A meandering, self defeating post to get this shit out of my head.  Alternately – a pity party.  Second alternately – a whiny, driveling defeatist crap blog that delves into why I am stuck nowhere. Also – Why I want to give up.

I tried to distract myself to no avail.  As much as I hate whiny bitchiness on the Internet, I find myself drawn to write a page of it myself.  This morning I came to the conclusion that my real problem is that all I ever think about is me.  But all I have is me.  I have few people that would do the best thing for me if it were slightly inconvenient.  I have no one that would help me out if it were a major inconvenience.  When it comes down to it I don’t really talk to anyone.  I don’t trust anyone and I don’t care that much for anyone.  I have three kids for whom I am responsible and love with all my heart, and I would go through anything for them.  On a daily basis I do everything for them.  But they can’t reciprocate.  They do in their own way, but I long for a different kind of connection.  I need for someone to hear me and then make me feel like they can help me get out of the maniacal hell which imprisons me.  Heck, I’d settle for feeling empowered to do it on my own.  I ponder the idea of doing it alone and that just makes me feel more selfishly engaged.  I’m struggling here to figure out what end of the tunnel I’m on.  Am I a narcissist teenager ruefully engaged with an ill-advised power struggle?  Am I a well adjusted adult struggling with the reality that I (narcissisticly) cannot have the future which I have carefully planned and prepared for?  Am I in some typical, and healthy struggle to “find myself” (an idea that I detest with every fiber of my being)?    I can no more settle on an answer than I can will other people to help meet my needs.  I cannot even figure out if I am asking the right question.

Maybe that’s because my real question is “What in the hell is wrong with me?”.

You know, Mother Theresa didn’t write about her struggle.  She just helped people.  I just help people too, but no one seems to notice.  I am a garden spider – hated, but ignored for my utility.  That is not to be confused with usefulness.  Usefulness is noticed and appreciated.  I am neither.  I am incredibly inconvenient and needy.  I try to never ask for anything, but I crave connection so sometimes I slip.  I’m too needy though.  I know.  I can see.  People show me.

The self loathing.  The teenager.

Martin Luther King Jr. A powerhouse.  A public speaker with an uncanny ability to lead.  He united.  United – is what our country lacks.  It is what my family lacks.  All this technology makes it easy to fracture everything.  You find people like you and never leave your electronic box of choice.   You never have to consider the views of others.  You can live for the remainder of your existence only considering your own perspective.  It is not unifying.  I crave unity.  The satisfaction of knowing that together we are making a better existence.  I thirst for the uncanny ability to unify.  Leadership qualities elude me along with the social prowess and decisiveness that are requisite of a Martin Luther King Jr-esque humanity.

The philosopher.  Over thinking adult.  Or pedantic.  Possibly more self loathing.

Martin Luther King Jr. makes me think of another powerhouse.  Someone who quite possibly went unnoticed through life until a single day branded her name in innumerable works.  I am not even 39 yet.  My name will never be written in a book.  At 39 she was willing to decisively stand up by sitting down.  I just mosey.  I will never be like Miss Rosa Parks.  I can never be like Miss Rosa Parks.  I am only pushed around.  I am wandering a field.  I get enough food.  Unfortunately, while bovines seems content to mosey and munch, I am not satisfied by this.  Success would bring me satiety.  I will never succeed though.

Hopeless.  Infinitely self loathing.

I meant to be real.  But theoretical bull-shit came out.

Let us try for a moment to be real.

I have made horrible decisions.  I did things that made my demise certain.

I meant to be real again, but I can’t.  Why can’t I just be real?

Because I made such bad decisions.  I created this horrible reality.  I’m not certain that even the vast infinity of this electronic superweb can hide my identity and if I am too real and people find out what a terrible person I am on the inside, maybe they will further shun me?  Maybe I am not real – out of a different kind of fear than I had anticipated.  Or maybe I am trying to hide my true identity from myself.  Or maybe I am a teenager obsessed with my own ignorance, an obsession that to an outsider has very little independence from the pestilence of a toddler tantrum.

I chose to marry young.  I chose to not properly protect myself from creating a human when I was too young and stupid to take care of myself.  I chose to allow the creation helper to take over my life.  I chose to allow him to make decisions.  I chose to stop fighting for my autonomy.  I choose to stay.  I chose to create three humans.  People that must be cared for.  Three people that I love with all my heart and am completely indebted too.  Their dependence probably keeps me alive.  Their ill-informed, yet unconditional love which I cannot comprehend.  Unfortunately their existence also kills me.  I do my best to hide the crazy from them.  I feed them three times each day.  I provide activities for them.  I take them places and keep them occupied, hopefully distracted and ignorant of the pestilence.  But the guilt associated with being this horrible person trying to raise decent people eats at my soul.  I want them to be Nobel Peace Prize quality people.  But, I lack most attributes in spite of my insatiable thirst for aptitude.

I may have digressed again.

Moving.  Decisions.  Hate.  Fate.

A young mom.  Inept in absolutely every way.  I can’t even comprehend how foolhardy my journey.

I guess I don’t even know where else my story went wrong.  I had kids.  I love them.  I’m not ungrateful for them, but I don’t understand why I was entrusted with something I cannot even provide for.  I have no house.  I have no place to live, but I have a job that requires a kempt appearance.  But me and my three dependents have nowhere.  The other dependent-creator has a place for now.  People don’t help people like me.  People help people who look crazy.  People help people who look disheveled.  I am held together by duct tape and rulers – relative sanity.  Realistically two people who make 50k per year, each should not have a problem.  Unfortunately one of those people pays all the payments and the food for three active, ravenous, gleeful, amazing creations.  Paying all these bills is tiring and anxiety producing.  The phone calls are the worst part.  But no one asks.  Everyone thinks that it is exaggerated.  You, the reader have considered it.

Food. 600.  That’s the best I can do.  Even that is a stretch.  I feel like we are all starving to death on that.  It bothers me to no end that I graduated from college.  I worked my ass off and people on food stamps have more food than me.

Rent. 1700.  And that’s cheap for this area.  Well if I had a place.

Well there’s my whole check.  I guess I don’t need a car or power.  Or water or gas.   I hate my fucking life.  I’m not really sure what to do with the daycare needing child.  There is no help for that.

I hate bills.  I hate never getting a damned vacation.  As if I haven’t worked hard enough.

There are no clothes or parties or fun.  There is only enough for rent and food.  But the co-creator says they are going to help.  But then when it is time for fun?  Well there is nothing left for me to buy an outfit from even a thrift store.  so I beg my clothes to no wear out.  Most of them are more than five years old.  It doesn’t really matter.  I am just an adult.  My life no longer matters.  As long as I am performing my role as work-doer.  As long as I can eek out an existence I am to pretend I am fine.

Fuck you life.  Why can’t you give me a damned thing?  I can’t even get a fucking house.  All of my hard work is for nothing.  I am going to go to work and pretend life is ok, while living in a mother fucking tent.  Nothing, and I mean nothing makes up for this.  Nothing makes up for the fact that I have worked my ass off and nothing works out for me.  Nothing makes up for the unrewarded effort.  (another tantrum)

But I’m fine.

And yet I crave and live for and work for and plea for… (the elusive)



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