The Great Fall into the Abyss of the Mind

Been gone awhile.. Much has happened and much has stayed the same.

What has stayed the same? Still getting a divorce.

As to the "What" of the "Much that has happened..." It is a long story, as it should be, for many days have passed. I am too weary to tell it all but I will write some now, and some tomorrow perhaps.

About the last entry.. That day... I called him.. there was no answer. I texted him.. no response. I felt he was, once again, not taking me seriously. I cried... a lot. I broke the lock to the gun cabinet by prying it open.. i just didn't want to live anymore. I paced the house, gun loaded, safety off, cocked and ready. My panic came in waves.. I didn't know what to do, I just knew I wanted to die. In a last ditch effort, I made a call to his parents.. All I could do was cry.. plead for help. They thought I was his sister... so I hung up. Of course they would think it was her.. why would they bother thinking it might be me? Why would they care? I cried more. I sat.. I became cold and calm.

At that point I did put a gun to my head. Finger on the trigger, eyes filled with tears and staring at images of my daughter, myself when I was my daughter's age, my wedding picture, and that screenshot sent to me from someone who has still yet to be named. But though my eyes were filled with tears, I felt insanely calm. As if I were in the center of a hurricane... time stood still. I was at peace. And it was a peace I had never felt before.. It was a peace that felt "right". I wasn't scared anymore. I think I even felt a smile on my lips because I was so certain that for the first time in my entire life, I was doing the right thing,

Just when I had numbed myself to the point where pulling the trigger would be no problem, I heard him call my name. I remember blinking once as his voice registered and he called my name again. I heard the door press against the chain lock. My throat seemed to close up yet a whimper somehow escaped.

He heard it.
He asked if i wanted him to go away... did i?
Did I want him to go away so I could finish this once and for all?
End this pain and suffering that I seemed to be causing everyone including myself?
Did I want him to leave me be so that he and his family could live in peace?
Did I?

The questions raced through my head at lightening speed and before I even knew it, I found myself unlatching the chain. Weeping so hard that my entire body trembled before I collapsed onto the hallway floor. I don't even remember walking down the hall. I do remember him taking the gun from me despite my feeble attempts to hold it. I still wanted to die..

Why did I let him in? What made me go to the door and allow his entry? I still don't know. That was June 23rd. A Sunday. The date of my last entry.

The blur I remember from that point was being driven to a mental hospital by his sister. She spoke to me like a child... I didn't take offense as she is a school teacher after all. Tears kept falling. I wasn't sobbing anymore, but I was drained, raw, and empty. But the tears would not stop. I remember sitting in triage.. waiting for what seemed like forever. Waiting for a straightjacket. Waiting for him to just leave me there. Waiting for something to happen... It ended up I was waiting to be handed papers of permission to be treated to be signed.

Then I was walked away. Away from him. Away from the noise. Away into a room where I was made to change into scrubs and then offered a dinner which sat for hours untouched. Signed more papers. Blood was drawn. Spoke blankly to a psychiatrist and then sat on the gurney rocking back and forth trying not to go catatonic. More papers to be signed.. then I was lead outside and driven to another facility.

I was terrified to get out of the car. The tech and the security guard did their best to calm me but I was shaking so bad I could hardly walk. The guard walked quickly, the tech slowed his pace to match mine and make certain I didn't fall. I was lead through what seemed to be a plethora of outside "hallways" before we even made it into the unit. I could hear nothing but the buzz of the overhead lights and my mind seemed to focus on the moths and gnats that flitted around them as we walked. It was hot. It was humid. It would have felt miserable had I not already felt dead.

Finally we made it into the coolness of the facility. My first reaction was how I thought it odd that the pale green be the color of choice for "soothing". Granted it is a color for psychological "balance" but it is also considered to be associated boredom, stagnation, blandness, and enervation. I would have thought pale, calming shades of blue to be more appropriate. As I write this, it strikes me as odd to even have this thought at that moment considering my mindset.

