I don’t want help. I want the peace that only the sweet release of death can bring.
I beg God all the time to just let me die, but he’ll provide no such comfort it seems.
I don’t believe I was meant to live a full life. For a moment I believed I was here to raise the two Littles but now I can’t tell if I am just mucking it all up.
Every emotion filled moment is like a brush with death, but only a tease as if to remind me that I’ll have no such luck today.
It is funny what you learn about yourself when someone (like a therapist) just sits and actually listens to you talk.
Maybe it is my depressive, psychotic state but for some reason I feel like now is a good time to explore how I feel about my mom her.
Of all the things we’ve covered so far in therapy, the one thing that made me cry was her. It was so ridiculous. I like distraction from life, grieving is a good distraction. Shall we?
Her ashes are here in my house. I don’t like to remember that. They are in my dog’s bedroom in a plastic bag. Well the velvet bag that holds the wooden box that holds the Ziploc bag of ashes (I looked when I was a kid) is in the plastic grocery bag. God that is so horrible. I should box it up and mail it to her family.
Every photograph my family ever took are here in my house in photo boxes. This makes me so unbelievably angry. We made so many memories and no one even cares anymore.
Someone’s new wife has the emotional maturity of a 10 year old and can’t stand to have photos of someone’s previous life anywhere in their house. Not one. single. photograph.
I don’t want the responsibility of carrying on her memory or the memories of our family. He was supposed to do that. It is his job! I don’t want to be responsible for this!
I read that kids need to know where they came from, so I have to come to grips with all of this and be able to communicate information about my family with a positive spin. So far both children are very interested in how she died. They understand that I don’t have a mother and that she is dead. Much to my dismay they ask a lot of questions about her.
If I don’t do this, I won’t be able to answer questions. So far I’ve used inner hatred towards her for leaving to block out whatever real vulnerable emotions I might have. Probably not the healthiest idea.
I was 11 and she left. This feels horrible. The empty gaping whole people leave when they die, I don’t feel that anymore. I guess this is the crap that comes after that.
Today is just another day. Not the anniversary of a person’s death.
Maybe that means I don’t care. Maybe it means something else…
Fuck you.
Fuck you for leaving.
Fuck you for tainting my sister’s birthday week.
Fuck you for everything you did to me.
Fuck you for who you are were.
