United States of Woe

Real life 

I stopped eating, really, about a week ago. 

I’m short on everything. I just make food for the kids. 

I found a protein bar in the borrowed car two days ago and put it in my purse in case I get too sick to hold it in. Today I gave it to a transient in the park who was counting his fingers over and over again out loud. 

I asked for a draw at work which covered a tank of gas, one new tee shirt per kid for the first day of school, and one pair of shoes for the littlest since his toes wore all the way through his close toed sandals.

Came back to the 5th wheel after work, and the well is dry. No showers again. 

I’m really tired. 



I understand that writing about my failed relationships is cliche, but to be honest those are the only relationships I have had.

As much as I wish I could still believe that I have a chance at finding someone with mutual feelings of connection, it’s silly and not true.

I like to reduce my inability to find a partner to the blanket statement that I was raised by wolves. There was no love in the home I grew up in. There was alcohol, violence, mental illness, and crank. The love I have is the love I am seriously blessed to recieve from my children. It wasn’t until my first child was born until I had been loved in any matter at all. I would testify my entire childhood was spent crying for different parents to show up and sweep me away; and at least 15 years carrying a brick in my chest for an unrequited first love. The remainder of years were followed by a series of smaller, but devestating, heartbreaks.

I was raised by wolves: It’s a gentle reminder to not pine over individuals of the opposite sex that I adore. I’m unrefined, and unlovable. At best, someone will fool me into trusting them, with the intention of selling my pelt.

Onward and upward, or whatever really white ppl say.

Blog Post Aug 17.

Things I have consistently loved more than my second husband:
My children. Above all else.

The movie Reservoir Dogs

Clean bedding

Hot beverage and a smoke.

Another smoke.

Heating pad and a book

Pretty much any Quentin Tarentino film soundtrack. 

Washington Post got me fucked up.

I read this Washington Post article. It explained that at least half of the people I consider my friend can’t stand me. It says social media is ruining us all. Instead of meaningful interactions and connections, we have been reduced to shares, likes, and comments.

So I read on. Existential Nihilism, Stoic Philosphy. I don’t matter, I’ve always known it. Postmodernism. 

I made myself a promise. If I deleted my Facebook and didn’t hear a word from any of my friends that like and comment, who message and share. I am allowed to let my insignificant existence eat me alive. 

Whatever is left of my corpse is what I have to work with. 

I haven’t had a call or text in two days. 

Satisfying as fuck.

Trying to date.

It’s those micro aggressions, the intimate partner who thinks it would be really pretty if you cut your hair real short. Making comments about how pretty other women are, out in public, with their hair shorn off like sheep.

“Just don’t put any on your face,” at your traditional tattoos. 

It’s noticing how frivolous men are with their affections. Dancing all night and hearing drums, getting his number, and finding out he’s married. 

It’s the pen pal who doesn’t write anymore.

It’s your first love on his third marriage. 

It’s the shit like this.

That make us native ladies become snails.   

Single and unavailable. Disinterested. Hearts on the ground for all of you. 

The Red Road

I’m seeing patterns.

Im doing everything it takes to make it to school. Barter, sell, trade.

I’m seeing these moods and attitudes in personal relationships change as I get closer to my goals. My divorce was the first of these.These moods and attitudes remind me of what happened when I left Texas. When I stopped being a junkie.

It’s a lonely place, but thank god I see the patterns.

At least I know. Just like when I stopped being a junkie, the friends and family who matter will be happy for me. They’ll be friends and family then just as now!

At least I know. Just like when I stopped being a junkie, the friends and family that I don’t matter to, will almost dismantle me. I’ll almost believe I can’t make it, that I don’t deserve it, I’m selfish and foolish to try all alone.

Everyone’s gonna ditch out & love & magic encounters will scream sike! 

At Least I see the patterns. Negative and positive and on and on. 

Your Old Lady. 

I am the quintessential Old Lady. I’ll never be your wife, or your girl, much less the love of your life. 

We stayed up three days straight, drunk and drugged. Over and over. 

Nobody talks shit about you without my permission. I know all of your secrets and whatever they are saying is much more boring than the truth.

Because I was there. 

I was there when you kissed me in the walk-in freezer. When you wouldn’t answer my calls so I had an abortion. When we almost died. When you were arrested. 

I was there the only day you ever apologized to me. It made our newborn son smile in his first picture. 

I was there at the doctors office scared for you. Filling out all of the papers to make sure you are okay forever after all of the doctor visits.

I was there, 8 months pregnant and holding a baby at the psych ward crying for you. I was there, driving full speed when you texted you were killing yourself. I was there in court, but you weren’t. That wasn’t you. 

I raised your kids for 5 years while you did your best impression of Ricky Bobby’s father in Talledega Nights. 

I made amends with the woman you kept secret. The one you left me for, knocked up, and returned to me. 

You’re my dad reincarnated.

You make me sick. But I’m your old lady. 

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