still

I am trying not to be still. Still jobless. Still loveless. Still here with no purpose or direction. Still lonely. Still hurt. Still sad. Still me.

trash

This last week I am putting behind me. I can’t even finish a draft about all that happened. Let’s just say I am an expert when it comes to making an ass of myself.

monday interview

Tomorrow I have an interview in Jackson. I spent this morning washing my hair and clothes, only to have all of that ruined by my mother. She decided to fry fish indoors. Now the entire house smells. My interview clothes smell. I can’t toss them in the dryer with some snuggle sheets because she has clothes in there now. I took the rollers out of my hair (my sister put them there, despite her knowing I hate curls in my hair), and wrapped my hair as tight as I could. Am I going to have febreeze my hair in the morning? Let’s hope not. I will leave here as soon as my unemployment check deposits so I can go and put gas in the car and hit the road. I am hoping tomorrow isn’t the day it deposits at 10:30 instead of 9am. I have to be on the road by 9:30, and I do not like calling potential employers to tell them I may be a few minutes late. I always try to arrive an hour before hand so I can find a place to fuss over myself in peace and make sure I look and smell like someone they’d want to hire.

Lucky for me, thanks to some artful twittering,I was offered a discount card that would get me 2 for 1 drinks at a very nice restaurant in Jackson that I’ve always wanted to visit. They are arranging for me to pick it up after my interview. My own private means of calming the hell down afterwards and before I head down the long road back home. I would love to spend the night, but that will not happen. I forever have ‘country girl in the city” syndrome, and every time I visit a city I want to go to every place I read and hear about. I could list 20 such places now.

Out of my donation post, a friend sent me $10, but I just realize my bank account is overdrawn still, so that will just cover part of the fees there. It is appreciated regardless. I expected my mother to at least offer to fill my gas tank like before, but she has shown zero interest in this interview, because it isn’t something she wants me to do. It isn’t a ‘you could do so much better and deserve better than that’ mindset. It is more like ‘you aren’t making the money I want you to make so I can tell my fake friends about how successful you are in comparison to their own children’ kind of feeling. She is that damn petty. Again, I hate asking them for anything, because in doing so, you would think I was asking for their last functioning kidney.

I am so up in the air about this interview as well. I want it and then again, I don’t want it. I have a feeling about it. Perhaps that feeling means a change is coming. What kind and for what good is unknown at this time. Everyone knows why I wanted to move to Jackson in the first place. I have since decided to stop day dreaming about things that will never happen, and seek my happiness elsewhere. Maybe I am not worried because I am worrying about a friend. Or worrying about making a new future for myself. Something is just so ‘off’. So very off. Scary off.

Well again, good luck to myself, I am sure I will shine. I always believe I do well with these things, plus I will be interviewing for more than one position, so the odds are with me I hope.

Lastly, if anyone cares to western union me a few dollars, I would appreciate it. Leave a comment with your email, and I will respond. I am not running a scam, I am just a girl who needs a hand up right now.

edit to add:
i forgot to print my application for this job, so when i go to do so we are out of ink and i panic. no one i know who can help me lives close by. i called my nephew to go to his dad’s and print it and he took his time answering my texts and calls, and when he does, he is high. had the nerve to ask me what the hell he expected me to do.

i told him if he ever in his life spoke to me like that again i would fucking end him. everyone else is snowed and scared to deal with him, but i am not, and he best believe i know how to do it. i hung up. i left the house.

there is something bad in the air. i better be careful driving tomorrow.

Thank you

An awesome old friend of mine, despite her own issues in life and trying to save for a wedding, sent me a token of love. Her kindness will be paid forward somehow and hopefully soon.

Please see the donation post from a few days ago for more info.

Again, thank you.

emotionally out to lunch

I said today that I would no longer make myself emotionally available to those who could not do the same for me. I woke up weary and hurt thinking of how much I put into others with nothing to gain. Not even a ‘hello, how have you been?” Yet, I am expected to be there for every call or text.

No. I’m not doing it anymore. My list of those that I’d let into my circle ever is so short, I could count it on 3 fingers. Maybe even just 2.

1

There is one person that always understood. One person who never judged me. One person who spoke the truth when I needed to hear it. One person who knows me. One. I hope he knows how much he is appreciated, even beyond the years between us. I still see that last night, where I cried so hard and deep that I couldn’t crank the car to drive away. My world shattered into a million pieces. Yet he is still my rock, and I try to be his, because we are both going through this hell it seems. We both deserve an out.

the game

All week I’ve had questions in my head that I can no longer attempt to answer.

