Can't Do It

I'm sorry, everyone.

I can't post for a little while.

As great as this morning was, and even though this afternoon wasn't too terrible, this evening has just been hell for me, emotionally.

I don't like to talk about what's happened in my life over the last... Oh my God, it's been 19 months since my life went to hell in a fucking hand basket. I didn't think it was that long.

...

That didn't make me feel any better...

Continuing on. I don't like to talk about it. It hurts. A lot.

As tough as I am, and fuck you I'm a tough motherfucking woman, it's really hard not to get upset.

A friend of mine, whom I haven't spoken to in about two years, finally regained internet. He decided to send me a message, asking me how I was and such. I told him a little, and of course, he prodded. And prodded. And prodded.

Fuck me sideways, I'm a fucking wreck.

I've been lied to, I've been used, I've been emotionally smacked with a nailboard, I've been physically dragged through the ringer, I've been homeless a couple times WITH AN INFANT, I've been blackmailed, I've been forced to hand my son to a complete lunatic for 10-16 hours every day because his father thought she'd be a good fucking babysitter, I've had almost every possession I owned taken from me, I've had my mental stability questioned by bosses, I've had a gun pulled on me and my son...

I don't know how much longer I can take Life's shit without getting all up in it's grill and choking a ho.

I have nobody I can talk to without feeling like I'm whining or wasting their time, other than a woman I have to pay to talk to. And even then, I can't pay her because I'm so terrified of leaving my son for more than an hour now, I can't go out and get a job. The state pays her.

I feel like a complete failure right now, and the more I try to convince myself otherwise, the worse I feel.

The Sound is so loud, I want it to stop...

I don't know how long it's going to take me to calm this panic attack down. I think it's a panic attack, anyway. I can't breathe, I can't stop my eyes from spurting out liquid (fuck you, Tasha Does Not Cry), I can't stop fidgeting. I'm pretty much typing to keep my fingers busy, because when I stop typing, I start pulling on my sleeves or stabbing my palms with what lack of fingernails I have left. I try to keep them filed down so I don't accidentally nick Danny, which has happened, but they grow so fast... His do, too. It must be hereditary. His hair grows abnormally fast as well. He's already had two haircuts, and now I have to get his hair cut again, though I want to wait for that blasted helmet to officially be off so I don't feel like I'm wasting money I don't have because I don't fucking have anything left anymore.

Do you have any idea how it feels to know you're just barely able to take care of your own child?

Do you?

Do you know what it's like to be raised on the mantra, "You're tough, you're strong, you're worthless, you're weak"?

That definitely doesn't make sense in a sane light.

That's exactly how my parents were.

Dad tried hard to teach me to be a fighter, to keep pushing on even when the world was bleak.

Mom tried hard to break me of every tough fiber I had.

It was a very conflicting household.

Even more so now, when I have to ask for help because I can't do something on my own, I feel like it's worse because nobody's saying it.

Nobody will tell me I'm a failure.

Nobody will tell me I'm not cut out for this.

Nobody will tell me I'm too far gone.

Nobody will tell me I'm not a good mother.

Why can't anybody just tell me the fucking truth for a fucking change?

I already know the truth; I know I'm a terrible person, a horrible mother, a worthless child, a sorry friend.

WHY CAN'T ANYBODY JUST SAY IT?

I'm tired of hearing the fluff. I'm tired of lies.

I'm even more tired of excuses.

From myself, and others.

If I have to listen to James rant one more time about how NOTHING that happened to US was HIS fault, I swear I will slit his throat in his fucking sleep.

So it was my fault he called me ugly?

It was my fault he refused to work?

It was my fault the baby wouldn't let me eat?

It was my fault he went back to the woman he swore he'd never touch again?

It was my fault that same woman has essentially admitted she doesn't care about him?

It was my fault he left his son when we needed him most?

It was my fault the woman he chose to watch our son nearly snapped his neck on several occasions?

... To be fair, I only recently learned about this through her then-fiance.

But there was no damage done, so there's no proof.

Now I'm stuck living with the guilt of everything I've fought so hard for. I'm stuck here, in total isolation, feeling like a freak on display living with a man who can't tell left from China and a woman who is so fierce in her man-hating ways I'm too scared to talk about my problems, lest she goes on about what she dealt with.

My aunt went through some fucked up shit, herself.

And I don't want to make her think I'm trying to downplay her own issues, so I try HARD AS HELL not to let her see these kinds of things, what I'm telling you.

Who the fuck cares if I tell you?

You're the Internet.

What're you gonna do, look up Tasha Elaine Jones in Eagan, Minnesota?

Have fun with that. I'm a hard bitch to find, even with that.

See, this is why I miss Jordan. He kind of knows what I've gone through, what I'm going through. I've explained a little. Not to this extent, though. But he's empathetic and kind and funny and he was a really good distraction the last time I started to get like this.

I didn't get this bad last time.

I haven't been this bad in a while.

I wish I could make the Sound stop the way I used to, without risking someone trying to take Danny away...

I can't lose my Danny.

I will go apeshit in this bitch.

And I'll probably go to jail, because there will be dead bodies.

Many dead bodies.

I love my little guy to bits. I can't stand the thought of losing him. Even when our lives were in danger, I did everything I could to keep him safe.

I spent a week in my room that night, after sending him to stay with James because I knew I couldn't handle myself for a while, and we had to get out.

I didn't leave my bed, other than to, y'know, use the bathroom and get a glass of water. Didn't eat, barely slept, didn't talk, quit my job. It wasn't until James' sister Penny came barging into our apartment, threw open my door and ripped my melancholy ass out of bed that I saw the outside world again.

I got screamed at for a good... hour? Two hours? I don't even know.

Stuff about how I had to stop being depressed, how I had to figure shit out for my son, blahblahblahstuffnstuffnthings. I wasn't entirely listening. I wasn't entirely there.

Am I even here now?

Honestly, I don't even know anymore.

I hurt. I've hurt for a long time. I hurt and I can't make the Sound stop anymore.

Solitude is desolating, the cacophony a shriek among the hum of a computer tower.

...

Fuck this shit, I need some cancer.