I’m lost. If you’re giving up on me I understand. This is so much bigger than me. This set back has really set me back.
I finally feel that I no longer love him. It took over a year and a thousand lies from his lips, but I’m finally there. It doesn’t mean that I still don’t wish it all didn’t happen, however.
I’m humiliated beyond my ability to cope with it. I know intellectually that I’m better off alone than with him but I don’t want to be alone. I am not the type to aggressively go seek someone, however. I’ve never done that. I am telling you right now that singles groups and dating websites are 100% out.
A fellow chump on the Chump Lady website was saying that she is moving on, but this experience has forever changed her. She cannot ever imagine loving again. I’m that way too most days. But now and then I can fleetingly imagine loving again, but I don’t know who he is, what he looks like, how deep that love will be, or what it will feel like. Then I think I simply can’t imagine all the work involved in getting to know someone.
My brain jumps right to my worst fears. That I’ll be stuck here. My dad will eventually succumb to his COPD and I’ll be living with my mother, who is, I’m sorry to say, so much more fucked up than I could ever be.
Today my dad lay down for a nap. He does that a few times a week. My mom kept talking to me from the kitchen, unaware that he was in his room trying to nap. She walks by and says loudly, “Oh honey. I didn’t know you were trying to sleep.” She walks in and says, “Don’t you want a blanket on you?” He says, “No.” She says, “Oh come on. I’ll put it on you. I’ll take care of you. Shut up.”
Finally she leaves his room.
One minute later. “Did you give the dog her pill?”
Dad, softly, “Yes.”
One minute later. Mom is talking loudly to the other dog in the hallway just outside his door. “What’s wrong with you, Skippy? I can’t deal with you right now. I don’t have time for this.”
Dad, groggy, says, “What?”
“Nothing. He just needs to go out. I’ll have to take him out.”
There was actually one more motherfucking interruption and then I heard dad just get up. There was no point in trying to nap. My mother simply wouldn’t have it. Yet she’d never admit that she orchestrated that, that she’s actually resentful of him resting. She’s unkind. Oblivious. Rude. So fucking high strung.
I used to think that in her oblivion she still loved him, but now I firmly do not believe she loves him. She’s so full of resentment she’s only half a human being. If I thought I were like her, I surely would kill myself. Thankfully she’s oblivious to herself because she can NEVER EVER take criticism. Ever. Period. Oh, unless it’s from my brother. But no one else can ever, no matter how gently, criticize her.
Tonight while I watched the Doctor Who season finale she was in the other room watching the Duck football game. (U of O Ducks). I don’t know why, but she is fanatical about them. But if they don’t play well, or god forbid lose, her behavior is so vile that it causes me to feel this PTSD from my childhood. She’s screaming, “GET ‘EM! GET ‘EM!” in a really violent way. And then, I’m not exaggerating, she sounds as if she’s about to cry. Then she’ll put down individual players and curse at everyone. It’s simply ridiculous, and the intensity of it actually upsets me and makes my heart pound.
Dad says he hates football season because of it.
And she’s already completely wound up about the holidays, planning far more than she can take on or afford. Why does she have to ruin holidays every year? At what point is this fun for her?
I am so aware that I have no friends. I almost got together with a woman from the now disbanded local chump group but she got too busy before her vacation and we had to postpone. It would have been the first time I did anything socially in years. That is so pathetic.
I know I’ve said it a couple of times before, but I’m really going to try to get up tomorrow and go to church. I’m sure you wonder why, since I don’t even know if I’m religious or not. But I just feel I owe to myself to see if I can find comfort there. And as I’ve elaborated in the past, religion and I are not on the best terms. My mother traumatized me in that regard.
I went to an estate sale today and was walking through some recently dead man’s house and suddenly I felt so weary of the used stuff, the vintage stuff. I felt disgusted by it and wanted to be rid of it. I don’t want to be on that search, always alone and pathetic. But I realized that was mostly my acute depression talking. I generally do enjoy the hunt. But not estate sales. No deals to be found there.
I just transferred another $200 into my bank account. You can’t imagine the temptation to go buy myself a new stylish coat or expensive winter boots, but I keep saying, ‘it’s for my lawyer, daughter, parents. Keep selling.’ So I will try to keep selling.
But I still hold a tiny bit of hope that someday I can order the new things that I want to be selling to the masses, rather than the one vintage thing here and there.
I’m going to quit rambling now. Hopefully I’ll get up and go to church. Even if I don’t go again, I want to go tomorrow.
Hope is in such short supply these days. I am so weary of that. But then I think of people who have it so much worse than I do and I just keep putting one foot in front of the other (more or less).