All week I’ve told people to be true to themselves. Stop lying to people. Stop putting up with the things people throw at you. Take chances when they arise. Make your own fate. Dare to do whatever you want and damn the consequences. Listen to your heart. Listen to your gut. Your dreams can tell you so much. A stranger can tell you better than your own best friend at times. Careful what people you cut from your life too soon. Careful what people you let into your heart too soon as well.

All that shit. I probably heard it on a TV show. Read it in a novel. On a billboard.

I’m tired of these words. They don’t mean anything to me. I’ve tried to live by them all and look at where I am today. A statistic that I used to laugh at in my younger days. I could laugh now if it weren’t so stupidly pathetic. Karma.

Life is just a game that everyone scrambles so damn hard to play. Well in college, I lost my pieces. After graduation, I did not know all of the rules. In love, I missed my turn multiple times and flipped over the board, never expecting to play that again. Career wise, I had to jump three spaces back, again and again.

Well, I don’t want to play anymore. It isn’t that I feel sorry for myself, I just realize and accept my failures. Everyday, I try to fix those missteps, I try to move carefully forward. Sometimes on my own. Sometimes, but reluctantly, with help. That still means that I have to play the game again. I don’t want to, not unless I can cheat this time.

I’m just simply no good at it.

After 30 years, I hope you have better luck at it than I have. Let me know who the real winner is.

Someone told me that the past is practice. Well, when am I supposed to get the present and future right? A friend told me last night that I should be the one to be rescued for once. Stop dispensing advice and what not.

I don’t want to be rescued.

I just want to be content. I want to be happy and comfortable in my own skin, in my own space. I want friends. I want love. I want things so many people take for granted and squander away. Things they collect while they play this game and toss aside when they move to the next space. Simple little things.

I do not think a lot people can comprehend what that means for me. I do not think a lot of people care. Empathy isn’t caring.

crying on the exam table

Well, almost. I held back as much as I could as the practitioner came in to see me. I suppose I made her nervous with my talk of nightmares, most of the waking variety, job loss, racing hearts, chronic infection and pain of one part of my body or another, and insanity that I live in on a day to day basis. She smiled at me, paused, nodded her head and told me to wait there for a second.

She came back with my actual doctor, who proceeded to tell me that my troubles would be resolved once I decided to just go back to school, like his kids have. Loans aren’t expensive at all, why, he pays theirs off in 2 to 3 years. Boy, that Jr., he is a pistol. My daughter wants to be a vet, but you know kids. They achieved so much, how could I deny them.

At this point I squeezed out a small tear. He then dared to ask if I were still depressed and possibly suffering from PTSD after many many years. He was the one who gave me zoloft after my first boyfriend died in the crash. He foolishly relates of my troubles to this.

Despite the odd visit, it was brief, and I got what I came for. Xanax for anxiety. Trazodone to make me sleep. Or vise versa. The rate at which he wants me to take both is alarming, so I will self medicate as needed. No need for me to drool AND sit around all day.

This evening, for no unknown reason, I decided to let facebook go for a while. I was going to disable it, but I couldn’t trust that all of my contacts and pages would still be there when I returned. So I left a message and removed the bookmark. I also deleted 95% of the information on my fetlife profile. I hate that place. It serves no purpose but to remind me that I can not be in a normal relationship. Perhaps if I turned into a prude, life would become so much easier for me.

What’s up Doc?

I am oddly thrilled to be going to the doctor Monday. He is my gastroenterologist, but he holds the power to issue me pills.

Glorious pills which will hopefully stop the anxiety.

The constant worry and self doubt.

Eliminate that feeling I get as if eyes are upon me.

That feeling that sends chills down my spine. No more second guessing.

No more tears.

I can not go another day in tears.

I need a pill for the heartache.

I want to not fantasize about death.

I just want to breathe again and put it all behind me.

I want to have focus and direction.

I want to see a thought and action to completion.

I want to care what I look like.

I want to sleep the entire night without hideous dreams that leave me either afraid or longing for things I can not have.

Turn me into a drone, into anything, if that is what it takes to be ‘normal’ again.

booked

I do not know Brian McKnight, nor am I a fan of his music, so nothing he does should effect me. However, his concert, combined with the appearance of Englebert Humperdink this weekend has managed to sell out all hotels within 30mi of Biloxi.

When a friend tells you, “find a room, we’re gonna party like rockstars bia, its all on me!”, you find a room and quick. You don’t ask questions. You just hydrate and pray you’ll remember the night.

Unfortunately, not even ‘The Shat’ can save me it seems. Sorry Priceline Negotiator. We’re doomed.