I don't remember much after that. I know I was "processed", made to change into yet, another set of scrubs, and  given a room which I didn't leave for the first four days unless I was "made" to do so by the staff in order to eat or take meds. I didn't speak to anyone, patient, tech, nurse... I didn't trust anyone. I always looked down, never meeting anyone's eyes. I got compliments on my hair.. (which is blue now, btw, by accident) to which I mumbled 'thank you' before hurrying back to the safety of my room.

Many nights I spent panicked and curled up into a corner wrapped in a blanket when other patients (usually male) would get out of hand and start screaming in the middle of the night. This was an on-going thing until the doctor ordered meds to sedate me. But after a few days, I grew immune and the sleeping pills alone were no longer enough.

I slept most of the first 5 of the 12 days spent there... It was a long road ahead..

As stated, the first several days were spent in my room. Insomnia hit me at night, but the days I slept almost constantly because of the mix of anxiety medication and the chronic deep depression. When awake, tears fell near constantly. My thoughts.. I am not sure I could tell you exactly what they were other than feeling ashamed of my worthlessness. The patients who had visitors were constant reminders of how (I perceived) no one gave a shit about me. That it did not matter if I rotted there. I would listen to conversations.. so many of them. One of them being between two techs. They spoke of how there was a guy on the west unit who had, at that point, been in the facility 10 months. 10 Months!! His family apparently signed him in. They spoke about how he would get calls from them, and he would walk to the phone as if to take the call, and then simply hang up. I thought about him a lot. I wondered if I were to end up staying that long (or longer), if I would get calls or if I would simply be forgotten. Then I decided I would not be forgotten because the divorce would go through and eventually I'd be kicked onto the street.

These are just a sample of the the thoughts of the broken hopeless person I had become..

The first couple of days, the techs were almost lax when it came to my eating habits. (Or lack thereof). But soon they would force me out of bed and out of the room to join the others in meals, most of which I barely touched. It was then that my high level of social anxiety became very apparent. I would take a roll, pull pieces off and nibble while rocking back and forth. I don't think I ever actually finished the roll, let alone the rest of the meal because all I remember were more tears. Silent yet steadily streaming down my cheeks. I was hot but my skin was cold and clammy. Next thing I knew, I would wake in my room, hours later, curled up in a fetal position and wrapped in blankets with no recollection of how I ended up there. It was awhile before I realized that they were medicating my anxiety during the day, but during the evening they didn't bother as they figured the sleeping pill would be enough.

Day 5 was the first time I ventured out of my room of my own volition. It was the first time I comprehended I had a doctor overseeing my status and medication, as well as a social worker overseeing other aspects of the situation that I still don't quite understand. It was the first day I had a conversation with my doctor. The usual questions were asked and always answered honestly. Yes, I still want to die. No I don't want to hurt anyone else. No I have not been hurting myself nor do I want to. I just don't want to live. No I don't know my family's psychological history. No I do not have any friends or family on the outside. Yes I was abused as a child and as an adult, physically, sexually, and probably emotionally too considering self-confidence was no longer even in my vocabulary. I got defensive during the questioning. And as I did, my anxiety rose. My blood pressure was taken, it was so low that they took it 3 more times to be certain the reading was right. Twice with the machine and once the 'old school' way. I felt the haze coming on as he said he was going to adjust my medications and encourage me to attend the group therapies that took place. I remember glaring at him and telling him flat-out that my anxiety would not allow me to join group. That I needed one-on-one. That I read it in my original notes fro my first psychiatrist. He simply stated he would up my meds and for me to try.. Feeling dizzy, I was offered more meds and I wend back to my room and slept for 12 hours, missing breakfast, lunch, and snack and would have missed dinner as well had I not been woken.

