People always tell me to write because I'm good at it. I don't think I'm as good at it as much as I write like I speak. Blunt and to the point. As Tom Hanks said "there's no crying in baseball". Well I have no sugar in my words but I do have crying. The ugly, snot running down your face crying. The internal crying that is really just screams inside of your head and the worst kind- smiling at the world while you are breaking down inside.
I am a mother, a sister, an aunt, a friend, a daughter, a wife. All the titles a woman can be. I'm also a survivor of circumstances. Domestic violence, did that. Sexual abuse, been there. Living by the grace of medication only, own the tshirt. I like to think of myself as well experienced in this thing called a life. I've never been a victim at anyone else's hands except my own.
I have new titles now and I'm not sure what to think of them. Drug addict, pill dependent, manic depressive, high anxiety, separated, very successful. It's like one title is the opposite of an another and I'm not sure if I really want to give up any of my titles as their really badges of honour to me at this point.
So why a blog? Well I have a hard time remembering my genius ideas as my mind goes too quick sometimes and I tried the journal thing but God all the handwriting after years on a computer was just so tiring. I need somewhere to dump my thoughts and let's be honest, unless I tell people where to find this, it's like my own personal diary. My mind gets stuck on tracks of just plan fuckery and while I do say some of it out loud to my friends the rest would end me up institutionalized.
Today's issue is do I stay or do I go? My husband and I are I don't even know. We don't sleep together- space or sex. We don't live together. We spend 4 days a month together. There's a part of me that loves him with every bit of myself that I can and then there's the part of me that just wants to be left alone without being left alone. What if I end up alone forever? What if no one else loves me? Will I just get fatter and fatter and have to be moved out of the house with a fork lift? What if there is someone who can love me more? What if I'm the one who can love me more? The idea of him not being in my life after almost two decades hurts like stepping on a thousand bees but after awhile won't the stings stop hurting and just be a good story to tell someone about later on?
I hide so much of myself from him -from everyone. I hide behind this great smile and the need to make people laugh. He knows I have insecurities, we all do, but mine are fucked. I think I'm just not enough for him. He thinks he deserves a Porscha and there's days I feel like a rusted tricycle. Our biggest issue is sex. He wants it, needs it. I could do without it forever. I like getting off on my vibrator occasionally but sex no thank you. I like fooling around, the kissing, touching, what have you but I'm always wondering if in the actual act of sex if I'm doing it wrong or does he wish there was someone else he was doing it with who's better. I hate how I look naked but yet do nothing to change it. I think, actually I'm sure, I've gained weight as a way to make him disgusted with me enough that he doesn't want to have sex with me. Then I get upset thinking about him with anyone else.
Some day I'd just like to wake up normal and see what it feels like.
