it’s one of those days
that i have too often
where i don’t see the point of my own species
misanthropy moves deep beneath my skin
a part of me
i think about suicide
and my thought is,
“fuck the survivors. they had a chance to change how they treated her.
they had a chance to understand.
to offer help.
they had their chance
but now they curse the dead for dying
and bemoan their own pain.
‘if only i had known
i would have helped’
but you did know…
how could you have not known?
you might not have been able
it’s hard to fight the demons
that chew at a brain
a soul…leaving you empty inside.”
i think as i do the dishes
make the breakfast
knead the dough
wipe up the messes
realizing once again
that my children are innocent
and cannot be left unattended
in this fucked up world
“well, there goes that escape,”
i say to myself.
no sylvia plath for me.
it’s funny, exhusband#2 accused me of–well, i’m not sure what–he insinuated i was up to no good because i checked out some sylvia plath writings & biographies. i’m not sure what he was accusing me of.
“i’m doing research,” i told him. “i reference her all the time. i think i should make sure i’m not being reckless with my references.”
what was he accusing me of?
researching my suicide via literature?
trying to be dark & depressed & desperate enough to stick my head in an oven?
is that something you would be nasty to someone about? their suicidal tendencies? but, i guess that is par for the course for exhusband#2.
i am so angry at him. mostly for not being the person i had convinced myself he was. the person i needed him to be. for being an asshole when i needed a hero. the anger helps. it helps to keep me from reaching out to him when i am lonely.
which is often.
it keeps me from reaching out to him when i am desperate.
which is all the time.
it keeps me from convincing myself that things aren’t as bad…that he isn’t as bad as i know he is.
sometimes anger is good.
sometimes anger has a place.