Day 8 - He came to visit. I was still a mess of emotion. Still feeling worthless. I tried to have a normal conversation but all I could remember was the painful words of the screenshot. I had asked if we were still getting a divorce. He said yes. I asked if there was another girl (half-hoping that was the case cause then I could make sense of everything) he said no. I don't remember much of the conversation, other than getting up and walking away murmuring about how I was a controlling abuser and have never nor could ever love anyone or care about anyone and I believed every word. I didn't look back, instead focusing on how my mother was right all along. That if my own dad could not love me as a baby, no one would love me as an adult. I did not have another visitation from him again, nor anyone else for the rest of my stay. I believed the reason to be was that I was not worth the effort.

Day 9 I was threatened by one of the nurses that if I didn't start going to group I would be sent to the West Unit. (Where all the real problem people are.) This scared me, so I forced myself to try.. I could never last longer that 10 minutes in the room due to my anxiety. I tried three times and finally just gave up, deciding that being transferred would be better anyway since from what I had heard, they tended to over-medicate the real crazies and maybe I would get lucky enough to be one of the ones over-medicated.

Day 10 I met with a woman who was to interview me and determine my eligibility for SMI Disability Insurance. The "interview" turned into a 2 hour long session because the flood-gates opened then and everything came pouring out. Every horrible graphic detail of my childhood all the way to how I ended up in the facility. I used up nearly two boxes of tissues from crying so much. When I finally looked up at her, her eyes met mine controlled yet seemingly damp and slightly horrified. I then apologized profusely and she asked if I had ever talked to anyone before and I admitted that she was the first. She looked down at her papers as she straightened them.. I merely noted how much writing there was that then immediately felt the flush of deep shame and I apologized again. She told me not to.. that I had nothing to be sorry for.. but I felt horrible. The rest of the day, I stayed in my room, coming out only for meds and the meal I knew I would be forced to attend.

Day 11 was my first real sit down with the social worker. I vented about the groups and how my papers stated that I needed 1:1 therapy and how I wasn't getting it and how I felt like I was being treated like a number. I vented about how the nurses asked us to trust them yet half of them couldn't be friendly or even remember my name and how I felt like I was in something that resembled a mix of a prison and a dog pound and how I still felt worthless and how I questioned everything I have ever stood for.... and he listened.

In fact it was the first time that someone actually payed attention to me, heard what I was saying, and offered feedback. He sat with me for over 2 hours conversing and taking the time to actually tell me I was not worthless. That my core values mattered. That he had faith in me and believed in me. By the end of our conversation I went from feeling like a worthless waste of space to someone who still had worth. It wasn't a strong feeling. In fact it was quite tiny and fragile. But it was the first time in months that I felt like I *might* be able to handle the road ahead. I left the room with a seed of hope. That evening, the hope grew bit by bit. By morning, I was up and waiting for him and my doctor in the hall at 5:30am. I sat there and right when they came in, I nearly ambushed them saying I was ready to go home. And I was persistent until finally they said "okay".

And I got out.

My hope is still very, very small. Puny even. It's fragile, cracked, and held together with little more than paste and string. But it's there. And it's mine.

I just need help to get it to grow stronger. And I know that will take a lot of work, especially since it's mostly on me and I am trying to have it take the place of decades of negativity. I'm still scared. Petrified of what is to come... and praying to the powers that be that the choices I make as far as those I decide to keep in my life will not play a part in destroying the infinitesimal bit I have finally found.

I don't want to feel like dying again... Because I really feel that if I return to that point, there wont be a chance to come back. Because I wont bother to ask for help. I will just do it with no warning.

We have to live today by what truth we can get today and be ready tomorrow to call it falsehood

I often think about the type of people who take pleasure in destroying others. Not physically, but emotionally.

