Case of the Ex

We are exes for a reason. We fell in love, tried, then as time went on, we fell out of love. Time changes, people change, love fades, but you sir, I still have love for you and it will always be unconditionally so.

You met me when I was just a girl. Sure I was a barely legal hitting up the college scene tumblr_m06nyh5rOL1r67iiqo2_250in this beautiful city, but nonetheless a girl. I didn’t know how taxes worked, I still asked my mom for help with homework, I slept with a bed full of teddy bears, and I still drew hearts over every single fucking photo with Ewan McGregor. (sigh, such a babe).

You were older, only by a few years, you weren’t neither a man nor a boy. You at this time, is what I would call a ‘man-child’. You worked at Blockbuster, dropped out of school, lived at home with mom and pops. You were independent, but couldn’t quite make it out in the world solo.

Then Girl and Man-child met.

I remember it vividly.

I remember the couple weeks that followed.

I remember the first 8 months we were together.

I remember our 8 years together.

I remember them all, and I remember them well.

You and I, Sir, we certainly have been through a lot. Infidelity, financial crisis, deaths, starting/attempting to have a family, health scares, celebrations and everything else that comes with being in your favourite person’s life. We really have been through it all.

What I am trying to say in all of this me reminiscing is thank you. You have seen me at my worst, and you have seen me at my best. And in a time like this, when I am feeling lower than ever, when death is constantly teasing me, you sir, you are still here. After 10 fucking years you are still here. And I know it probably seems crazy that I am somewhat taken aback by this, but some friends have all but left me over the last couple months, They don’t like the person I have become, they don’t like the choices I make, and so in turn, instead of trying to aid me in becoming my old happy self again, they have left me. But you, you Sir are still here.

I know it hurts you to see me struggling. But you have helped me so much. You answer my phone calls when I just need someone to talk to, you check in with me, you help me with Barrie, you are more than just an ex who has become a friend. You are such an integral part of my life, you are my family, and I’ll forever love you for it.

You know, sometimes, I think back and I wonder why we didn’t work. This is silly because you and I know why. We were just too different. We certainly put in a valiant effort. If 8 years together doesn’t say something, I don’t know what does.

When we decided to part ways. It was sad. I was sad because you were my first love, and although I still loved you, I was no longer in love with you. It wasn’t fair to you for me to tag along trying to be something I wasn’t, trying to feel something I couldn’t. I remember I was quite erratic. One day I wanted to be with you, and the next I was glad we parted. But you Sir, you said we needed to do this. If we are meant to be it will happen again. And so at some point we tried again, and realized quite quickly that perhaps its best we move on. I am glad we made this choice.

I love how now, we are so open with each other, that I can call you when I’m doing a walk of shame home. Usually, our conversation starts off with “Sir, I’ve done it again….” Then followed by laughter and potentially a life lesson. I love that you let me help you with your dating profile and you update me on your love life, or lack there of for that matter. (KIDDING!!!). I love that we aren’t even fuck buddies, which is pretty impressive for me since 99.9% of all my male friends, I’ve banged. I love that you have seen me grow from just a girl into a woman. Mostly, I love that you still love me, you accept me for all my flaws, you are willing to put in the effort to help me get better, you are a true friend.

With all my heart, with all my love,

Thank you Sir,

Cait

An Open Letter

Dear Friends, Family, all those who I love, and all you strangers out there,

Please know I am really trying. I am trying to make it on my own in this big beautiful world, but times are difficult now. You all know I have many issues, I’m depressed, I have severe anxiety, I’m bulimic, I drink all the time, and I pop pills like tic tacs. Straight up, I’m fucked up. I’ve made shitty choices, done stupid stuff, hurt the ones I loved, I am all but for caring anymore.

I thought I hit rock bottom last year, but it seems as though I keep falling, and the ones I thought would catch me, have distanced themselves. They are tired of seeing me fall, and tired of carrying my weight. I am very saddened by this, but I suppose I understand.

