Don't know why I'm posting this...
I'm sitting here in my desk chair, door shut and locked to the world outside where my mother rages and bitches and calls me worthless and lazy while she picks up the pinesol and a mop and cleans the house for the first time in a month. She hates the cats, the dog, and the pig stye that she has to come home to every night.
I clean every day. Do laundry. Cook dinner. Take care of an old lady who mutters under her breath and one that comes home from work, sits down and demands dinner before breezing off to bed.
I'm sitting here wondering where my life has gone and I realize it's nowhere. This is what I have. A sister who likes that she can call me up when she needs me, but walks in already on the phone, and can't wait to leave when she gets here. A sister who goes out with her friends while dropping the kids off with me and never once asks if I might want to go. A mother who would rather rip out the one thing I have left and take the easy solution to a problem than to actually help me work through it. A mother who thinks all I amount to is sitting on my ass every day while watching tv, or type on the computer while the house gets negelcted all around me. Who says I'm lazy, and worthless, and I need to grow a pair when I finally leave the room in tears because as much as I hate it, I'm just that much more broken now and the tears are never far from the surface. I never used to. Cry. But, as I said, I'm a little more broken these days and she mocks me as I leave the room.
She thinks I all I do is eat all day. I've lost 11 pounds.
Tonight is going to be bad. I may not sleep at all and writing is out as the only thoughts I have are murky and dark and serve no purpose but to make me too tired to reach out and focus on anything coherent. It doesn't matter anyway, no one reads anything here. Nothing will get published, or earn me money, or have any meaning other than fangirl scribblings on paper. It's not deathless prose. It's nothing of any value that has me sitting here at my computer all day, keeping me away from the virtues of housework and whateverthe hell else I'm supposed to be good for.
I sit here with a pair of old scissors, a letter opener in my right hand while lines appear on my other wrist. It's not what I thought. It's rather liberating, that sharp burn of metal that won't quite break the skin. It's not a serious attempt, I know that now, though I wasn't sure when I first picked them up. I need some ice, and something a little sharper. I just want to go home and then I realize I am home. I have nowhere else to go except maybe a littler deeper next time.
And no, this isn't a cry for attention, or an intervention, or maybe it is, but the one whose help I need will never read this. Won't even care enough to wonder about the indents in my left wrist, if she even notices them at all. I would say the odds are about 90-10 she won't.
I have no idea when my life turned down this path, or why I'm not strong enough to walk away. It's not like I'll be leaving a loving family who will miss me behind.
Home is supposed to bring you comfort and satisfaction and family. Home is supposed to bring you peace; a safe harbor from everything in your life that despises you and wants to make you hurt.
My home only brings me sorrow and loathing and more pain from the ones who are supposed to lift me up. Not smack me down and laugh at my pain.
Home...home is supposed to be where you're safe. Loved. Family is supposed to be the ones who love you when no one else does.
I sit here at my desk, scratching another layer down into the furrow in my skin and hope maybe this time it will be enough. Maybe if I bleed, just a little bit...
...maybe it will leave a scar she can finally see.
40 is too fucking old to feel this way.
Tonight...tonight's going to be bad.
I clean every day. Do laundry. Cook dinner. Take care of an old lady who mutters under her breath and one that comes home from work, sits down and demands dinner before breezing off to bed.
I'm sitting here wondering where my life has gone and I realize it's nowhere. This is what I have. A sister who likes that she can call me up when she needs me, but walks in already on the phone, and can't wait to leave when she gets here. A sister who goes out with her friends while dropping the kids off with me and never once asks if I might want to go. A mother who would rather rip out the one thing I have left and take the easy solution to a problem than to actually help me work through it. A mother who thinks all I amount to is sitting on my ass every day while watching tv, or type on the computer while the house gets negelcted all around me. Who says I'm lazy, and worthless, and I need to grow a pair when I finally leave the room in tears because as much as I hate it, I'm just that much more broken now and the tears are never far from the surface. I never used to. Cry. But, as I said, I'm a little more broken these days and she mocks me as I leave the room.
She thinks I all I do is eat all day. I've lost 11 pounds.
Tonight is going to be bad. I may not sleep at all and writing is out as the only thoughts I have are murky and dark and serve no purpose but to make me too tired to reach out and focus on anything coherent. It doesn't matter anyway, no one reads anything here. Nothing will get published, or earn me money, or have any meaning other than fangirl scribblings on paper. It's not deathless prose. It's nothing of any value that has me sitting here at my computer all day, keeping me away from the virtues of housework and whateverthe hell else I'm supposed to be good for.
I sit here with a pair of old scissors, a letter opener in my right hand while lines appear on my other wrist. It's not what I thought. It's rather liberating, that sharp burn of metal that won't quite break the skin. It's not a serious attempt, I know that now, though I wasn't sure when I first picked them up. I need some ice, and something a little sharper. I just want to go home and then I realize I am home. I have nowhere else to go except maybe a littler deeper next time.
And no, this isn't a cry for attention, or an intervention, or maybe it is, but the one whose help I need will never read this. Won't even care enough to wonder about the indents in my left wrist, if she even notices them at all. I would say the odds are about 90-10 she won't.
I have no idea when my life turned down this path, or why I'm not strong enough to walk away. It's not like I'll be leaving a loving family who will miss me behind.
Home is supposed to bring you comfort and satisfaction and family. Home is supposed to bring you peace; a safe harbor from everything in your life that despises you and wants to make you hurt.
My home only brings me sorrow and loathing and more pain from the ones who are supposed to lift me up. Not smack me down and laugh at my pain.
Home...home is supposed to be where you're safe. Loved. Family is supposed to be the ones who love you when no one else does.
I sit here at my desk, scratching another layer down into the furrow in my skin and hope maybe this time it will be enough. Maybe if I bleed, just a little bit...
...maybe it will leave a scar she can finally see.
40 is too fucking old to feel this way.
Tonight...tonight's going to be bad.