So thanks Brian. Englebert. Thanks a lot!

wish

i wish i could hold my breath and just stop.

danger. danger.

I’m that lonely chic at the bar that you mistakenly say hello to. I have stories to tell that draw you in and make you want to sit closer to me. My eyes will make you want to dig dipper for something you can’t put your finger on. Before you know it, you are wishing me all of the luck in the world. You want me to succeed. You want me to do all of things you took for granted. You buy me drink after drink because you can’t resist. You don’t want me to stop talking. My face is too beautiful. My soul is too deep. Yes, give me $20, just because you want me to treat myself. No, I’ll never tell anyone you were there. I’ll keep your secrets. Trust in me. The lone succubus sent here to make you feel like a man. That thing I told you I could do with my tongue, go home and find a way to convince your wife to do it  to you. I’m just fuel for fantasies.

saturday

The highlight of my Saturday nights comes when postsecret updates. I know then that I can stop waiting on something interesting to happen and just go to bed.

Thanks to a thief, I am trapped indoors until Wednesday. I don’t have any gas in the car and I will not make the mistake of asking my mother to lend me $20 to get more. I suspect by Tuesday morning, I will have torn all of my hair out and set something vital on fire. I can’t even drive to the beach and sit for a while like I usually do after sunset.

Perhaps the theft is all my fault. I invite tragedy by questioning the cosmos. “What’s going to happen now?” I say, then I get Godsmacked. This has been another long week that I need to put behind me.

I read ‘The Help’ in two days. I hated it. It was too sugary for me.

I need to figure out if my unemployment extension will be automatic or if I have file for it. 5 more weeks left before my initial benefit is used up. If they cut me off I do not know what will happen to me. Everyone has a suggestion as to what I need to or should be doing. Those suggestions just don’t work for me. I don’t want to join the Peace Corps, or become a teacher, or learn to weld. Those things don’t suit me. It gets worse when people tell me to find my passion and work with that. I have no passion.

I have fleeting moments of intense and focused interest.

Today it may be photography, tomorrow helping people find fair housing, psychology, building websites, writing bad prose, real estate, computer science. I have no real dedication. Where is the job for someone who needs to be pushed in a certain direction? Just tell me what you want me to do and hand me a check when I am done.

Hmm, maybe I should have been a sex worker.

music gets me through

Music compels me. It drives my emotions. A song, a note, a  beat, will stir things inside of me that I have tried so long and hard to push out and away. Few songs in this world will immediately drive me to tears. I know them, and try  my best to avoid them. Without fail they send me into a spiral that may take days to recover from, yet as soon as I hear those key notes, I am hooked. I am owned. Overpowered.

I haven’t listened to this track in a year. The last time I played it, I found myself sitting on the grave of my first love. He treated me like no other. He endulged my every whim. He strived to make me happy. I was young and naive and he was all I knew. I remember the day I learned he died. I was at home from college. I woke that sunday morning with thoughts of seeing him before I hit the road to Hattiesburg. We kept our relationship a secret. He was white, I was black, we didn’t think our families would take to the notion too kindly. I was 19 years old, he was the first boy I ever kissed. The first boy who ever paid me any attention. He bought me flowers, baked me a cake for my birthday, wiped my tears away when I left home for college the first time. Held me  so tight that I couldn’t breathe and told me to be brave and do well. Told me I was his world. That life was couldn’t be hard if we were together.

I wanted to see him as soon as my eyes opened that morning. I was on high. I would kiss him goodbye and see him later that week when  he would sneak away to come to me. I didn’t think anything much of the phone call that brought me out of my sleep earlier that morning. The call my mother answered. I didn’t think anything was unusual about a call so early in the morning that it would wake her from bed. As I left my room, washed my face, prepared to leave again I saw her. She came to me in the hallway and asked me plainly if I knew someone named Anthony. At that moment I knew. My heart shattered. I fell to my knees before she could say anything. He wouldn’t call my house and speak to her. She NEVER knew his name. His mother was the one who called that morning, seeking me out, to tell me he was dead, but my mother was the one to recieve the news.

She didn’t know what to do or why I was hysterical. Sobbing on the floor. Clutching my chest. Trying to breathe. She hadn’t uttered the words and I knew, it was all over her face. The only thing on this earth that I loved and loved me had crashed into a tree in the dead of night and died she said. She picked me up off the floor. I saw the confusion on her face. She never knew I had someone in my life like that and did not know what to do. She put me in bed and called my sister over. I remember cool towels wiping my face. I remember people telling me to breathe. To let them take me to his mother’s house. Just come out of my room. I heard nothing but the sound of his voice the night before, wishing me sweet dreams and telling me how much he wanted to hug and kiss me goodbye. I died that day over a decade ago. I broke forever that day.

