I woke this morning with a fragment of last night’s dream. I was writing a suicide note. Not a good beginning to the day. The last time I sat down to write a suicide note was when I was at the end of my rope with my now, ex-husband. I had sent my son to my parent’s under the guise of needing to be able to clean the house in peace. I wanted my husband to be the one to find the body. But, thankfully, I had a mythical experience and it saved my life and sanity. I pulled myself together and ended up leaving with a police escort. A few days later. It was pretty traumatic, but I was alive to raise my son.
Spite has been my saving grace most of my life. It kept me from being broken in Catholic school. The thought of my asshole, husband or my mom raising my son was a huge factor in my not killing myself. He was mine to raise up as best I could and now he’s a responsible and caring man.. Most of the time. Sometimes he acts just like his dad and it’s all I can do to keep from losing my shit.
I just turned 50 recently and it’s sad at how little I have accomplished. I used to believe in miracles. I used to have hope. As a young girl, I dreamed of travel, adventure and soul friends. I met a man who I thought wanted the same things. He just wanted a wife. To prove to his family that he wasn’t gay. I was an idiotic, dreamer and after 7 years, left to start my life over. Just when things were beginning to look up and I was becoming quite self sufficient. I moved in with my girlfriend. We were open and both had boyfriends on the side, but she hated mine with a passion. The hatred was mutual and I know now that it was because they were both very similar. Selfish, possessive, controlling, mean spirited and deceitful. Damn, I suck at picking out romantic partners. I’m an idealist who gives everyone the benefit of the doubt. No matter how hard I try to change into a bitter, pessimist. I can’t and it causes me no end of grief.
I’m the middle child in my family and I’m used to being ignored. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell at times. I have some beautiful friends who I don’t talk to for long periods, but I know they’re there if I need them. They know they can call on me at any time as well. But there are some people who I can’t really call friends, but we’re on friendly terms. I only hear from them when they need something from me and I can’t count on them, so I don’t. Why the fuck am I attending to these people? It’s like this stupid, hopeful, lonely girl is expecting them to suddenly realize what a treasure I am and appreciate me. I’m so stupid.
If you’re still reading this and worrying about me. Thank you. I’ll be fine. This blog is one of several, safety valves in my life. I learned at an early age to self sooth. I have friends to cry to but I don’t want to bother them too much.
I can’t stand the people who tell you to “Turn that frown upside down.”
If it were that easy. Don’t you think I would have done just that? I hate being sad and I’m not trying to be an attention whore. My sadness starts out small but is fueled by the assholes who think mocking or belittling me is helpful. Don’t tell me to get a prescription. I tried that once and that shit doesn’t agree with me. It’s just legal speed people.
It’s so hard to try to make your life better and have circumstances constantly slap you down. All the new agey people who tell me I need to raise my vibration, better watch out for the raised hand about to bitch slap them. I feel like I’m trying to climb out of a pit and the second I think I’m going to make it. A steel toed boot kicks me back in. I was up long enough to see other people who’s lives are going well, so I know it’s possible. I keep crawling up, but I’m so weary. “What’s the point?” I often ask myself. Then my spite kicks in and I dig deep and keep clawing at the dirt.