Bitters: A Dying Self/Anger Blaming.

I’ve been mad at the world lately.  I can’t focus on any sort of long term functionality. I can not keep it together and I always feel like I am falling apart.  

I’ve had to let a big part of my self die over the past years.  

I’ve been angry about how my kid’s daddy up and left, drunk in the middle of the night with a plan to call home crying about how he’d fucked up and for me to please take him back again. When he’d left with another woman. Again. Hell naw, son.

 I couldn’t take him back (again). The act would have been a self defeating blow.  And, oh! OH! What a tough two years it has been since. Who the hell am I now? 

Eric left me with a four year old and a four month old. Girls.  Beautiful loving girls. 

He left with another woman he’d knocked up when we were splitsville but still involved. You know. Baby daddy shit. 

She had her baby in January. And he didn’t see the baby.  She came knocking on our door, 90 miles away in February.  

I gave them room.  He met the baby. Another girl.   

He’d said. He’d promised. He wanted to stay with me.  

And, by God. I was willing to try.  I was willing to reach.  One more deep down try. 

I went for a walk with Ollie.  We left Fern with him. We came back. The woman and the baby were gone. Eric was there with Fern.

I felt some sense of closure. Some sense of peace.  We went and ate Mexican food.  

We put the girls to bed. We watched television together. I went to bed.  

He left in the middle of the morning.  Eight beers deep, left on the TV table.  

It was Valentine’s Day when I woke up with my four year old and my four month old.  Ollie came into my room. Asked, “Where’s Daddy?”  

I said, “Is he gone?”

“Yes,” she said. In her four year old’s voice.  

After a day of being gone her Daddy called and called begging for me to come and get him.  I couldn’t . I just couldn’t.  And I shouldn’t have.  And I didn’t.

And ever since then, many days I am either mad. Or sad. Or solitary. Or tired. And down. Little motivation. I struggle to keep up the patience. Or the laundry.  And the dishes.  The homework. The loving attention.  The baths.  Nutrition?  The bills. Friendships? Music?  Exercise? Fuck! Work! All this other stuff!?! Some days I can’t accomplish anything what with the weight of all I feel I have to accomplish at hand.  

I can’t concentrate on anything but loathing life when the house gets too out of hand in the untidy department.  But if I were to spend everyday picking up after my girls, there would never be time for anything else, so the house does get messy. And it does effect my mood.  I HATE my home being messy.  It brings me loooooooowwwww dowwwwwwn.

I’m not rich. I don’t have a maid. So there’s not much I can do about it except do the best I can. And, the best I can fluctuates to sundry degrees great and small.

Thinking about it now. If I did have a maid, she’d have to have an accent. Preferably, an English one. Because what could be more cheery than that?  

All this talk of anger.  Least I am aware. And I’m trying to let it go. 



Hesitating Suzanne

Here’s a song i’m singing in my head as I work on cleaning the house up when I’m not distracted by something else.  Like the guitar. Or the children and their hunger. Their thirst. Their arguing with one another.  The cries. The stopped up kitchen sink. The cats and their meowing.  The call of the computer. The thought of something more. 

Here’s the song:

I’m not a fan (I’m not a fan)

Of Suzanne (why’s that man?)

I think she can

do better

than she does. (i hope she does)

I think Suzanne (i think Suzanne)

Should get a plan (get a plan)

Get herself together while she can (yes ma’am)

I ain’t a fan (ain’t a fan)

of Suzanne (c’mon man)

she don’t do anything that

she’s dreamed she can (aww man)

Come on Suzanne (Suzanne)

I think you can (Suzanne)

Don’t think you can’t

Then you won’t

and you never will. (and you never will)

The Day of Reflective Goals & Paper Notebooks

I came in from sitting on the porch and thought, “I don’t ever write anything down anymore.”

My younger self came supplied with notebook and nice pens, ever ready in the bag of dreams, to whip out and.  I haven’t kept a serious notebook now in, what?  3 or 4 years.  I found myself immediately blaming the computer for making me a slave to it, and thinking the only suitable format for writing was kibbling on it’s square letters and symbols. 

But it’s not the computer’s fault I don’t write. It’s my own fault.  Or. It’s circumstances.  You know.  

I wish there were some form of magic where I could just say snap and everything be way way easier.  It’s nine o’clock and I am exhausted.  I want to write more.  

I’m challenging myself to write something. Anything for the next 5 days.  I am always so long winded I intimidate myself.  But. I need to practice 30 minute writing spells for the next five days to complete a goal for myself. I’m not really a goal maker, so this is a big deal. Because you’re supposed to set goals, right?  

I remember being taught that in elementary school, but it didn’t translate to real life for me.  

I need to start making goals and lists. Crossing things off gives you a buzz, right? Sure. I’ll believe that.  

But I’ll need a notebook for the lists and goals.  I need to start writing more. With a pen.  Like I did in my previous life. 

Before children and struggle.  

Anyways. That’s all for the night.