I never went to his mothers house. I packed my bags and went back to school that afternoon. My best friend did not know how to console me, being young herself and never having to deal with death. She didn’t understand my relationship. He was just the guy who would bring drinks for her whenever he visited, because she was a room mate, my best friend.

I never came home to his funeral. I sent a letter that I wrote for him alone for his mother to tuck into his coat before they buried him. I sent her rosary to pray.

This stupid song brings those memories back. I associate every heartache in my life with this song and it all leads back to him. Because no one has been able to make me feel hopelessly wanted and needed like he  did. For months my  mother tried to paint him in a bad light. She tried to tell me he was a scoundrel with a record who couldn’t possibly care. That was her way of trying to bring me out of the hole I buried myself in. She never knew that every time I came home for the next year I would go to the graveyard and lay on top of his grave. How I would cry and cry for him. How I would scream to sky and curse God for what he did. No one knew.

This was the first time I ever went to a doctor for emotional distress. My mother tricked me into going. I remember sitting on the exam table, thinking this was a routine check up for my affliction. The doctor then asked if I had been depressed due to a recent passing. I remember looking at my mother, who looked away from me, studying the diagrams on the wall. I could barely hear him talk about things like ‘post traumatic stress disorder’ and ‘grieving’. I remember the prescription for zoloft he gave her. I remember taking the first pills. I went through the motions. It never solved a thing. So began my downward spiral into depression. This was  the birth of my battle with borederline personality disorder. Abandonment.

Eventually things were pushed aside. Enough people bad talked him and me for feeling so bad that I pushed those feelings down. I rebounded with someone who I spent six years of my life with, hoping to get those feelings back, but they never came. Everyone after him did not measure up, and the one person I felt that could trump that, broke my heart just the same, if not worse. Now I expect anyone I  feel for to leave me. To suddenly not be there anymore. To be a ghost at a moments notice.

I still visit his grave at times. Now mostly when my heart has been broken. I ask him it hurts so much. Why he had to leave me? Why can’t he send someone to love me like he did. I get no answers. Just the wind and the sound of cars passing by. Sometimes he will come to me in a dream when I am stressed beyond belief. He holds me. He never says a word. Iwake up with his name on my lips and the feeling that was physically next to me. I try to shrug it off and go on with my day. I never say anything. I try  not to be angry that I couldn’t hold onto him.

This stupid song, with its sad chords that pulls these emotions deep from my gut before seizing my heart and mind. I try to avoid the track.  I skip it, but if I hear that beat, it is already too late. I am lost in memories I do not need. I do not want. I do not want to feel this hurt ever again, yet it remains constant and unyielding. Now I have a new name to associate these feelings with. He isn’t dead. He is in my point of view every day. There to talk to. There to share with. There whenever I need a fried, yet so far away. I want to stop loving him, but I can’t. So the hurt continues. It burns so much. I can’t explain it. I feel as if I am the one dying this time.

If I never hear these sounds again, I would be a happy woman. I have written about this often. Tried to discuss it in therapy. This is the one event in my life that has brought me to the place I am in today. I will never be over it. I will never let it go.

bonus:

the ‘my mind is wandering/figuring shit out’ song

naturally

Well, my plans for going to new orleans just went up in smoke. I knew better than to get excited about it.

Plus, someone broke into my car. Stole my license and my eppi card that I use to get my unemployment on. Fortunately, there was only $3 left on it. Lucky me.

new orleans

I may be able to get away to New Orleans for the weekend with a friend of mine who is driving down with her co-workers to do the ‘first time tourist’ thing with them.

1. If I can find $100 to $150 for gas, parking, and food. Yeah, that’s stretching it really thin.

2. If I can find some place to park that isn’t $30 a day.

I just paid my car insurance bill and have $8 in my pocket. I don’t know if I can pull this off without begging or borrowing. I have until Friday to figure something out.  I need this weekend, badly.

In other news, it rained for 2 days straight. The sun has decided to punish us all with its cruels 115 heat index. To hell with that fireball.

I also had an interview today. I feel it went well, but then again, I feel all of my interviews go well.

I am also looking for new bloggers to connect with. By that, I mean with people who actually read my nonsense here and have a thought or two to share. All of my connections are online. Again, I live vicariously.

medicated

I have a possible appointment with my doctor soon. Hopefully, he can medicate me into oblivion. Maybe then I can better ignore this restless stirring I go through nightly. Anything to stop me from knowing how much of life I am missing out on.

