Forgot to send out the notify list with my last entry. I was thinking I might write more, and I didn't want to send out more than one notice a day.
Instead of writing anything, I tried to get those job apps turned in. I discovered something horrible in the process -- I was unable to do it. The more I tried, the more I screamed inside my head and tried to pull my legs along, the less strength I had with which to do anything.
I cried. Sobbed. Soaked a spot on my pillow and used other pillows to build a barrier between my eyes and the daylight from the window beside the head of my bed.
I'm not sure when I fell asleep, but I woke sometime at nine tonight -- last night. Friday night, and it's technically Saturday morning now. Maybe in a few hours I'll be able to find some cartoons to disract me from myself.
Damn me anyway. What's wrong with me? More importantly, how do I fix it? I must be unfixable. I'm just a broken wreck of a little girl can't figure out how to grow into a woman.
And what it somehow always returns to is the question, why couldn't my daddy actually love me? Why couldn't I have been a boy? Why couldn't TJ have been born first? He's an admirable young man, and he certainly would have made a suitable heir for my father, if only TJ cared at all about the business.
If I had been a boy, I might have made something of myself. I wanted to emulate my father very badly, but as I grew, I was repeatedly told not to go outside wearing cutoff jeans, not to hang around the truckers . . . but of course that's not where it began.
It began when I was conceived to replace a boy, and I was a faulty substitute. And I knew it, however much I tried to repress the knowledge, for my entire life.
Why did the one they wanted die, and I've somehow lived, when all I want is to go Home, wherever that may be? I don't want to be here. I have said before that would would give up all that has happened to me since I was 16 or 17 just to be safe in my belief that someday, I would make my daddy proud. It probably says something awful about me, that I would gladly turn all my friendships since then, all the knowledge that I have gained, and all the experiences I have had, into a dream . . . just to better convince myself of something that I know is a lie.
My father will never be proud of me. I'm a girl, and not fit to follow in his footsteps. In his mind, someday I will marry and abandon the surname he has given me -- but I find that increasingly unlikely. My father's adultery has hurt my mother so badly that I doubt she will ever be able to truly love again. I don't want that to happen to me. I can't risk being hurt again.
It's been said, though I've no idea by whom, that a daughter's first love is her father. He is her ideal. His behaviour towards his wife (ideally the girl's mother) is supposed to show his progeny what to look for in a future spouse.
I loved him -- so much -- but when hechose someone else over my mother, my love for him did not stay him from his course of action. I, therefore, was not good enough to matter. Nothing I did was of consequence; if my father wouldn't change for me, nor would anyone with further ties to me.
I remember the day I learned why my parents hadn't spoken casually for the past month, month and a half. The date is lost in my whirlpool memory, but I know it in my heart. That was the day when the comfortable numbness I had felt all my life collapsed and fell beneath an agonizing wave. That was the day that I learned that the one group that was supposed to always be there for me -- my family -- was no longer whole, and never would be again.
I had always put my family before my friends, on the principle that friendships are often short, and can be easily broken. Parents of friends move, students chose distant colleges, but those with blood ties to me were supposed to be there until they came to my funeral, or I to theirs.
Why couldn't he just have died, and left me with a clean break? Why did he have to hurt me so badly and then just keep drifting on the periphery of my vision?
(Geez, when did I get my vocabulary back? Must be because this is the real me speaking, not just the pale mask I try to use to interact with the world. I'm actually be me for a change -- while I still can.)
God, I'm pathetic. Twenty-one years old and dependent on my mother for all my finances. Still broken up over someone who never loved me as a person, but as the perpetuation of his genetic line -- a line riddled with infidelities and mental fragility. (Thanks Dad. Grr.) Because of this history, I've pretty much decided that I can't allow myself to ever fulfill one of my deeper desires, namely motherhood. It would be cruel of me, after all the suffering my misbegotten brain has given me, to knowingly pass those horrible genes on to someone, just to be as my father, desirous of continuing my line, that I may garner some feeble immortality by keeping my flaws alive in my offspring.