I can brush it off, I’m a woman with scraped knees, bruised soul and a heart that is in a never ending state of always breaking.

To my family back home. You know I love you all, very much so. But please, it is very hard for me to be away. I am sad I have never met my little niece, I am remorseful that I can’t be there for all your birthdays and life celebrations, I am constantly feeling guilt for not being able to be there all the time. But please know I am, I am always here, a phone call away, I am always here. But please understand, I love this city. I came out here when I was 17, with big dreams and aspirations. Now, I am almost 30, those dreams and aspirations haven’t left me yet. But it takes time. I also have priorities. I have my boy Barrie and my little kitty Olive to take care of. I have friends I take care of out here. Don’t worry, I am figuring out how to take care of myself, but again it takes time, patience, and support from all of you.

I talked to two people today, both who I love dearly. They both expressed their concern for my well-being. More so in the sense, that all my bad habits will ultimately lead to my demise. Please don’t think that way. Everyone goes sometime, whatever will be will be, but I am trying to change. I am trying to die an old lady, warm in my bed. I will admit to this however. Suicide is a constant tease for me. Maybe death isn’t so boring, maybe it’s a wondrous thing after all. I would be able to see my grandma again and my best friend. I would be able to tell them how much I love them and how much I missed them, and how happy I am.

I almost ended my time here once. This was in the fall of last year. I was no longer on medication at this point. I stopped drinking, and wasn’t doing drugs. I was really trying to be my old self again. I had fallen in love, and it was very hard for me to watch the one I loved so dearly move on. I was so sad, I did everything he wanted, I changed my ways for him. Anyways, this particular night I couldn’t sleep. I was restless. I had all these thoughts running inside my head. What did I do wrong? How can we go back to what we had before? What am I doing? I always fuck everything up!!!

11136654_10100458342870173_3235526434844555125_nI got out of bed. Walked into the kitchen, opened the drawer, and grabbed a pair of scissors. Blade to my wrist, eyes closed, tears coming down and just as I felt my wrist becoming warm with liquid, I heard a whimper. Barrie. I turned around and he just stood there whimpering, looking at me. I dropped the scissors, grabbed a cloth, and went over to him. Barrie, my boy, he knew I was sad. He knew I was hurting, and out of everyone in my life, he was always there for me. I couldn’t leave him. He saved me. I can honestly say, if I didn’t have him in my life, I wouldn’t be here right now. And I still have moments where I look at the tiny scar on my wrist and I want to be embraced my death itself, but Barrie. My boy Barrie. He keeps me here.

Now, please don’t be sad for me friends, I’m okay. I’m always okay. All I ask is you for you to understand I am trying, I really am. But it gets harder, the more I am being pleaded to stop, and begged to come back east. I need to do this. I need to get through this, Barrie and I.

Always,

Cait

Worn Out Shoes

And so some time has passed. For those of you that dwell in the same town as I, you probably have all heard the story. Rumors fly around this town like rapid anal air attacks. I usually do my darnedest to cover my face and get the fuck out before it all hits me at once.

You see friends, recently (and I use recently rather loosely), a coworker of mine had passed away while we were working. I won’t go into details, for I am constantly going through the details in my head every morning when I wake up and every night before bed. Besides this story isn’t about the incident itself, instead it is about the aftermath.

I never used to work Wednesday. It wasn’t until the Ice Queen decided to reconvene her reign at our pub and she took all the shifts she desired. The bitch took my Monday shift so I was condemned to Wednesday, for all my eternity at the pub I shall now be serving shitty lunch specials, forced smiles and tall glasses of suckmydick. But whatever, I’m easy, I’ll suck it up and reconfigured my life for the Ice Queen.  My lady, I bid you to eastmyass.

Anyways, so I’ve been finally getting the groove of this Hump Day shift, and I am finally accepting the change that came with it. I got to work with another chef who I hardly ever see and I got to work with one of my girlfriends. All good, same shit, different day essentially, whatever!

