Abysmal Failure
If there were ever any two words that could describe me, those would be it.
I used to think the two might be ‘Eternal Optimist’. But I’m not feeling all that optimistic at the moment.
There is also ‘Hopelessly Romantic’. That fits. Any possibility of romance for me at this stage of the game is surely hopeless.
What about ‘fucking crazy’? Yeah, that fits. Anyone that has lived the life I’ve led and believes the things I do has got to be crazy. There can’t be any other explanation for it, really.
I didn’t ask to be brought into this world. In fact, if given the choice, looking back, I think I’d choose option B, only I don’t believe in abortion.
Besides, had I not come into this world, neither would Tyler. But then his life has not been stellar either. I hope he finds structure, contentment and a purpose in the army. Chances are he’ll find alcoholism, heartache and either injury or death in another country where most likely the people will probably hate him for going there to help them in the first place.
Hooah.
I’ve lived my life with the pathetic notion that things CAN and WILL get better. Why? Why have I always believed that, given the track record that is my life? What in the hell is wrong with me that I won’t just fucking stay down when I’m knocked there? What possesses me to get up, and try again? Someone once said I was the poster child for turpitude. I’ve been kicked out in the cold barefoot, I’ve been kicked up a flight of stairs by a man wearing a pair of steel pointed toe boots that –I- gave him, locked in a room for days on end without a bathroom break, without furniture, without…anything. I’ve been beaten down, battered and bruised. I’ve been lied to, stolen from, deceived, molested, raped, put on display like a thing for a group of men who found it funny, and offered up as a consolation prize for sex, after being regarded as unworthy of such an offering in the first place. I’ve been bloodied, and had that very blood wiped on my good set of curtains, so I wouldn’t forget what I had done wrong in the first place to…deserve...it. I’ve been made to do grueling, menial labor while being threatened with a Doberman Pincher attack if I didn’t do it fast enough, or well. I saw that dog maul a woman once. She had to get numerous stitches in her arm. I was lucky enough that blisters didn’t deter me from getting the job done, and right.
I’ve been unwanted, thrown away, despised, mistreated, ignored, betrayed and abandoned. I’ve been called fat, ugly, worthless and disgusting. My own father, well the man who was the father figure in my life anyhow, called me a slut. I was 16 and a virgin at the time. The names cunt, whore, bitch, and other unsavory titles have been given to me over time.
The only good men in my life, and there have been two…maybe three…seem to view me as a little fixer upper. I’m a project, like a car that doesn’t run, that needs a new engine rebuilt, dings taken out, some body work (major at that), and other minor and major changes before I’m ready to be put on the block. Maybe not for sale, but definitely not a keeper either.
That probably sounds a bit harsh, but it is how I feel. It is not that they don’t care about me. That’s actually part of the problem. They do. They genuinely care about me. They care about my well being. They want me to succeed. They want to see me come out on the other side of all this…stuff…and become a successful, independent… normal…person.
When you say it like that it doesn’t seem like such a bad thing. But.. they don’t want me to be those things with them. Like a baby bird in a nest I think I’m supposed to find my wings and fly…preferably far far away…or maybe not so far. But not all that close, either.
I have never been loved in the true, romantic sense of the word. “I care about you”. That is the extent of what I’ve heard. Not that those words are bad. They aren’t. In fact, the person they come from right now means more to me than I could ever possibly describe. Coming from him, they mean a whole lot. To know someone out there somewhere cares about you is a nice thing. But it’s sometimes not enough. I want love! I want someone to look at me and not see all the damage that’s been done. I don’t want to be the sum of my battered, broken parts. I want to be looked at with love. I want someone to see in me the things that I dream, that I believe in. Why can’t just ONE person on this God forsaken planet want me, passionately? Or at least, be mildly interested?? I’m not ugly. I am fat, I’ll be the first to admit that. This wall I built around myself is a strong fortress. The bad part is, not only does it keep any possibility of anyone getting in…I can’t get out. I built it too strongly, and now I am trapped like Rapunzel in a high tower. Only I don’t have the long glorious hair as a safety rope to get me out. But I am NOT unworthy of being loved!
I hate it when people feel sorry for me. I don’t want to be the object of pity, or sympathy! I have clawed my way through life and damn it I deserve something for that! I have been told how strong I am, and yet I seem so weak at times. I AM strong! Stronger even than anyone who knows me might realize. I have fought against inner demons, and outer ones. I have overcome obstacles that would have stymied many lesser people. I have taken everything I’ve stated above, and I STILL wake up the next day with the (admittedly stupid and foolish) belief that things CAN and WILL get better. Today could be the day! It never is, but it just MIGHT be!