I know in my heart that I don't really want children, or a husband, or even something so trifling as a pet cat.
What I really want to be loved, and more than that, cared for by another. Certainly I must have, in some moment of clarity (or perhaps not), given the impression that I'm incapable of caring for myself. Days without showering, sleeping all day and staying awake all night, being scared to drive nine blocks and give a slip of paper to a store manager.
What the hell did my parents ever do to bring the wrath of God upon themselves, inflicting me on these poor citizens? My father I can understand a little . . . but I still think he used to be a genuinely good man. My mother, while so overly caring that she can often be irritating (in a loving way), is an absolute saint.
She shouldn't have had to bear me. I don't know why she did. I have the niggling suspicion that my conception was an accident. She had given birth within the past year, and perhaps her cycles had not regulated themselves enough for her to properly ascertain when she would be more fertile. I'd never ask. I have enough shit piled in my life without looking for me.
I have been imagining, all night, how to kill myself. I haven't done anything, but my brain keeps running on that track. I could lean off my bed onto sewing shears, using my own 200+ pounds to drive the sharp blades into my chest, slipping neatly between my ribs, or below my sternum. I could use a big knife from the kitchen. Most are too weak, and would probably snap under the pressure. One or two, though, are of such sturdy construction that they might work. I could tie my bedsheets into a noose and hang myself from the backyard tree. I could force myself to swallow the Drano that a housemate bought to combat a clogged bathroom drain. I could shovel an entire jar of peanut butter down my gullet and choke; I've read that the Heimlich doesn't dislodge peanut butter, because it sticks in place too well. I could try to leak the gas in Sin's basement and sleep down there; he's not around for the weekend, so he'd be safe. I could jump out my bedroom window and try to hit the sidewalk headfirst. I could get in my car and head for a rural bridge, and slam myself into a creek and the concrete foundations of the missed bridge.
I don't want to be here, I don't want to do this, I don't want to have to deal with this, I just want to not feel like crap and not force other people to help me out when they so obviously despise me for needing the help.
My mom still believes that I'll be better someday. That with enough counseling, I won't need any psych medications, and I'll be a totally self-sufficent, healthy member of society. I haven't the heart to tell her that the diagnoses that fit me are largely incurable, although taking psych meds for every day, for the rest of my life, could help control the symptoms.
I hate having a mental illness. I'd rather have something physical, something I could bring up in conversation (when applicable) without getting weird stares from people who used to think I wasn't a freak. I'd rather have diabetes or something. It wouldn't have to be immediately apparent to an observer. Just -- not mental. My greatest fear is losing my mind, so of course I have mental illnesses. Plural, no less.
Nobody's online to talk to. As usual. Of course, I've blocked any number of people I know in person. I -- I can't talk. What the hell does a girl who flunked out of a state fucking university have to say to a current student? I can think of nothing, so I say nothing.
For a day or two, I really thought that I could take control of my life. I imagined that doing things, like getting a job, were as simple as people tried to tell me they were. This kind of thing probably is easy for most people. I don't think anyone would be so cruel as to deliberately mislead me on this score . . . but then, today I deleted a guestbook posting consisting of a single profane word by way of message, and another for the poster's alias.
For me, nothing is ever so easy.
I had wanted to stay here so that Sin wouldn't have to move out. He was counting on me staying, he said, and without me, there wouldn't be enough people to rationalize keeping the house. But he hasn't been able to get ahold of another gal who was supposed to get back to him. That takes the weight off me; it's not my fault anymore. If she's not in, then he still has to move, and so do. I might as well move back in with my mother, then, and have somebody around who is required to love me, regardless of my sins of stupidity.
I can barely see through my glasses. They're spattered with a million shattered tears.
Long enough, eh. Probably more angst later.