There was one I knew of who openly admitted to the fact that he took great pride in doing just that. He would befriend someone fragile, usually a woman, and he would gain their trust. He was a very patient man so it often did not matter how long it took to do so. To him, it was all part of the game. He had a very efficacious technique. Once he chose the (un)lucky girl, he would pay strict attention to every word she uttered. He would always make certain to compliment her on various things. Since he met these women online most of the things he would compliment her on were things such as a success she shared or her picture or anything creative that she had accomplished. Basic things. On top of this, he was very much a wordsmith so every comment made was with carefully chosen words. He would draw her in and as she let her guard down, he would appear to let his own down as well. In time, she would find herself completely trusting, if not falling in love with him. And he would know the exact moment it would happen. But he would never end "the game" at that point. He would continue to play it for months, sometimes years, all the while stringing her along and deepening the 'friendship'. The longer it lasted, the more deep the wound. He would even manipulate her into slowly turning her back on those whom she called her friend and would continue this process until she had all but alienated everyone from her life other than him. It was a very important part of the process and imperative to the end result.

Eventually he would become bored with her, usually because he had found a new 'toy' to play his game. When that time came, he would watch carefully for any opening that presented itself for him to break off the "friendship" and make it seem as though she was completely at fault. When that happened, his pretty words morphed into poison as he would break her down, belittle her and make her believe that she was completely worthless. Because she had been manipulated, she had no one to turn to. No one she felt comfortable in speaking with. Since he was now all she had, she would do her best and beg for forgiveness and promising that she would be a better person. At this time, he would graciously accept her apology. Again he would take the time to build her up, though considerably less effort was put into doing so. It wasn't really needed at this point. For within a week, sometimes  mere days, she would be right back where she was before. Ignorantly blissful in her friendship with a viper. The break-off process would happen again, and again he would treat her mercilessly, and again she would beg and again he would "forgive" and then even less effort would be made to keep her in his life.

This particular cycle would span years, and eventually decades, until one day.. he would find his opening and the break-off would include a complete lack of contact. No longer would he even bother with her destruction verbally. He would simply state that she was no longer worth his time and then completely ignore her, leaving her absolutely devastated. Then he would watch as his silence took it's toll and she became nothing more then a husk and considerably worse off then they day he had met her. He took delight in the fact he was able to demolish someone so completely and then he would mock them and make statements of utter disdain on various social networks that they were both part of. He was careful never to state her name and he would always make these remarks as though they were nothing more than random thoughts in his head, but he knew that she would see them or come to know of them in some way and that it would further crush what little shards of self worth she had left.

And he felt proud of this accomplishment. He viewed himself near god-like for he had taken someone fragile and insecure and built them up into someone beautiful and strong and then completely shattered them. He did this because it amused him and made him feel powerful.

I do not know what became of the countless women he did this to...

I can only say that I am among the most recent, and also, the one that lasted the longest. While I am a little better than I was when his game first ended, it has caused me to become very jaded... very cynical and completely unable to trust another soul. I no longer believe that real love exists. And I'm not just speaking of 'relationship' love, I am also speaking of platonic love, or any category/level/style of love whatsoever. "Love", in every sense of the word, has become nothing more than a myth. It belongs with things like unicorns, the tooth fairy, and Santa Claus. It is fake and there is no such thing and those that believe in it are complete fools. I don't believe in friendship either. Not true friendship. There are no such things as "true friends."

But, perhaps the most important thing I have lost my belief in, is that being a "good" person, being honest and having integrity and being loyal, matters. It doesn't. It doesn't matter at all. It will not make your life better. If anything, it will make your life much worse. I know this because I have lived it. I have held myself to these standards and I did it because I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought that in doing so, I would eventually find others who held fast to those values as well. But my experience with this person taught me I was a fool. So now I am telling you. Don't waste your time or efforts on such nonsense. These things are only useful if they are faked so that you can get what you want out of life. Don't believe me? Just think about every single politician that has ever existed. Or any person with real power of some sort. None of them are, or ever were, "good people".  That's just the way the world is.