Unfortunately, one Wednesday, shortly after our lunch rush, and me serving a table of 30 geriatrics from the local retirement home, I heard someone screaming. My instincts took over and I immediately ran to the front patio, to see if the bag lady Shannon was arguing with the pigeons again, but alas I was wrong. (My instincts suck). A couple of customers beckoned me over, and as I was headed towards them I saw it. I saw my coworker, I saw my friend, I saw death for the first time face to face.

Like I said this story isn’t about someone going to work to flip burgers and leaving in a bag. It was a freak accident, no doubt. No, this story is about…family.

***

We closed up early that day. Two hours later I got the call, that my friend did not make it. I was still in my work clothes, my feet covered in blood, my make up smudged all over my face, I was exhausted. I called my mama, I cried. I called Mr. Wonderful, I cried. I called more coworkers to let them know, we cried. I got off the phone and sat on my front porch, still unclean and cried. I cried, I cried, I cried and cried.

WHAT. THE. FUCK. How does this happen? How does someone go to work to flip fucking burgers and they die? His wife. His poor wife. She has no idea, she expected to see him that day, it’s not like he is a War Vet or Firefighter where you know they may never come home. He’s a chef. To me that’s not okay.

I was there. I was fucking there. Deep in it. Why was I fucking there? Oh I forgot, it’s because the fucking ICE QUEEN condemned me to Wednesdays. I never work Wednesdays. I never work Wednesdays, why did I have to work this Wednesday? If I had my old shift back, I wouldn’t have had to have been there. I wouldn’t have had to see what I saw, to hear what I heard, I wouldn’t have had to see my friend’s life drift away from his eyes. I want my Mondays back. I want my friend back.

The next couple days the pub closed. But all of us coworkers/friends/family we all came together to talk. Counselors were at our feet, police officers at our beckon and mother fucking ego-maniacal reporters where lingering in our shadows until the perfect moment.

I was constantly asked by everyone how I was doing. I hated this question. Yes, I was a wreck, yes I was sad, but I was more sad because I could only imagine how is wife feels. To lose the love of your life, let alone shortly after giving birth to your second baby. That’s not fair. I feel like shit and all you guys are concerned about me, what about her? What about his babies?

Looking back now, it was out of love. My coworkers genuinely cared for me, they were worried about my well-being along with the few others that witnessed this tragedy. But at the time, I couldn’t handle it. I thought shitty question after a shitty circumstance.

Days passed, sleep was inexistent, narcotics came back into fruition, anxiety exhilarated, and all I could think about was my shoes. I had an interesting moment. I had worn my shoes home that day, I never do that. Maybe in some sense I thought the rain would wash away the life that drifted on them, or maybe it was all I had of him. I remember sitting in my bedroom, a few hours before the funeral, staring at my shoes. All the moments of that Wednesday came rushing back, all my senses in overload, stroking out. Now, I could throw these shoes out, bury them, burn them, do whatever to get them out of my way, or I could keep them. Maybe I would put them in my closet or a box, and whenever I wanted to feel again, I could find the shoes.

Now I know this sounds like a rather perturbed thought, but I am a girl who can’t feel. I am so hooked up on pharmaceutical cocktails that to really make me feel, to really make me care, to really make me feel like a person, well, perhaps these shoes would help.

Mylittleshroomy (not her actual name, just a term of endearment for one of my dearest friends) and I headed to the pub to meet up with the rest of our coworkers. There we talked, we checked up on one another, we dispersed in to few cars and headed to say farewell to our friend. My car was one of the rides we took, but I didn’t drive. I couldn’t.

We arrived at the funeral. I was doing okay. I was supposed to be doing okay. I had already cried prior that morning, I am good. So good. I am going to be okay.