Sushi makes me happy

Lost my soul there, down by the sea…

tick tock

 

Nothing like waking up and facing the fact that you have nothing to do. No place to go. No friends who want your company. Nothing.

I am horribly restless to the point of tears. Literal tears. I sit here, wishing my mother wasn’t so deaf as to annoy me with the television turned up so loud that my closed bedroom door can’t shut out the sound. Angry that my windshield is cracked and the  Mississippi sun is causing it to spread. Mad that my laundry isn’t done. Mad that I haven’t lost any weight, but gained 2lbs this week. Mad. Mad. Mad.

It is days like this where I realize how little direction I have in my life.  How I’ve somehow become some sad statistic. 30. Jobless. Living with my parent. My ambition limited by the lack of resources and this horrible economy. My mental state is in constant fight or flight mode. Everyday I debate getting into my car with enough clothes to last a week and just driving away until I can’t drive anymore. That is until I remember that I wouldn’t get far on the $10 I have in my pocket at the money or the 1.43 gallon of gas left in my tank.

All of this compounded by the fact that people I know fall into two categories when it comes to giving me advise. There are those who tell me to be grateful that I have a roof over my head and food to eat. That I should be happy I do not have mouths to feed besides my own and that trouble don’t last always. Then there are those who tell me I am afraid to leave this place for something more. Or that I can somehow magically change my circumstances by being Mary Sunshine and allowing good things to come my way. Every time I hear these things, there is an anger that brews in me so boiling hot that it could melt the paint off of the walls. It is so easy to tell people how they should think or feel about things when you are comfortable in your life or with your success.

Honestly, if it were that easy, would I be here? I realize how much my being stuck is my fault. I realize how much of my being stuck is due to happenings beyond my control. It seems no matter what I plan to do to escape here, something happens which puts me behind in my goals or eliminates any possibility of completing it altogether. I can’t find balance. I can’t find control.

Sometimes I think I am being punished for something I did in a past life. If there is a God, maybe I am one of his many punching bags. A tragic nothing placed here solely for the amusement of the divine.

Regardless, I am tired of cycling through these feelings. Everyday I wake and I am annoyed by this situation more and more. I have been out of work since February this year. Due to the increasing insanity that is my mother’s personality around that time, I was convinced that it is finally time to leave, but by then it was too late. How far can I go without money? Apparently, I do not have the job skills necessary to work anyplace. I laugh and cry at the rejection notices and calls I get on a daily basis. I can’t even get a job at a pizza hut. I can’t even get a job at the local McDonald’s. I worked for years as a federal employee and I can’t even find work sweeping floors.

I beg people to help me find work but it doesn’t help. I have to beg people for everything, yet they come to me asking for the world and I stupidly give them my time and attention. I can never get ahead this way. I fear I will never get ahead at all. I can hear that demon whispering in my ear, that I should settle here and forget about any happiness. Forever tied to dysfunction and the mundane. It has gotten to the point where I just want to shut down all social contacts. Close facebook. Close twitter. I do not like the constant reminders that others have a life. Yet, I am afraid to cut all ties. I am lonely enough as it is.

Trapped. Surrounded on all sides. That is how I feel every day. That is what brings me to tears right now. I am tired of being trapped.

You know you’re in the south when…

 

We make our own tho’

 

poboys come overstuffed only

Vicariously I live

I hate it when people state the obvious to me. I know I joke about living vicariously through others, but there is a bit of truth to it. I do not live in an interesting place. I do not have close friends who seek my company or even make themselves available to me. I like fine food and unique places to drink an be social. Where I live right now has none of these things. So if I get giddy about this awesome lounge you found with sultry jazz music, and I ask you to tell me more, don’t throw it back on my face. Don’t pooh over me wanting to know about your big trips. Don’t tell me not to live vicariously through you when you know that for me your grass is always greener. Don’t make me feel small over wanting to have what you have. Don’t mock me because I dream due to being unable to “do”. Don’t be an ass.

This why you’re fat

the hell?

4th of July:

1. Grandpa got upset with me because I told him I am tired of my mother’s temper tantrums and if she wants some damn BBQ she needs to get off of self rightous ass and come over to get it. She plays on sympathy and manipulates him to much. She has him coming across town to bring her food every other day because she doesn’t want to communicate with my grandmother. I told him she isn’t an invalid and I’m not her gopher. 20 minutes later he delivered her ribs to the house. Fuck that.