Backstory - Childhood

I never knew my biological father. Growing up, whenever I would question my mother about him, she would tell me that when I was born she took me to see him and he had taken one look at me and stated that he wanted nothing to do with me. She often repeated this incident. Other times when I would ask about him, she would claim he was the “Marlboro man” or that he was the man on the horse in the Stetson commercial that was shown every Christmas. She had never been one to tell the truth and even after all these years that is something that has not changed. But that fact that it was drilled into my head from the time I was a toddler, that my own father wanted absolutely nothing to do with me still remains.

My mother was in the army first and when she got out, she joined the police force. I spent a considerable amount of time staying with my grandparents. I have very vague memories of the time spent with them growing up. None of these particular memories were unpleasant. As far as I can recall, my time staying with my grandparents never brought me grief. Then again, this was also during Ages 0-6. The only time I remember her getting angry with was when she caught me using a pair of her pantyhose to catch crawdads in the creek beside her house.

She met my half-sister’s dad while she was a cop and they got married when I was still very young. He actually went through the process of adopting me as his own daughter. I remember sitting on the judge’s lap as he asked if I was ok with this man being my dad. My half-sister was born shortly after when I was 4 years old.

When I was in the first grade, one of my friends had a huge slumber party at her house. My entire class was invited. It was the very first time I had ever stayed the night with anyone. Her house was big and after having fun doing whatever it is that kids do at that age, our sleeping mats were set out on the floor of the basement which had been turned into a bar/game room. After we were all situated, her mom turned out the lights and went upstairs. I remember lying on my side and looking out one of the high windows at the moon. It was a full moon that night. The tint on the windows made it appear to glow blue. Being as I was so excited to be a “big girl” because I had been allowed to stay the night, I was unable to sleep. So I just continued to lay there, staring at the moon and listening to my friends drop off into slumber one by one. At some point during the night, one of the adults came in to check on us. It was her uncle I think. He bumped into a bar stool and I sat up, startled by the noise. He told me everything was ok and to lay down and go back to sleep. The next thing I knew, he was lying behind me,. When I tried to scoot away, he grabbed me, pulling me close to him, his hand tightly covering my mouth and he whispered a threat in my ear to keep quiet or he would have no choice but to hurt me. I was terrified of course and did everything he instructed from that point on. It was my first sexual experience. I was six years old.

When I got home the next day, I went straight to my room and didn’t come out for the rest of the weekend. My mom acted concerned, asked me a bunch of questions which most of them were answered with ‘I don’t know’. Then one day she bought me a journal with a lock. She explained that I could write whatever I wanted and no one would ever see. So for the next few days, that was what I did. Well, mostly I drew pictures but occasionally I would write. Eventually I did get around to writing what had happened. When I was finished, I made certain it was locked before placing it under my mattress before school.

Later that day I came home to my mother standing in my bedroom, my diary in one hand complete with broken lock. She demanded to know why I didn’t tell her it happened since “I obviously want her to find read it otherwise I would not have left it open to the exact page and face down on my bed. I felt completely betrayed but I told her what had happened anyway. When I was done, she left, taking my diary with her.

I don’t know the events that happened when she left. I only know that when she came home, she tossed my diary into the fireplace. She sat in stony silence for what seemed like hours. When she finally did speak to me, she told me I should be disgusted with myself and that “good little girls” don’t behave in that manner. She then instructed me not ever mention it because doing so was a sin and I had “sinned enough” and that I should pray and ask for forgiveness. She also informed me that I was no longer allowed even speak to my friend and if I was caught doing so would be in a world of trouble. As she said these things, all I could do was cry. I asked her what I did wrong but she would not answer me. My tearful questions only seemed to make her even angrier and she slapped me in the face so hard that it nearly knocked me off my bed. At that she left my room and told me I was stay there, think about what I have done and to have no dinner. Then, once more, she reminded me to never, ever, bring it up.

So I never spoke a word of this to anyone. After that, not only did I not talk to that particular friend anymore, but I stopped talking to almost everyone. I would answer when a question was asked by the teachers but that was the extent of it. We still had school counselors back then but I wouldn’t talk to them either. And it was not because I was worried my mom would find out. I was more concerned with them having an equal response.