We all sat together, hand in hand. And waited patiently for the service to begin. I couldn’t help but think a week ago he was fine, he was alive, he was happy and smiling and asking me how my day was. A week ago, I finally was getting used to my new work schedule. A week ago he had told me they had finally picked out a name for his baby girl. A week ago, the saddest thing I still hadn’t gotten over was Glen (Walking Dead spoiler alert). A week ago everything was okay. I was okay. He was okay. He was alive and well and I am not okay anymore. He isn’t alive. He is not okay. I am not okay. I am not okay. I AM NOT OKAY.

I couldn’t breathe, I stood up and ran out of the room. My heart bursting out of my chest, my breathe struggling to make way and my tears flooded my eyes so much so I couldn’t see clearly. Mylittleshroomy and Mama Bear (Head Server) followed me out. They took me outside. They hugged me. They let me cry. They let me feel. They held my hand. They gave me my time. My heart hurt so much, why did this have to happen? This wasn’t supposed to happen? We did so much to help him survive, how did he not make it? What did we do wrong? Was I not quick enough? Did the ambulance take too long? Where did we go wrong? Why couldn’t we save him? I could’ve have saved him!

I guess they call this survivors guilt. In all honesty, I look at my life and think I really have nothing going for me, but he, he had so much. He was young, he was starting a family, he was a devoted husband and father, the only thing I’ve been devoted to was popping pills and getting my rock off. In a heart beat, I would’ve have taken his place. Mama Bear consoled me in a way I never expected. She told me it was okay to feel. It’s okay to be sad, but it wasn’t okay to feel undervalued and unloved. She told me it wasn’t okay that I was sad because I wished it was me instead of him. She told me that we all care and love each other, and we all have these thoughts inside our heads, but together we can help one another. We see each other every day, we celebrate all our birthdays together, we fight with each other, we fuck with each other, we help each other, and in the end we are all family here. We lost a family member. Why lose two?

At some point we three walked backed in, hand in hand. The service began.

***

I was anxious. I haven’t walked into the kitchen since the incident. I didn’t know if I could do it. I thought I could not walk in and I could leave, and find a way to move on without moving through the process of grief, or I could walk in and see what happens. I took a breath, and I walked in the kitchen. The evidence was gone, but the story was still there, in the walls, in the floors, in me. But I walked through the kitchen. It wasn’t until that moment I realized what I needed to do.

This was a little more than a month ago now. I still have bouts of not being able to sleep. I’ve slipped into old bad habits. My medication has doubled. And I have good days and bad days. Someone once told me every day gets better. I’m still waiting for that day, but I am hopeful.

And.

In the end.

I threw out my shoes.

 

 

 

 

Red Raped

I am back folks, at it again cracking wise like no tomorrow. I know it’s been awhile, but you guys should know by now, I go through phases, my most recent phases, alcohol, bloody shoes and COCAINE!

K I D D I N G

(not kidding)

Nah, I’ve had lots of poetics stuck inside my head the last little while and now I am finally ready to unleash these rhymes.

Now this in all essence friends, this jib jabber of yada yada yada is just a prologue to many more yada yadas. Some a little more touchy feely, some a little darker, some a little more honest and some easy breezy. Because it’s been awhile I shall start with something more easy breezy.

***

Alas, folks. I have become some harlot who is ashamed of certain aspects of herself. (surprisingly not ashamed of the fact I am a harlot). I try not to live a life of regrets, no matter the circumstance. I mean, I’m talking about myself of course, someone who had a one night stand with Chuckles The Clown, I tell you I have never been more disappointed in myself waking up to the smell of sticky toffee and white face paint on my nipples and nether regions. I have never felt defiled in my life, but if there was a moment this would probably be it. And still, no regrets.

No, no regrets whatsoever. I’ve decided to fuck regrets, like I fuck everything, and lean on being ashamed of myself. I would say disappointed, but my parents already to that job for me.

So I’ve decided to compile a list of things that are clearly, my bad habits, that I am more or less ashamed of. And what better way to lift this weight off my shoulders, by drinking a Somersby and telling all you fine people.

