When I told my mother that, she said, “Oh, don’t be silly.” She was known for being a caring a sensitive mother-figure, a social worker. Fucking useless to me. Dismissive, invalidating.
She’s dead at age 93; good riddance. Too bad my marriage ended right after that. The one person I risked and pledged my life to.
Fast forward almost two years now, I’ve been flailing around trying things to get a new life for myself, although I did waste most of it trying to repair my retarded marriage.
I’ve just spend the last week trying new things in fields of interest, trying to make connections in the work areas that interest me, trying to find paths to a place for myself.
I need to move away within the next few months. I’d like a real job. I don’t want to live in the same building as my crazy ex.
Tonight I feel like cutting my body open and letting the blood out. I know the best spot, the femoral triangle.
I often go to sleep hoping I won’t wake up. I suffer. That is life. Death seems to be the opposite.