... a depression and anxiety blog and chat room community.

Bookmark and Share

cycling through darkness without a bike.

Here I go again. Viscious cycle. year after year... and each time I think "it will be different this time", "I'm able to cope now", "I'm more normal". And I find out months later that I'm not normal. I'm not regular or decaf, I'm burnt. Tired of having the same crap happen again and again. I'm the common denominator. I'm the one that creates this freaking nightmare. And I'm probably teaching it to my daughter. She is six. I don't want her to see my cry for no apparent reason. I don't want to drive off the cliff with her in the car. Or with her in my life. I love her. I can't do that to her. My mother abandoned me at the hospital fresh out of her womb. I'm still reeling from it. I still feel the rejection. I still fight the demons. I don't want that for my daughter. I have to stay and fight. I'm exhausted. So what. Who cares? I was born in this prison. I will die here. Things won't get better and stay better. They will cycle as they always have. That's not completely true. Things have gotten better than they were 20 years ago when I was mentally and sexually and physically abused by my fosters. At least that part of the battle is over. At least I don't feel like running through a "not your place" house with a butcher knife in my hand after my 20+ senior foster "brother". I could have killed him then. Where would I be now? Bet I wouldn't have my daughter or my husband. I did get lucky. 17 years ago my real father, already cold in his grave sent me my "soon to be" husband. He put him in my path. I would have to trip over him to get it. He wasn't my type. He's not self centered, manipulative, cocky. He was chivalrous. romantic. odd. He had goofy hair and rolled his pant legs up. Only wore high top tennis shoes and listened to head banger bands to offset the love of comic books and Star Wars. Oh God! Not my type at all. I preferred self centered rude, insulting jerks. They were what I knew. I grew up with. They were the ones that preyed on types like me. Oblivious. Innocent. Big boobed, small wasted, nothing special, easy-to-coax GIRL. I knew what was expected of me and it wasn't much. I knew what to expect of them, even less. I hoped for fairy tale, prayed for a fairy tale. And with everyone of them thought he could be a prince. When I wouldn't go all the way, I'd get dumped. Or when I finally made it to college on my own purse strings (or should I say STUDENT LOANS!!!, big mistake!) I would let them go all the way and I was essentially a cold fish. Not a chance of showing any emotion or feeling. Hell no! Somehow I survived all that crap and then my Dad died. My real dad. The one who went to the hospital to get me. He and my birth mother were divorced about a year before they saw each other at his brother's funeral and so to ease the pain, they went out and got drunk and she got "knocked up". He never knew. She told her family she had a tumor. And at 7 months pregnant she went to the hospital and forced me out of her life forever. For some strange reason still unknown she contacted my dad and told him he needed to come up to the hospital and sign some papers to put a baby girl up for adoption. He freaked. He got a lawyer and some time later, got me. (Thanks Dad. I miss you.) The foster family was actually his first wife's sister and her husband and their 7 kids. My dad needed someone to raise me. He worked nights. He tried 3 other "babysitters", but they didn't want me either. I was a premature baby. Sickly. I must have cried a lot. Still do dammit. I can see why the other families didn't want me around. Half the time I don't want me around! Dad figured the lady with the 7 kids who were mostly grown must have known what she was doing. So he offered to pay her weekly to take care of me. They needed the money, so it was a deal. Dad didn't know about foster Satan, the woman's husband. He didn't know about her POS son that was mentally damaged and in 12 years begin to "touch" me. He didn't know that the religion they practiced was self defeating, guilt ridden, and mentally tormenting. He didn't know. But he made up for the mistake when I was 25. He somehow after death made the universe come together and push my would-be husband in front of me and when he did... I'm not lying here... I head a tiny quiet little whisper like the wind in my ear telling me "he's the one". It might have been my dad. That would be cool. All I know is, I have a great husband, and now a wonderful little daughter. It's hard feeling like crap and wanting to cry when I know I've got it good. I can't explain it. I don't understand it. I have a job that could be a good one if they would HIRE SOME F'N PEOPLE and spread the work around.... And maybe they will in 12 months when there is more money coming in, hopefully... but can I wait that long? I don't think so. I get up, dread every minute of the morning getting ready. Go over in my mind "how can I not go in today? Am I sick? Do I have a migraine? Will I get hit by another car on the way? That would be awesome. That would put me out of work for at least a week??? If the accident is bad enough." I could just quit. No unemployment insurance. No income. Soon we get even more collection notices. Sure, come take the cars. The cars that aren't that great anyway! Cars that we have to work on every other week! And, yeah, come kick us out of our house. Depressed and homeless... good combo! And then take my child, of course. Since I won't have a home how could I have a child! And the husband will finally break down too and say the hell with it. He'll toss me to the side like all the rest have. Quit my job... not an option. Get another job... yeah, why didn't I think of that? Hummmmm .... let's see... I've been looking for a new job for 8 months. I've sent out hundreds of resumes. Problem is... so has everyone else! And of those other folks, I'm sure there is a large number of them who have held jobs longer than just 2 years! I've never held a job for more than 2 years consecutively! I can't. I'm incapable. I break down. I work hard, hard, hard. Show them "look how great I am... Look what I can do..." and then lose my ever loving mind! I break down. It's like clockwork! Very dependable clockwork. I have seen this coming. Again. I've tried to control myself. I've gone to therapy. In the past, I even took all the stupid useless pills the docs threw at me... then the insurance company fought me over paying for them... so I quit. Then realized I felt better without them. They might have stopped me from ending it all back when I got to close to the edge... but they don't help you feel normal.... just different. They don't allow you to have any energy. Forget sex. Too much trouble to actually orgasm. I haven't got the stamina for it... much less my husband... "God will you just orgasm already! I'm tired!" He's never said it, but I bet he's thought it. So, faking falls into action. Yes, yes, yes, oh... snore. Who cares? Complete opposite when I stopped taking the pills. All he had to do was whisper the grocery list in my ear and it was on! Don't tell me those pills are my saviour. D'ay Ain't!

I do have some faith. It comes and goes. I do somehow believe I will feel better. It might be a month from now. I might have a new job. The cycle will start again. I will come down with a case of Alzheimer's and forget the misery that is now. I will believe in sunny days and chocolate chip cookies in milk again. And I will crash again. It is me. It is my life cyle. no training wheels... no bell... no brakes. no breaks.

 

Erina out.

 

Free Blog Themes and Free Blog Templates
Free Blog Themes and Free Blog Templates

Depression Blogs - Depression Journals - Anxiety Blogs - Anxiety Journals - Depression Chat Rooms - Anxiety Chat Rooms

Copyright 2010 www.depression-blogs-chat-rooms.org All rights reserved.