stayingaliveisnotenough

[stayingaliveisnotenough]

[stayingaliveisnotenough]

Without Tenderness, We Are in Hell

My eyes swell as you laugh and ask me, “Who cries?” I yell that I am not crying, and you start to whimper and crow like a baby whose bottle was ripped from their mouth, mid suck. This sucks. I know that if I wait just a little bit longer, you’ll fall asleep, the stench of cinnamon and liquor on your breath. It’s a wonder you’re able to process that much sugar and not be a diabetic.

I often wonder what life would be like if you got sober. I don’t know that it would be better. From the things I’ve done, and the things you’ve done... the unsunken guilt would rise up and gobble you whole. You’d either be depressed from the weight of it all, or angry at the thought of it all. I guess there’s the option that you learn to let it go, but I don’t think you’ll ever forgive me, because I know I don’t forgive you.

As I let the fat tears fall freely, you tell me how I’m ‘weird for even crying about that”. Do you know what gaslighting is? For someone who does it so freely and claims it’s a false human experience, I can only assume you are an antisocial narcissist. I’ve been around you and the DSM long enough to know something’s amiss. You play music loud, singing about “forget you, forget me”, “I’ll never fall in love”, and the songs that remind you of all of the negative things that have happened between us.

I try to leave the room for a moment, and open up the bathroom window for fresh air. I feel like I can’t get enough breath in, like I’m going to start hyperventilating. Then you yell from the other room, “Mommy’s being a weird baby. Big baby mom!” I curl my hands into fists and try to ground myself. I want to scream, or let out an animalistic growl of frustration. I AM TIRED. 

I wipe my tears, leave the bathroom, and I sit back down. Just a little bit longer and this hellish night will be over. You’ll lay down, I’ll scratch your head, and then the world will be quiet. I’ll still have to tiptoe through the house, put the dog away so his snoring wont wake you, make sure you have a blunt rolled so you wont wake me up in the middle of the night, clear off the living room table, and gently lay myself down on the couch next to you.

We have a top of the line mattress, and a beautiful comforter. A room in the back of the house, away from everything. Yet, you insist we sleep on the couch. You then proceed to wake me if anyone wakes you. If you have to be awake, I do too. There is no rest for me in this house. This house is not home. There is no home. Just this hell.

[stayingaliveisnotenough]

— Blue Iris, Mary Oliver   

[ text ID: Now that I’m free to be myself, who am I? ]

[stayingaliveisnotenough]

Staying Alive is Not Enough

I’m writing a book - a memoir. If you stumble on this, ALL HAIL THE SHITY FIRST DRAFT! I don’t know how active I will be, because I’ll inevitably forget, get in a slump, or just be too sad to give a shit. If you read any further posts, you’ll understand. Sometimes I’m drowning, consumed by my demons.

Anyways...

This is just where I feel safe uploading rough drafts, ideas, inspiration, etc. I want something I can access over all of my devices, and this seemed oh, so familiar, considering I spent years here on Tumblr until I “grew up” and joined Pinterest like all of the other moms.

Most of my posts will likely be written poorly, like I’m having a conversation. Things will be out of order, but I’ll try to sort them and leave a Table of Contents on a sidebar. I have to remember how to use this website now!