2. Some asshole, mostly likely one of my crackhead uncles, stole $15 from me.

3. Went to the park to watch the fireworks, trapped in traffic for 30 minutes.

4. I’m home, spending yet another night alone. At least I have some Hennessy.

5. I’m just fucking mad at the world and I’m sure this is going to be the beginning of a spiraling week of shit and more shit.

ETA:

6. Chased geico around bathroom and den for 20 min. Killed said geico with bugspray and broom. Lungs hurt from overdose of bugspray.

boom boom

Is the sound of exploding chemicals in air. I am at home and can hear the percussion from the fireworks at the beach miles away. Each sound is pulling me deeper into a place I do not want to go tonight. Another sunday night and that familiar loneliness is creeping in.  I had spent the entire day with my sister, being her grill slave master. Pleasure is standing over a hot grill, tucked into the corner or a bricked porch, with the sun tracking westward and beaming down on you with all of its fiery might. Humidity came for a visit as well. All of this has left me hot and smelling of pork, sauce, and smoke. Despite the misery I was distracted.

Now that I have nothing to occupy my time, my mind wanders on. I think how nice it would be to have my own place again. To have a guy again. To be quietly nestled onto the sofa and talking about all things nerd and life. Then I remind myself that it has been too long since I’ve had that sort of contact and communication. I wouldn’t know what to do.

It reminds me of my recent obsession with the ‘missed connections’ section of craigslist. I go there, click on m4w, and pray someone out there posts looking for me. Then I remember it could never happen, because I am so closed into my own world when I  venture out of the house, that I do not take notice of anyone. I literally can say I’ve never caught a guy looking at me from across the way, our eyes lock, and some quiet rip in space and time occurs. So I close the screen and come back another  day with hope. I guess I just want to be noticed. I want to matter. I want to be seen in a positive light by someone, but it can’t happen. I can’t even see myself in the same light and that is reflected on my stoic face and extra fluffy body. It is a mad circle that I can’t seem to break.

I guess I should focus on things that I need to do this week. Paying bills mostly. I need to schedule an appointment with my doctor for a check up. Mostly, I just want to see what kind of drugs he can put me on again. It has been well over a year since I’ve been medicated, and with my unemployment and family issues, I am really starting up a glorious breakdown.  I need meds to help me sleep. I want ambien, but the chances of getting it are slim. The same with xanax for my panic attacks. I do not know what to say in order to secure the meds I want to take. I suppose I will also give lamictal a try again. My previous psychiatrist wanted me on seroquel and lithium, but I can’t commit to the constant blood tests.

the list

So much I need to do. So little motivation to do it.

Often I feel that if I could just scratch one or two things off my big list, then other things will fall into place.  I need to clean, exercise, research. It is just so much easier to lay in bed, surf job boards, and nap. My body craves naps, and despite my protest, I often find myself waking up from involuntary, 2 hour, late afternoon naps. Then I spend another hour trying to wake up while kicking myself for wasting away the day. Is this what happens  to people when they do not have a job to occupy their time?

 

I just want to get one thing done this week. Just one.

 

But I am sleepy now…

Tuesday Night

Have I stated that I hate where I live? South Mississippi, born, raised, and shackled.

A southern port city nudged against a violent yet somewhat picturesque river city. The sort of place where 80% of the population works for one or two of the major employers here and have been since they left high school 30 years ago. The young ones fall into neat categories. Crackheads. Spoiled Rich Kids. Baby Mama’s. There is a fine niche of people who struggle to break free of the choke hold this place can place upon you. Through education or athletics mostly, but there are those who simply will not accept the status quo and somehow manage to leave and not look back. I’ve been struggling to join that small group for so long.

Nothing reminds me more of that struggle than taking a drive around town in hopes of finding someplace to settle for a few hours and have a drink. The one chain restaurant bar I used to frequent has now bored me to tears. The entire staff knows me and the patrons are all old enough to be my grandfather. They buy me drinks in hopes for some sort of sick exchange of affection or a touch. I decided one day to venture to the bar across the street, where I was met with more of the same. This time however I fully believe this stranger decided that since he bought me a $3 taco, that entitled him to a blowjob.

I drive miles to the nicer towns where there are more bars, pubs, and restaurants suited for someone my age…yet there I tend to run into more people that I can’t relate too. Plus, I don’t care how post racial this country claims to be now, but being the only black person in a bar is getting to be tiresome. Again, if someone talks to me it is in hopes of some NSA action.

I do not consider myself unfriendly and talk to anyone who is within earshot. I guess I am peeved at having a group of people actually get up and move to the other end of the bar after I sat next to them. It sadly reminds me that I am still in Mississippi, where diversity is still a budding concept, no matter how you view the world.