I am not unworthy. I don’t know why I have to keep telling myself that to believe it. Why is it that the good just seeps through the cracks, but the bad stuff takes root and lives forever within me?
You would think by now I would have learned my lesson well, that I was smart enough not to take out my heart, all stitched up, patched together with pieces missing, and offer it to anyone again. But I haven’t, I’m not, and I do. I still give it away, time and again. It has been stomped on, squished, broken, and wrung through the ringer. The one good thing is that, while the affection is not returned in the same manner, at least its current holder is not unkind. He is gentle with my heart. As damaged as it is, he treats it as something precious.
I have been going through a healing time. But I got into a situation that became volatile and not only hindered my progress, but brought me back to a really ugly place. I felt trapped. I tried SO hard to make it work. I wanted, just one time, to overcome and have just a normal existence. Maybe then I might have been able to be ready to receive love, somehow. I know that things don’t always revolve around love, but in my world, they kind of do. It seems that’s what I’ve spent my life living without for the most part, and what I’ve tried for a lifetime to find some of for my very own.
I just don’t know how to be any way other than how I am. For good or bad, this is me. Take it or leave it. The problem is, if I say that to someone, anyone…most likely they would leave. I don’t want to be fixed. At least, I don’t want that to be the primary concern of someone I am in a relationship with. And the way things are at the moment I’m not sure how they could be any other way. The way things are with me, that is. I wonder sometimes if I will ever be whole. Maybe that isn’t even an option. Perhaps it is not something I should even try to attain. Maybe…just maybe…it isn’t necessary. Maybe there is a point somewhere that is good for me that doesn’t involve being someone else entirely. I’d like to think so, but I’m just not sure.
I don’t know what so called normal people feel like. I don’t know what it feels like to have a family in the traditional sense, whatever that may be these days. I am not all that familiar with being nurtured. I will add a disclaimer here and say, not familiar with it outside of my Mother. She was my champion. She was the one person in this entire world who completely understood me, and always, without fail, knew what to say to me. If my mom said it, it had to be true. She was never wrong. I’m not even just saying that because I loved her so much. She really did know what to say and do. She knew what advice to give me. She knew what to say to make my demons go away, at least for a little while.
I don’t know how I can go on without her. It has been over a year now, and I still feel it as strongly as the day we said goodbye for the last time. The last words she said to me were “You are a good daughter.” But…I wasn’t. She spent her life trying to give all her children a better chance than she had. And towards the end, I was the only one left still floundering. She hung on despite what surely must have been excruciating pain, just to try and help me out a little longer. She managed to talk a car salesman into letting her purchase a car knowing she was sick with cancer. She made one payment on that car before she died. It was her pride and joy, because she got it for me. I couldn’t even hold on to that. A tow service was sent from 3 states away to come and take it from me. That was a particularly low point in my life. The one thing my mother wanted more than anything was for me to be self sufficient. She wanted me to have a home, and a car…a good job, and yes, even love. I had to tell her it was okay to go, because she was clinging on with the last vestige of strength she had, in her worry over my future. I lied to her and told her I was going to be all right. But I think we both knew I wasn’t. At this very moment, I believe I have taken one step forward and a whole bunch of leaps and bounds backwards. I should still consider myself in a better place than I was in, and in many ways I do. I’m not starving to death. I am not about to be on the street. But I’m certainly not where I thought I would be even 2 months ago. I thought I was on the road to recovery, but it seems that was a gross miscalculation of where things were going.
Though I don’t have anyone telling me what a failure I am, I still feel like one. And while I don’t hear how disappointed anyone is in me, I am disappointed in myself. Why could I not just be strong enough to put up with anything so that I could prove to myself and the few people who matter to me that I can succeed?
I think that might be part of the problem. You see, I am a survivor. But it seems like that is what I have spent my life doing…just surviving. I don’t want to be a survivor. I want to live, laugh, and love. I want to be as whole as possible. I don’t want to count simply living and going on another day as a success. Because in truth, it just isn’t.
I guess the one good thing is that I still wake up every day believing something else, something new and better, is possible. I don’t know why I still have that grain of hope within me, but I do. And I guess I’ll just keep trying, until I succeed, or the tiny flicker of light in the darkness goes out. It hasn’t yet. Though whether that is good or bad, remains to be seen.
I’ll keep hoping until then.
Posts
