that wants to talk to me. I let her know in my last letter to her that if she ever changed her mind, she knew how to reach me. All day, I kept composing texts to her, but could never quite hit the send button. At the end of the day, there was just a draft of a text saying “happy….” But I never wrote birthday and I never hit send. And on the next day, I just felt like I had missed an opportunity.
I just miss her.
All the time.
God, this entry sucks. I don’t even care. I know it’s self-pitying and gross and tres pathetique, but I don’t want to waste effort trying to make it sound better than what it is. Besides, thanks to whatever circle of hell this depression is, no matter how much I roll words around in my mouth to polish them, I’m still just left with a mouthful of gravel these days. When my words leave me like this, I know it’s a real bad scene.
Even one of my sources of comfort, Es, has been cause of stress lately. She was sick a couple of weeks ago and we thought it was an intestinal blockage. We called the vet’s office. Our normal vet was unavailable, but they fit us in with a different vet. She did x-rays to see if there was anything in her abdomen. A small shape showed up, but they didn’t think it was causing the blockage. They did some subcutaneous fluids and told me to contact them if she threw up or got worse. She perked up over the weekend, but by Monday morning—she was struggling to breathe & throwing up. We took her back. Due to the respiratory issues, they sedated her and took chest x-rays. She had pneumonia. Our normal vet was on duty and looked at the x-rays from our previous visit. There were signs of pneumonia present in the x-rays the other vet had taken, but for some reason, no one caught it. After a few weeks of anxiety, hiding antibiotics in various dog treats and further x-rays to ensure she was healing, she is finally ok. Thank whatever-the-fuck-is-up-there-and-hates-me. On a less important but still important note, I also spent $1300 of the money I’d saved up for my apartment.
Just another stone on the board. At a certain point, I’ve heard it hardly makes a difference.
Song Choice: How This Will End by Epicure
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