I don’t even remember much of my actual childhood after this point. My dad never found out and even now, every time I think of this one moment, I find myself questioning what I did wrong and why was I the one in trouble even though I know deep down that it wasn’t my fault. After all, I was only six.

As far as family was concerned, other than my mother seeing to morph into something unrecognizable, everything seemed to be going great until one day, out of the blue, the only man I knew as my father decided to leave. I never saw it coming. I was 9 years old, I think. I’m not completely sure. What I remember most about that day was him standing in the front door on his way out. His real daughter had already made a beeline for the car, anxious to leave. My mother stood about a foot behind me not breathing a word. He asked me at that moment if I wanted to come with him or stay with my mother. I wanted to go with him… I really did. But I decided to stay out of guilt that my mother would be all alone if I had left. And I wanted her to love me again. Maybe if I stayed, she would love me again. What I didn’t realize was that I was also staying because I knew he wasn’t my real dad. When he left, despite the fact that in my 9 year old wisdom I chose to stay with my mother, it left a very deep wound in my heart. Almost instantly after he had shut the front door and vanished from sight, my mom snapped at me to go to my room and not come out. I didn’t understand.. I thought she would be happy that I loved her enough to stay by her side. Instead she had turned cold and before my dad had even pulled out of the drive-way, I was regretting my decision.

Very shortly after that, my mom started dating a man from church. I did not like him. I did not like him on sight before I even met him. I didn’t know the reason though and since I could not make sense of it, I did my best to, again, be supportive of my mother. Their relationship grew quickly and I was not even 11 years old when they got married. Next thing I knew, we were packing up the house in order to move to Georgia; half a country away from my dad. Once we were settled in our new place of residence, my mom got a job and her new “Thing” was home nearly all the time. I did my best to avoid him though I did not understand as to why. One day, while I was getting some water, he came into the kitchen and smacked my butt and told me to make him a sandwich. I remember the feeling of absolute revulsion flowing through me at his touch. But I said nothing and merely did as he asked. These little ‘flirtatious” things continued to happen often. Each time they did, I gave it my best effort to not respond in any way. The very last thing I wanted to do at this point was piss him off and have my mother find out about it.

That summer, my sister came to visit and the four of us went to Savannah for vacation. It was during this time that this “thing” my mother had married took it upon himself to rape me one night in the hotel. This occurred while my mother and sister were sound asleep. My sister was lying right next to me. During the process, I repeatedly punched my sister in the arm in an effort to wake her in hopes that he would stop and get off me. My plan ultimately worked. She did wake up and hearing me crying, she asked me what was wrong and if I was ok. But I couldn’t respond in any other way then to cry. Hearing her voice, he slid off me and onto the floor to try to sneak back into bed with my mom. That was the first time I ever experienced the strong desire to kill myself. For the rest of our “family vacation”, I barely ate, I could not sleep, and all I could think about was sneaking out of the hotel at night and walking into the ocean in hopes that I would be able to drown myself.

From that point on, things got considerably worse. My sister went back to be with her dad and I lived with my mom and “him” in constant fear. We went to church on a regular basis during this time and I was very involved with the youth group. It was the only thing that made me feel even remotely human anymore. One day I wrote a letter to my youth pastor explaining what had happened. In the letter I begged him not to tell anyone. I just felt so horrible, dirty, and ashamed. But I could not bring myself to speak to anyone face to face, so I wrote it down instead and slipped the letter under his office door one Sunday.

Within a matter of days, I was called into the office at my school. When I arrived there, I was greeted by a woman in a suit and a uniformed cop. They took me into a room to speak privately and asked me to repeat what had happened. I wasn’t able to do it. I was too terrified. All I could think was if I said anything, my mom was sure to find out. I was literally shaking in fear and nearly passed out from the anxiety. When they realized I wasn’t going to talk, they calmed me down and gave me their card and sent me back to class. I was so relieved.

