Shit doesn't just happen, at least not from where I'm sitting.
Rather, it is hurled at you repeatedly by "life" until you find yourself up to your neck in the stuff. Sometimes, if you're lucky, some kind soul will help you dig your way out, but to be honest what is the point?
Why do I constantly swim against an unforgiving tide, where every ounce of energy is sucked out of me, just to keep my head above water.
I'm not a survivor. If I was in a zombie scenario, I'd take that gun and shoot myself in the head. I don't have the physical or mental strength to keep fighting it. I also don't have the strength to end it. I meander on through life, not really going anywhere or acheiving anything, yet not I'm ill enough to be blissfully ignorant. Instead I'm tormented by my own failures, I'm bitter, cynical and unkind. If I'm in a bad mood, I reserve the right to take it out on anyone who dares to be cheerful.
I am not a nice person. I am not interesting or intelligent. I am not a beautiful unique snowflake. I am a nasty girl who holds grudges and wallows in self pity, and no amount of medication is going to change that.
I tell you what I want. I want a home that is mine, that isn't going to be taken away from me, and where people don't turn the heat up on the tumbledryer and shrink my favourite jumper. I want to curl up with a book in the evenings without my housemates piercing laughter or the sound of the latest Akon CD pumping through my head. I want to do what I like, and sometimes it would be nice to leave a coffee cup on the side without complaints. I want to interact with people that I like on my days off, instead of people I have to live with, and I want my housemate to stop shoving his latest culinary work of art under my nose. I want more space than my 9 x 7 foot room, and I want to do something in my life which I enjoy, and hiding under the duvet is not a very fulfilling hobby.
I want my Nan home for Christmas.
I want to know that if I have a baby, I won't relapse and have it taken away from me. I want to know that I could be a good mother, and I want to believe that just because the world is so materialistic, I don't have to be. Time to grow my own food, make my own living, and the space in which to do so.
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1 comment:
Hi, it's abysmal musings here, as you will no doubt guess. You just described my life.
I'm 37, with 3 children now. Don't ever ever give up hope eh?
Keep out of the clutches of the MH system (as a patient*) because it really isn't very nice.
* unless you HAVE to.
Take care, D.
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