Just One Reason

I wrote this a few months ago and put it away — you know, for Perspective. A new year seemed like a good time to pull it out and reflect…

Just One Reason

Can’t find one, just one good reason why I shouldn’t lay down and die right now.

[Censored business bs.]

[The husband]’s kicking himself, of course, so there’s no point in telling him that I woke up crying last night, moved to couch and drank a wine cooler to try to relax, but still can’t feel anything worth fighting for. My kids aren’t mine; the ones I’ve ‘got’ are ones I can’t really help (not to mention they are so distant in many ways). Rent is a million years away. Even if I work 17 hour days, 6 days a week (and 10 on Sundays). [Censored name], my other mom, is believed to still be in the hospital; I’ve no word in a week & I’m trying not to freak about that. [Censored name] has been on an arguing tear all week; supposed to see her tomorrow for movie night — an extra mouth to feed and more ‘pretend everything is fine’ time, even while [the husband] freaks out. Difficult to work with an Auspie when you’re at the end of your own frayed rope. Haven’t seen my son in over 5 months; promised him I’d send a surprise but then neglected it in all this crap so I had to call today and tell him I’d send it next week. He sounded great; proof he doesn’t need or even want me anymore. His life is there. Why shouldn’t it be. He’s been sacrificed every time while I try to save ‘this family’. And I’m sure not doing that.

My counselor promised a call on Monday for an appointment with her and another with her and [censored name]‘ counselor; she didn’t call. So on Wednesday, at marriage counseling, I tracked down an appointment with my counselor & was told I’d be called Thursday with the other. Not. So I conclude that my help is ‘inappropriate meddling’ or some other sign that I am of no value. Result: I canceled Tuesday’s appointment. Because whatever happens before then, either way, I won’t need it/her.

Twenty years worth of fighting and struggling and I’m worse off for it.

When does a person have the right to say, “Fuckin’ enough.” I’m tired of hearing how ‘everyone and anyone’ has it worse than I. Yeah, sure, I’m not on the frontline of some god-forsaken, yet religiously-declared, war. That trumps everything like paper beats/covers the rock that is my heart.

I’m supposed to shut-up already.

I will when the bleeding stops. Or at least slows to a trickle.

I sure understand the pain and desperation which drives folks to such fanaticism they’ll do anything, even die, for hope & their god. At times I envy such blind faith that somewhere some great ‘one’ or ‘place’ awaits. A god and a timeshare in heaven you pay for now & then are rewarded with. Only I can’t even pretend to believe in god; I only ask to believe in humanity (& then some bitch emails to complain I used her publicly displayed photo without permission even when I did credit and link to her — petty of me, I know, to even mention this; it’s just an example of the rain that falls everywhere) and my own hard work. Which brings us back to fightin’ for 20 fuckin’ years only to be closer to homeless, & with less credibility, than ever before. And I’ve dragged others down with me.

Now I know I have no value as dead per se (there is no insurance), but there must be some value in my not being here putting others through this.

Then again, prove this isn’t hell.

Am I alive or already dead? Up or down? Too delusional or not enough? Don’t ask for help enough; but when I do? Lectures. Judgment. Not helpful. I tell myself they are ignorant (even those who are not) and try to forgive and let it roll, but 20 years of water off this duck’s back and that’s an ocean I’m struggling in. So what’s the damn point.

Of any of this.

Which brings us back to just one good reason why I shouldn’t lay down and die right now – if I’m not already dead. The best I can come up with is for the kids’ sakes. At least wait til [the husband]’s home. But then what? Hold his hand while he whips himself per the usual? I’m so tired of holding him up. Of avoiding asking for anything which will freak him out. Just like holding my mom while she cried as my daughter — that I was raising on my own — was diagnosed and I was dissected. Please, Mom, let me hold you up as Grandma; don’ t worry that I have to face this alone, while parenting, while asserting for my child’s rights and care, please let me worry about you.

Doesn’t anyone get that I need a break now and then? No. Then when do I have the right to give myself a break. Under the circumstances, I’ll ‘come back’ to even deeper shit. So why come back — why leave temporarily? Can you even leave hell?

Hotel California – without the soundtrack to groove to.

I realize this is the cruelest thing to do, telling people (esp those so far away) such things. But if I have to swallow any more of this, my throat will seize and my soul will cease. I’ve made it through such breaks before; I don’t know how or why other than to say that I’m too stupid not to survive. But I’ve made it. Then too there were the times I did die for awhile and zombie-me passed with everyone, much to my silent cold anger and white hot disappointment when I returned. Again, I don’t know why or how. But I do wish this ’skill’ would be lost.

Survival of this sort is overrated and of little use. People speak of chapters in their lives; I literally am beginning to feel like new characters with the same name & scars.

For decades I’ve stared coolly at some of those scars and ill-set bones, and even ignored the new wounds because I fervently believed I had work to do. Even the wounds would have to wait. I had to plod on…

Now that I know I’ve accomplished nothing, they weep, rot, & pus — and threaten far worse. Beyond complaint of wear and tear, they moan of years of my own neglect, neglect which says that even I know I have no value.

But one of ‘me’ will go on. Or the zombie will fool you.

Or, because I terrorized you thus, speaking will be the vent which saves the crock-pot from exploding.

Did putting it away and reading it later offer any Perspective, any hidden insights? If so, what? At least that’s what some would ask — for a little follow-thru from the crazy lady.

All I’ve discovered is that I could write this, or something damn-well just like it, on nearly any given day. OK, at least once a week. And that means I’m standing in the very same place often. Too often. And so my perspective literally has not changed. With or without the capital “P”.