  1. Drunk Texting, STRAIGHT FML SUPER ASHAMED. Every time I wake up the next morning hung to the tits, I am left with a terrible, undecipherable novella of attempted booty calls, blurry photos and vowels. No consonants, just straight fucking vowels. AAA, EEE. AEOYU. To add to this drunk texting horror story, I’ll add in the kicker. PHONE CALLS. You aren’t one of my friends, unless I have left countless unintelligible voice mails and at least 67 phone calls in the span of one night.
  2.  Male Clothing. Now, before you get any ideas, it’s not what you think. No, I am not some hussy strutting around in male clothing, using my bass vocalizers telling my pets to call me Chaz. No, no mother fucking no. It’s rather not as exciting. You see friends, my harlot ways have lead to countless bedroom romps, where the bloody blokes leave some sort of memorabilia for yours truly. Anything from ties, to boxers, to shirts and socks. And I would be lying if I said I sometimes even hide an article of their clothing pre coitus, to add to my collection. Plus, side of my cat like theif ways, when I do have company come over I have an endless supplies of male clothing which they are welcome to borrow. (FYI- They never borrow).
  3. Pee that Smells Like: Coffee! I can’t help it. I certainly have a caffeine addiction. Nothing is better then my black on black grande pike, extra hot. But I don’t just drink it for the instant gratification of fresh mud in the morning. I drink it because I absolutely love it when my piss smells like a good cuppa joe. I know I am fucked, among other things, but I can’t help myself. In fact I think I am more ashamed for telling you guys about this beautiful bad habit, than the habit itself.
  4. Britney Spears: This bitch just gets me. I don’t know what it is, but even during Mickey Mouse days, I’ve always been a BS Groupie. Yeah her songs are shit, but there is just something about this chick that gets me going. I will admit during her public melt down where she went all Sinead O’Connor on our asses, made me fall for her. I love crazy bitches. Slightly ashamed of my devotion for the pop princess, and potentially embarrassed, but she drives me crazy.
  5. No Means Yes. Okay, now, you guys all know I am a promiscuous lil’ lassie, ared-rapend that’s something I would never deny. One of the many sexual fantasies I have, are that of being raped. Not sure if it has to do with losing my virginity at the age of my girl guide era, but there is just something of about no always meaning yes. I love being abused when it comes to fucking. So much so that if I don’t have any evidence of a few scratches here and there, or bite marks and bruises, I feel unloved and undesirable. Gentlemen, don’t ever make me feel like that.
  6. Married Men. I don’t like getting hurt. Unless, as mention prior it is for the gain of sexual gratification. I do have a heart believe it or not and I keep it very guarded. I recently made a mistake and let my guard up and fell for the bait. I am still in love with this bloke and madly so, and our relationship is complicated, lovely, but for the most part painful. I’ve decided recently, I never want this to happen again. I never want to fall in love and feel these moments of dejection. I’ve decided to pursue the unattainable. That being men that are married, or engaged or taken or whatever the fuck. Now, I am not trying to be a homewrecker, in fact I just leave all my liaisons with the kept men purely sexual. I don’t get attached. I don’t fall again.
  7. Silver Foxes. Meow!!! I’ve always been what I would call a ‘connoisseur of older men’. I luv them, they drive me wild. Maybe it stems from non-existent daddy issues, or just me fetching for someone who more than likely will have a thicker wallet. But folks, I just can’t help myself. Salt n’ Pepa hair, old man musk and experience….mmm mmm mmm.

Well, there you have it folks, an uneven number of things of just shit about me. Shit I am both ashamed and proud of.

I will admit, this isn’t my greatest writing. It’s just a little something for you all. I have more stories, and confessions coming your way. But in the mean time….

Waterproof Make Up is Overrated

Folks, waterproof make up is overrated. This past week has put it to the test, and it failed miserably. Alright, now I’ll fess up with how I know this.