Even as I try to gloss over these little things, I just can’t have a good time. I am not content where I am. Anyone from out of town who meets me assumes I am from someplace else. This little piece of the Gulf isn’t meant for this fat foodie who can drink whiskey shots one night and sip on pinot noir the next, because I am a fucking classy southern belle. I like music that isn’t southern rock or country, but techno, jazz, industrial noise if the mood strikes me. I like to have conversations about anything that doesn’t involve someone’s fishing trip or what amazingly mundane thing their 3 year old did that day. I want to travel someplace further than New Orleans (which shall always be my secret love) or Pensacola. I have always fancied myself as someone better suited for a grimy metro life. I can’t have that here.

I am 30, single, and fighting to find my place.

 

ill

Another soon to be blistering hot day is upon us. There isn’t a merciful cloud in the sky. I am not feeling very well this morning. I am in the beginning stages of a flare up. My stomach hurts and I am very irritable. Not to mention disgustingly gassy. Chron’s isn’t a fun disease to have at all, yet I can say I am very disappointed that it has not caused me to lose any massive amount of weight. Still packing the extreme chub.I need my medicine, but I can not get it until my sister forges papers saying that I passed a TB test later this week.  I can’t afford to go to a lab or even the health department for testing. I can’t spare $25, how is that for poor?

 

I’ll just lay here in bed and fantasize about all of the delicious food I wish I could eat, but can’t.

 

Meanwhile, last week was so full of drama, yet I can not seem to sum it up properly to add to here. There was surgery, family spats, the ex, cramps, etc. Sometimes even I get tired of hearing about this nonsense, so it becomes difficult to put it into text form.

scattered

Yet another Sunday is here and it has been an emotionally charged week for me yet again. I really do not know where my head is at today, outside of needing to clean up and work on my resumes. I feel like I have no purpose other than to sleep, eat, read job boards, and repeat. I am definitely stressed, as I am beginning to have another flare up of my chron’s and it is getting painfully gassy right now.  I have all the desire in the world to get out and DO something, but I can’t. No money. No companions. I feel like experience is pointless unless you have someone to share it with. I need to do something besides sit in front of this screen and trying to avoid all contact with my mother, who is cycling herself and turning this house into a sad cave of sad sadness.

I don’t know what to do today. Aimless. Restless. It is too hot to even go for a ride. I have $3 to my name. I am stuck yet again.

sunday

Another Sunday. Every Sunday I think about putting pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, and letting my words flow. Problem is, I can not concentrate on what words I want to share. What feelings need to be expressed? Should I write about what is causing my anxiety today? About the dream I had last night that I wish would leave me now? Do I write about my boredom? Do I write about how I sit and fantasize about the things I could be doing, just to pass the time?

See, the problem with Sunday is that every emotion and thought from the past week seems to weight heavily on me. Sunday is my weakest day. Sunday, I am at my loneliest. Sunday, I am at my most vulnerable.

I can not focus my mind on anything positive. I spend hours laying in bed, wishing my mother would leave the house so I can be alone. Should that happen, I lie in bed wishing I were somewhere else. Wishing I had friends to spend the day with. Wishing that my pillow were actually my lover. Sunday isn’t for people like me.  It is as if with the rising of the sun, we are haunted and tormented by whatever it is that life is putting us through.

I hate Sundays. Sundays is for lovers. Sunday is for happy families. Sunday is for people playing on the beach or grilling with their friends.

Sunday isn’t my day. I can not even bare to look at facebook or twitter on sunday’s. I can’t stand to see people posting about going to brunch, or going to the park for a festival, or how they will spend the day with their spouse. I can’t bare seeing other people happy. For me, in my twisted way of thinking, it is like a slap in the face. A grim reminder of the things and experiences I have longed for over many years. I want that ‘peace’ that others feel on this day.

vacating the planet

If  it were possible, outside of swallowing pills and bullets, I would vacate the planet now.  The wonderful thing about being diagnosed as borderline, is that I have no ability for processing the obvious in a healthy manner. Doomed relationships are my whole world. I would do nearly anything to maintain the illusion that I am wanted, needed, cared about, and treasured. I will believe any story told to me about the possibility of a relationship being maintained, never mind how unhealthy it is for me or the other parties involved. Your victories are my defeat. Your joys are my sorrow.

