There, I've said it.
I am in a black mood. I mean, pitch black, fuck you, die black mood.
Because really, I'm not happy.
And I get that part of it is my hormones--I'm in the Xanax Days of the month, the run-up to the Bleeding that means I am alternatively climbing-the-walls, fuck-me-bloody horny, utterly enraged and suicidally depressed, and wouldn't ya know? It falls on the holiday, this STUPID MANUFACTURED BULLSHIT holiday.
There, I said it.
And I don't give a flying fuck.
Because right now, peeps, I AM NOT thankful for my life. Because while I am brilliant, fabulous, talented, committed, passionate, honest, brutally fucking honest with everything and everyone, what-you-see-is-what-you-get, DEAL WITH IT because hey, I have to, I am also a complete, utter fuck up. A loser. A dead end.
Why? Hey, I'm 43 and I've thrown my life away taking care of other people, fostering the dreams and failed hopes of others, and fighting this STUPID FUCKING "disorder"--multiple disorders, who the fuck am I kidding? Shit I inherited, shit that got thrust on me, shit that I never wanted, never deserved, but hey, kid, that's LIFE.
That's life. It's the only fucking explanation, end of story--it's not about God's Will or God's Plan, it's about that's how it fucking works, that's how it goes, suck it up, buttercup, and drain that cup to the dregs because that's it.
Three years ago on this stupid holiday that I try to ignore, I flew to England, engaged, expecting to get the beautiful ring that had been designed for me, expecting to be held and loved, and on the first steps to the relationship I had thought I'd never have.
Should've known that I don't have that kind of luck. He was already getting it on with one of my friends, a pathetic fat girl who traded one loser for another, someone without the backbone to stand up to her life and needed me to save her from her abusive piece of shit of a husband, the person on the other side of the fucking ocean, not all her precious girlfriends in England.
Why? Because I'm not afraid to be an asshole. I'm not afraid to be myself. And right now I'm paying the price for it. I'm alone.
No kids, no partner, nothing but an elderly cat, an elderly mother getting dafter by the day, and a lifeful of regrets and bitterness.
Oh, and talent. Gobs and gobs of talent and good friends. When I got home from that trip, my mother developed a severe infection in her leg. They had to amputate a toe, remove her new knee joint, clean it out, and put it back in. During that time, she developed an MRSI. She spent Xmas in the hospital. I had to cook a turkey for the first time--the one food I never cooked because it was the one thing she makes that I love, I adore and for me to cook it would mean that she'd finally gotten too old.
That she was dying.
She said to me on that sad, horrible Xmas, as we sat on her hospital bed, and she knew how much I was hurting, that I had expected to be planning my wedding, planning for a child, that everything happened for a reason--that things went wrong with FuckWad because Mum needed me.
I wanted to open my veins right there, in her hospital room and just end it.
I still do.
And while none of us are ever alone, we all are. Really. We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone, locked in our own skulls, lost in our own pain, needs, thoughts... the rest of the world is really an illusion, a collective one, true, but an illusion, because it's all filtered through our individual perception.
Right now, I am alone. And I feel it. And instead of ending the pain I'm feeling in a way that would mean this consciousness known variably as The Empress, Riz, Lisa, whatever the fuck you know me as, I'm going to be a good kid and take my half tab of Xanax and pray that it works because I know the day is coming when it won't because I'm needing it more often, and I know what that means.
This is how I know that God is not what I was taught in Catholic school. He's not all-knowing, all-seeing, all-anything. He's just another poor fool, stumbling around, a very big kid with a chemistry set and we're his big experiment.
A failed one.
More later.
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