Last year was very up and down for me, I had my good days, I had my bad days and towards the end of the year most of my days were good days. So good they were wonderful. I was branching out with different career opportunities, I wasn’t partying nearly as much, Barrie and I were meeting lots of canine friends, and my ‘not’ relationship was finding itself again.

But I don’t know what happened. It was like 2017 smacked the side of my head and said hey there little lady….new year, same you, you sad sack of shit…. (Insert sad/annoyed emoji). Since January, I’ve been nothing but overthinking, and feeling. And ya’ll know I strongly dislike the idea of feeling, having feelings, caring for things etc. And overthinking brings on anxiety, and anxiety brings on thoughts that may or may not be true, which brings on more anxiety because I don’t know whether they are or not, which brings on sadness and utter defeat. I lose.

I’m not keeping track but I’ve probably cried at least 3 to 4 times a day, everyday since the new year. In the morning I cry, on my way to work I cry (sometimes at work I cry), my drive from work I cry and in bed I cry. I cry, I cry, I cry, like a big baby. I can’t control it. I’ve cried so much I am surprised my tear ducts haven’t dried up. Part of me thinks all this waterworks stuff has to do with me not crying or even having actual feelings for years and years. I was ‘dead’ inside then, now I am alive and it is so not worth it. Not even in the least bit.

I don’t want to be awake. Mostly I don’t want to be awake when I am alone. It’s a sad place to be. Don’t be alarmed, this is not to say I don’t want to exist, but I would rather be sleeping, just get lost in some sort of Slumberland, where I am not a depressed individual. Instead, I am Cait The Lovely! Who rides a unicorn and has a cotton candy bed!!! Unfortunately reality doesn’t allow for such pleasures.

sadpandaLately I have been leaving my house early for work. Sometimes 2 to 3 hours before work. I leave early because I don’t want to be home. I then find a place to grab a coffee, which I may or may not drink, and I drive around. Driving used to make me feel better. In some truth it still does. But I cry folks, I cry and cry and cry and before I know it I look like a panda. Mascara and eyeliner down my face, perhaps I look more like a sad mime, a disgruntled Beetlejuice, Morticia Addams, one of the Kardashians. Fuck, I don’t know, what ever I look like, well I am sure there is a meme out there somewhere for it.

I’m losing myself friends, I’m drowning in tears that are surely falling for ridiculous reasons. I’m lost in all this sappy and mushy shit. Emotions are exhausting, feelings are suffocating, and when they are placed inside my used-to-be hollow self… … …well, maybe I just shouldn’t wear make up anymore.

Ode To My Shower

Friends, I must let you in on a little secret. Well, fuck… whether it’s a secret or not doesn’t really matter, but ANYWAYS!

So as you guys know, I haven’t been the happiest camper the last while or so. I’ve been riding this wave of depression and severe anxiety for quite some time. Often, when sleeping doesn’t work, when being in the company of others fails to keep my mind occupied, I tend to take off all my clothes and run through the streets WE’RE GOING STREAKING!!! Ha! Only kidding folks, if only I had the gonads to do so.

Nah, what I usually do is put on some Whitney Houston, light a couple candles and hop in the shower….ALRIGHT, alright, this is bogus too. But I do jump in the shower and I often do sing ALL BY MYSELF!!!!!!!!!

For whatever reason I find comfort sitting in my shower, contemplating every possible thing I could ever contemplate. I often cry when I am in the shower, (I know big baby right.) I won’t even shampoo my hair, or shave or think to take advantage of my adjustable shower head (ladies you know what I mean). Instead, I just sit, cry, overthink, sometimes sing, write blogs in my head, overthink some more, cry some more, etc. etc.

The shower is comforting, the hot water soothes my body. Although I am all alone in a shower, butt-ass naked, sitting in the fetal position like a sad, little beefcake, I don’t feel so lonely. I just sit there, hot water tapping on me and before I know it, some time has gone by, and the water is now luke warm.