Later that week, my mother was doing laundry and while checking pockets, she found the card that I was given. She called me into the room, her tone was merely curious so I didn’t think anything of it. Then she showed me the card and asked where I had gotten it. Instantly I replied that it was just something that was passed out during a school event thing. It was then that she told me she knew I was lying. I remained silent, not trusting my voice. He was standing beside her during this and she blatantly asked me if he had done anything to or with me. Then she said that I had better not lie to her. I looked at her, then at him, and then back at her. I was screwed and I knew it.
So, looking at the floor I nodded and just as I feared, my voice cracked when I said “yes”.

My mom blew up at me then. Demanding to know why I did not say anything. I told her the honest truth. That I was afraid she wouldn’t believe me. Her response was “You’re probably right. You probably wanted it.”

Time seemed to stop.
It was the ultimate form of abandonment.
Sure, she was still there. Still in my life. But she she chose him. She knew exactly what had happened, what he did.... and she chose him.

That was the exact moment that I lost my belief in everything good and right in the world. As she ranted and raved and screamed at me, all I could do was look at her... or rather through her. I went completely numb. I felt as though I had just witnessed the murder of a child,

Finally, she stated that he was sick of looking at me and she sent me to my room.

My home life became complete hell after that. He took advantage of me every chance he had. At one point, she went out of town for two weeks during the summer. It was during this time that he whored me out to his friends. At first, I fought it. I had hurt one of them really, really bad. As punishment I was bound to a chair and had five of my toenails ripped out before being raped brutally. After that, I didn’t bother to fight back. There was no use. And when my mom returned from her trip, I pretended as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. After all, she willingly chose to stay with this man and even today, several years later, she is with him.

I suffered this hell for the next three years until I finally found my ticket out of that house in the form of getting knocked up by a 23 year old when I was 16. He was one of those that was brought up to do the “right thing” and we got married and I was able to leave and never look back.

Obviously much more had happened in my life to contribute to the person I have become, but this.. what I have shared with you, is how I was brought up. This was my life and these are the things that are at the core of my being.

Ever since the day I left that place, I have done everything I possibly could to make absolutely certain that I would not become like my mother. Unfortunately just because I succeeded in not becoming the person she is, it doesn’t make me a good parent. I know this and I openly admit it. Every child I have had, I have never been quite capable of bonding with any of them as I should. In short, I am a really shitty parent, but at least I can be honest and admit it to myself. Not only that, I am living proof that just because you had a horrible family upbringing doesn't mean you have to turn into a serial killer.

Anyway, hopefully now you know where I come from. Why I am a silent and seemingly uninteresting person if we meet. Why I don’t speak much. Why it always hurt me so deeply when people I allow myself to care for turn their backs on me for even the pettiest of reasons. Why, even though I really want to have real friends, I always push even the best of prospects away. Why I feel that if I stay away, everything and everyone will be better off.

Perhaps most importantly, this is why I make a terrible wife. Some people in this world really are impossible to love. Not because they are bad people, but merely because they are truly just too damaged for it to be successful. I just happen to be one of those people. It takes a very strong person to be able to love me on a continuous basis. Being in any kind of relationship with me (friendship or otherwise) is exhausting. Believe me. I know and I understand it completely. Even I get tired of myself. I get tired of trying to convince myself that I am not worthless when I am unable to feel anything else. I get tired of telling myself that I CAN do anything I put my mind to and then trying to continue staying positive as I fail. I get tired of reassuring myself and telling myself that everything will work out when I really believe there is no hope. I get tired of pushing myself to not be so guarded and trying to convince myself that trusting in others is ok. The only difference between you and me is the simple fact that I can never take a break from myself. Unlike you, I cannot tell myself that I am no longer worth the effort. And I there are times I want to do exactly that. But I can’t. I continue on, often times just barely.

Well, I believe a well-deserved nap is in order.
Writing this, as I stated, was quite emotionally taxing which of course also means it has been physically exhausting.