For months now I have been under the rainbow filled illusion that somehow, I could rekindle the relationship I had with my ex. We went down the friendship road and back, spent many nights in tears with each other over the phone. Speaking of maybes and expectations that realisticly couldn’t be met. Any normal woman would be wholely offended if someone were to say that they couldn’t be with you because of your size and in the same breath tell you how wonderful you are, how you are their match in every way. Any rational person would see the flaw in being told that in order for someone to want to be with you, you’d have to move and lose weight. I am not rational. I am not normal. These things seemed perfectly okay with me, so long as it meant that he would continue to speak to me. Continue with the false hope and the dream of a life better than this with him. I clearly set myself up for failure. I knew this, I cried about it daily, yet I put every sad effort into it. I clung to the hope that someday this perfect man would wake up and see the errors of his thinking, and accept me as is, with improvements pending.

I’m an idiot. I knew that he couldn’t wait for such things, that he wanted an exit to leave everything behind and go to california as soon as possible. He found it and decided today to call me and tell me how wonderful his life would be now. How utterly carefree he felt, as if now for the first time in a long time, he could breathe. How he had no consequences and every burden here mattered not anymore, because soon he would be gone.

No mention of the many months I have spent trying to find a job to be closer to him as he had me to believing he needed. No mention of wanting me to come with him. No mention of ‘us’ whatsoever. And what do I do? Congratulate him. Praise him on his efforts. Share in his joy.

Now hours later, I am drunk with a headache from drinking too much cheap beer and trying hard to keep my tears at bay should anyone look at me long enough to question what is wrong. Now I want to post hateful messages about him and myself. I want him to see how worthless I feel after his joyful words cut me so deep. I want to leave this planet. My crazy doesn’t have room for considering actual departure. So I drink until I realize my unemployment has no room for more than two or three drinks a night.

So now I watch facebook, waiting for him to post about the awesome nightspots we talked about visiting together. I wait for those feelings of malice and hatred to manifest. I wait for him to contact me again so I can pretend it is all ok. He will catch on and push me to reveal my feelings, then rebel when met with that wall blocking my ability to speak up for myself.

He is my weakness. I love him and hate him.

Until then, I will fight the influx of crickets that have made it into my hoarders paradise of a bedroom. I’ll watch food network and wish I could eat the pain away. I’ll see if I can slip pills from my mother’s medicine cabinet to make me sleep and not think  until the sun rises again.

Full Circle

Well here I am again, making yet another attempt to put my life into text form.  It seems I am more comfortable with this than any normal person should be. Maybe it stems from a severe lack of a social life. Or feeling as if my words and actions in the real world bring too much criticism and extreme side-eye from others. I have always turned to my journals and blogs in hopes that somewhere out there in the interwebs, someone gets me. Someone understands what it is like to be fat, black, and awkward.

I am 30 years old and living in Deep South still. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I am living at home with my mother again. I wake up daily and groan at the realization that somewhere over the last 5 years, I’ve become a statistic. I’ve become that bum who can’t find a decent job, maintain a successful relationship, or hold on to what little dignity I have left. I spend my days tirelessly looking for work, only to be shut down with form letters and ignored emails.

That liberal arts degree of mine is really paying off.

I am here again to share my experiences, as mundane as they may be. Deep down, I am still that cam girl who shared herself with the masses during college (with my clothes on mind you). I want attention and popularity. I am hoping this time I have some things worth saying. Maybe if I stick with this for once I can find some magical answer for myself that would help me move forward with my life.

It is write or pop pills. I haven’t taken medication for my mental issues in many years. Think that could be an issue?

Stay tuned.

state of affairs

Things aren’t going so well. Things just aren’t progressing.

I have applied for numerous jobs in Jackson and nothing has come of it. Just failed leads and inquiries. Now I have to put that search on hold once again because I have no money left at all.  I am afraid my phone will be disconnected next week. I am $350 overdrafted on my bank account. I have no other resources. I can’t move with nothing.

I swallowed my pride and applied for a job at the bar I frequent. I am sure I will get it despite my never having worked in food service before. I have to get something to put money in my pocket and start saving. It will take months to raise up the $2000 or so that I figure I would need in order to jam if I did find a job there.

I feel lost. Void. Looking for work tends to make me evaluate my worth and I never satisfied with what I come up with. Also, things are slowly getting worse here at home.  My mother had another ‘episode’ this week and has vowed that she is officially ‘through’ with my sister. She is angry with everyone, including me, and no one knows why. There is no rhyme or reason to it. I don’t give a damn anymore. I truly don’t. I just want out. Being here is equal to being in an abusive relationship and I can not take anymore.

Something has to give. I am tired of making plans and seeing them fall apart. I am tired of wanting happiness, seeing the path to it, and getting deterred at every turn.

I don’t know what to do.