I go through phases. As mentioned before, I’ve riding this wave, and sometimes I land along the shore, sometimes I am pulled back out, perhaps in an undertow, I just never know, because I can’t control the ocean.

Lately, I’ve been having a lot of showers. Fack, my hydro bill is going to be huge!

Maybe it means I am psychotic. In fact, I would almost prefer to be psychotic, than be so melancholy all the time.

Today I had two showers. Which believe it or not,seeing as it was a day off for me I should have had about four. Towels flood my house, along with wet foot prints.

My shower is a calmness for me. It tames my love-sick feelings, it keeps my anxieties at bay, and although I still can tend to be sad while showering, my shower lets me. It wipes away my tears, and when I do choose to sing, the acoustics are…FAB U LOUS!!!

Shower, Thankyou.

Anothernotso…

Today the sun is shining friends, but alas for me…this is not so. I am in no high spirits today. Today is yet anothernotsogood day.

I am so sad my friends. Sad to the point I physically feel sick. I hurt deeply, I’m anxious, I’m on the verge of just wanting to not exist. Everything would be so simple to just not be, to not feel.

I took some of my medication this morning, I took more than I usually do because I just want to numb everything. I want to not think. I want to not feel. I would rather be indifferent and not be happy then be sad.

Just when I thought things were looking up, well it turns out I was looking up only because I was falling and falling down. In fact, I am still falling. I am looking up, but nothings there.

I’m eager to see my new psychiatrist. Not eager as in excited to meet the Doc, but eager because I really do need help. I need someone to talk to. I need someone to fix me. I am just a misfit toy- probably with some sort of recall on my label and I just need someone to bandage me up so I can be loved again.

I went to bed feeling anxious. Like something was coming and I wasn’t sure what, but I new it wasn’t good. I know I am a fuck up, I’m a mishap, I’m a mexican abortion waiting to happen, but I am trying. I suppose it’s hard because you can’t choose your feelings. This also means you can’t control them, just subdue them until you are under the false pre.tence of feeling better. I don’t feel better any more. My medication has worn off, I am only have a little left to get me through the next week until I meet my new psychiatrist. It’s almost worse sometimes, like coming off coke, coming off medication is terrible. All the feelings come rushing back.

It’s the beginning of a new year and already I am losing. Every year I say it’s going to get better and then my Hubris hits me sooner and harder and I fall, fall, fall. This say it has to be worse before it gets better. But I’ve been worse and worse and worse, that feeling better is on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 feeling the most optimum, I’m a 1 sometimes, a 2.

I have a coworker who every day we work together, he asks me how I am feeling. He knows mildly so about my obstacles, but he understands. He’s been in a similar spot at a time in his life, he listens, he knows it’s not easy, he knows that it does get better but it takes time. He always asks me on a scale of 1 to 10. I lie to him and say I am a 4. He reaffirms that a 4 is not good. I know this, especially since I am not really a 4, I am a maybe 2.

I’ve tried different techniques to make me feel better. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t. Before I would call my top 5. But when they don’t answer I get more worked up and unsettled. I’ve tried looking at objects I am surrounded by, I say what they are, I described them and I try to remember where I acquired them. Sometimes this works, but mostly no. Sleep for me works best. But at some point I wake up, and yet again all the feelings come back and I feel suffocated.

If I could flash forward 5 years, I would. If I could go to bed and wake up and it’s 2030, I would. I just don’t care about this world anymore, only the few individuals in it.

I feel sad for my Barrie. I look into his eyes and he knows something is wrong with his mommy. He knows I don’t feel so good, he knows I am sullen and I hurt. He tries to comfort me, but ultimately I am inconsolable. I feel disappointed in myself because he only has maybe 10 years of life left, and the first 3 I have been not so happy. He just sleeps when I sleep, which is as often as can possibly be.

I keep telling myself ‘I know things will get better,’ but in all truth of the matter, I don’t. I don’t know.