yesterday i started crying
not because my four year old
was screaming at me
the entire drive home
to unbuckle his seat belt
so he could get out
not because of that
but because I had no one
to tell it to
to commiserate with
to vent to
to laugh about it with
i started crying
because the only one to fix me coffee
in the morning
the person i am in love with
does not love me back
& the father of my children
i cannot trust enough
to even have a conversation
& that leaves me
raising four kids
i don’t think i can pretend anymore that there is a snowball’s chance in hell that seymour feels the same way about me that i do about him.
and then i wonder, if he did magically write me back or call me or show up on my doorstep, would that change the hole in me?
i am asking seriously.
i mean–i know that only i can fix me. i know that. and i have spent like forty years working on that and am optimistic that i might have made some real headway. i estimate that there is only about forty more years of work left to do.
my question is
will another person…a person i love truly and who truly loves me back
should that person happen into my life
would that fix my lonely?
the lonely that seems to spin in my chest
a black hole
if the answer is no.
if that is the world we live in…
i’m not sure i want to live in that world. that “we are born alone; we die alone” world. that cynical and rational-minded world.
it doesn’t seem like the right world for me.
he is so good
at handing his problems
over to me
waiting for me to fix them
so he can blame me
when they just aren’t
does he even know
what i struggle with
he is so good at showing
his injuries to me
getting me to cry
over every little bump
to his heart & soul
does he even see
how my injuries
next to his
& leave me
okay. maybe you will understand. dusty thinks i have written him off because he was “honest” with me & told me about his still being in contact with hello kitty fuckface (not her real name.) he refuses to comprehend that the reason i am telling him to fuck the fuck off for good & forever is that fact that i have been asking him since 2013 to end his contact/relationship with her. that there should be absolutely no reason for him to be “honest” with me about her because she should not even be part of the equation.
five years of his using this other woman to manipulate me. holy fucking shit. why have i let him do this to me for five years?
seriously. what is the psychology behind that? am i a chump? a masochist? a desperate & lonely soul? that fucking desperate? that fucking delusional. that fucking dedicated to a happy ending?
what the ever-loving fuck.
and now i find myself having to learn to just walk away. it is so hard…so hard to just walk away. to suppress that urge to have the last word. to suppress that need for him to understand–to just fucking get it for once. i have to walk away. every word i say to him. every conversation i have–it’s the sticky strands of a spider web. his spider web. to keep me engaged…he just wants me to stay engaged…because then he somehow wins?
i don’t fucking know.
or fucking care at this point.
he keeps talking about how we need to talk…thing is, he never talks to me. he never listens to me…he just manipulates and plays me like a fucking pawn in his demented game.
guess what, motherfucker, i quit.
i am not the best advocate of mother’s day.
my own mother–my most vivid memory of mother’s day is when the teacher in grade school had us grow marigolds to bring home and when i presented her with the marigolds i grew for her…she said, “ug. i hate the way they smell.”
and then when i became a mom, everyone would turn to dusty and say, “what are you getting her for mother’s day?”
and he would reply, “she’s not my mother.”
not that he got his own mother anything either.
that was one of my first glimpses that our marriage was not going to be a blissful & magical one.
now i have kids who want to do nice things for me on mother’s day, and i just feel uncomfortable. i feel like a fraud as a mom.
i just feel like a fraud.
especially on mother’s day.
maybe i will spend the day planting marigolds.
i’m severely depressed, dear reader. i am telling you, because i don’t really have anyone else to tell, but i feel the need to tell someone. and the funny part is, i only know how depressed i am by how difficult it is to get out of bed…and to stay out of bed. all i want to do is bury myself in blankets…a kind of non-committal death. a half-hearted suicide. i’m not sure i have ever been this depressed…but, having survived my sylvia plath phase, i have to guess that i have been this depressed before. it just caught me off-guard because i thought i was doing okay.
i thought i was getting better.
i keep expecting to pop back out of it. usually i just pop back out of these little funks (that sounds less scary than depression…deep blue funk? poetic even.)
i don’t usually stay depressed for more than a day or two. but it’s been five days now…& two of those days were very sun shiny. and i dug in the dirt which is one of my go-to ways to feel better…. yet, this sadness lingers and pulls at me and wraps itself around me in the most seductive way.
and i cry for no reason i know for the upteenth time.
i used to always wonder at those people who could get in bed & stay in bed for days no matter what. those people so depressed that they could not get out of bed for anything.
that seemed like the way to go.
but as a highly functional messed up person, i have to do things even if i don’t want to. like celebrate birthdays, have company over, go to the grocery store, plant potatoes.
i always joked that my anxiety would never let my depression totally sink me.
like, i could kill myself, but then who is taking care of my children???
i could stay in bed all day, but the fucking dishes will pile up…i have to get up to let the ducks out in the morning or they might peck each other to death…i have to get up to check on the goat to make sure his leg wound doesn’t get infected…my kids actually do okay when i am like this–they just crawl in bed with me or watch movies all day while i stare at a wall…but i still have to fix food…clean up messes…
& make sure the world doesn’t end–even if i secretly want it to.
are all torn
a bloody battlefield
that used to be
or is that too
the mess of me
because my voice cannot be heard by the one i have tried & tried to talk to, i have started a work of fiction writing–no pictures. it is still forming in my head, but i have written the first paragraph. loosely based on the abusive relationship i am recovering from. i want to share it with people who might understand. also, i need to get it out of my head…and like i said, the person who needs to hear it the most, just won’t listen to it.
also, friendly reminder, there is a link up over yonder (with my pretty face on it) to other fiction pieces i have written & posted on medium.
through stories told
that maybe you have never said
little victim you
all of a sudden
you remember her
& remember what an awful little
she could be
that sweet little sensitive you
& walked on the
like it was nothing
how have you never seen this before?
this side of you?
or did you just
file her away in the
cardboard box of your
“do not open”
“seriously, burn this box”
before i met & married dusty and had an on-again/off-again dysfunctional relationship from hell with him…i had a practice run for two years with his kentucky twin.
in 1996 just after i lost the best boy i’d ever known, i fell in with this narcissistic, emotionally abusive asshole.
it should have just been a rebound…but he was so good at manipulating me that it lasted for two awful years. he conned me out of thousands of dollars, put my ego in the crapper, and cheated on me like crazy.
this poem was written about six months in.
i should have read these journals back when stuff started going funny with dusty. i had no idea what a narcissist was–not really. nor that they preyed on people like me…people with too much empathy.
i had no idea.
i thought it was love.
just like i thought it was love that kept me with dusty no matter how much of a fuck he was to me.
i should publish these journals as a warning.