Join Date: Sep 2009
Location: grand rapids, mi
| | Pretend it's going your way (I wish I could)
I get up at 11am most days. Even then it seems horribly hard, impossible almost. I feel 80 but I am only 45. My four year old son wakes me up with his high, sweet voice, and he is my only joy, as much joy as I can feel at this point. I live in a big house with my son's father, mother, her boyfriend, and my other son. It's a big house, but not big enough. My babydaddy (sic) is the dictator of the domicile. We don't get along much. No one gets on with him much. I know there isn't an "in love" bone in our bodies. I am rigid with sadness mostly, but moments I think we are over, I feel levity, something opens up, a door, a vortex, that isn't completely black. He's a brute, with mental illness and he won't deal with it. I don't have a job. I was working as a peer support specialist - helping people with mental illness and addiction. I got the job because I am an ex junky alcoholic with bipolar. I never thought I'd be posting that on a resume. The funds were cut after about a year on the job. I have little interest in working now because most jobs seem like hell to me. The real heros and warriors are the ones who get up, on time, without fuss, go to their **** job with a smile, do what they're are told no matter how unsavory and go home and are kind and pleasant and optimistic no matter if they live in a shithole with brown water and cracked floors. I am so weak so worthless so ....blank. I used to sing, write, dance, feel some sort of excitement when I woke up, looking forward to... something, even if it was breakfast at the nearby diner. Now, I see nothing, nothing to look forward to but the loss of my degenerating looks and body, and brain. I went back to college a few years ago. I was so excited. Then, long story short, the university rejected my application for an MA program because I was, literally, one or two GPA points short based on their calculations from my gpa 18 years ago. I was getting a 3.5 with recommendations from every professor at the time, but they "rounded it off" and it came up barely short. I could no longer get my financial aid because some stupid cu^& counselor advised me to change me status to "non-degree seeking" so I could take a few MA level courses to keep my GPA up but found I could not no longer access my financial aid BECAUSE I had changed to non-degree seeking! AND I could NOT change back. I had to drop out, 30K in debt, and unable to go back as life took over. Since then, I have felt the bottom drop out and I can't find a reason to TRY anymore. I have degrees (associates and a bachelors) but so what. My credit is destroyed. I can not imagine ever getting out from under the weight of this. I've lived in NYC, the caribbean, Colorado and traveled extensively. I have been a working musician. I used to have friends, lots of them. I became a drug addict after losing my leg in a motorcycle crash in 2000. Well, I was a substance abuser before that, but the grief from the accident took me to a new level of snorting, swallowing, injecting depravity. My son saved me. From death? Now I HAVE to care, to work to love to answer to responsibilities. I love my son more than MY life, absolutely. I HAVE to pretend, in the most convincing pretend, that I am happy. I hate my life, I miss an ex bf all the time. I want out of this "relationship" with said babydaddy as we are not at all friendly most the time. I want to die in a vague lazy way. Ideation. Whatever. I can't see the next day, much less my future. I would have given up totally if not for my boy. Sometimes I think it may have been better that way. His life is much more important than mine or anyone else's. But it is not HIS responsibility to keep mommy or daddy afloat. He must not know. How much longer can I keep from showing the bare bones of my despair? I keep padding with spending too much cash, reading to escape, segoing to parks and playgrounds and libraries and the mall and back again. I am teetering on full frontal depression, nothing in sight to cover up.