I go to bed every night thinking I’ve wasted another precious day. I wake up every morning thinking not another fucking day. That’s my routine. I wake up feeling crap, my eyes hurt, my head hurts and I never want to leave my bed. The things I used to enjoy no longer grab me. Nothing does. I don’t know if there’s any fight left in me. The tasks I would have to undertake to ever live a normal life seem insurmountable to me. Overwhelming. To achieve any of them, I would surely need the will to live. But I seem to have mislaid that shit.
I feel sad a lot. I hate myself a lot. And as always that loneliness doesn’t let up. Yet recently I’ve been avoiding any human contact.. I see I’m not helping myself.. But everything just feels so pointless. I haven’t left the house in ages.
On the most part, Dad is doing well. I’ve been avoiding thinking about his illness as much as I can. I’ve been avoiding everything as much as I can.
I hate that I keep hearing Dad on the phone telling people it is terminal. I don’t want to go there, it’s more than I can bear. When the dreadful time comes.. Unless some miracle happens in the near future.. I think I will have to check out too. God knows.
It might be OK if perhaps one thing had worked out in my pathetic life. Career? Friends who truly care? And oh love, the pièce de résistance. The thing I craved my entire life. Love. Not to mention children, who to me could only be a by-product of aforementioned love.
I believe I had a lot of love to give. I believe I might have been a good mother. I believe my life had so much promise once, all of which I wasted.
I long to wake up one day with a spring in my step and a renewed sense of hope. A new zest for living.
One can but dream..