Same old, same old, every week.
And every week, Fr. P., who asked me to come to him specifically, and every week, doesn't get angry or frustrated with little me committing my little (grave) sins, but has something to say that I never hear anywhere else in the world.
This week, he asked me to reflect where I'm totally dependent on God, and to thank God for those things. He said he's thankful to God for his health, that he can run our little parish.
I interrupted Father, and told him, "If I may, I know where I'm totally dependent on God, and I'm just so resentful."
I didn't tell him how much I hate God for creating me and putting me here to suffer, day after day, every day, just going on, and why? to fall again? ... that was already confessed earlier this year. Why beat a dead horse? Zombies need to eat something, after all.
God, do I ever hate God ... for making me.
But Father said most American don't even realize they are dependent on God at all, and I don't quite remember why, but you know us American, so proud, so self-reliant, so 'if it ain't made here ...', so might-makes-right and my country, right or wrong. Father didn't say that, but my little voice supplied all that in a heartbeat for me to smirk over in the dark confessional box.
And he continued and said that I realize I'm dependent on God is a gift from God, and I should be thankful to Him for that, and can I do that, and thank God for the gifts I've been given?
Damn, Fr. P. is good, isn't he?
Yes, I told him that, too.
And I said I would do that.
Then I get this PM from a friend who says that a short PM from me is fine, because if I waited to share myself fully, I never would.
i got this PM this morning, read it, then went to work, then I came home, those words burning coals in my mouth the whole day.
I put my heart into every word I write, and every word I don't, and then I share myself, and I get burned with long angry enumerated lists of why this or that and in that same God damn PM I'm told to lighten the fvck up, shouted at the whole time. You ask me what to do with your friend who's just like me, and I tell you what to do and what not to do and the consequences of those (in)actions, from first hand experience, and I know you read the PM because you do exactly what I tell you not to do, choosing to hurt me holding back with your spiteful words. I ask you to say hello to a friend I help you get back together with, and your friend says, 'you can't trust people online, and test her: does she only have white socks?' as if I'm some what? evil cvnt that wants to hurt you because I'm online, and I didn't break up with you, and I didn't destroy your stuff, but you trust your 'friend' more than me, because I gave you my heart, but she's your friend who hurt you whispering this poison in your ear, so it's okay to pass that on to me to deal with? And I read all this anger at me, and I read that I don't share myself, when ... okay, I've got to tell you, I've opened my heart to you. My own family doesn't know me like every one I've PMed with and written my stories for. Do I share my stories with my family? No. FVCK NO! You know me better than my own family. AND you also know me as my family knows me, too.
Look, I've never been hurt as much as I've been this more than a year now with you. And I've been still putting my heart on the line. Why? Just: why?
But Fr. P. tells me to see where I'm dependent on God and thank Him for these gifts.
And looking at this PM this morning, and every week — if not nearly every day — I get from you with your callous self-absorption and cutting words, and I wonder ... what should I be thankful for again?
You ready for some more hurt? The only thing that didn't stop me from doing something to myself (something that you would call 'really stupid' because what, again, am I living for? You can't answer the latter but I'm stupid for stopping it all. Yeah. Thank you) was a sweet little PM from Saga who in the midst of her flu that her has her puking her guts out and on bed rest PMed me to say, hey, and say really nice things about us cooking something together, and she leaves a poem attributed to Sappho on her profile that ...
My conceit: read the obit pages. When I die, I won't be able to PM you with my regrets that I won't be able to complete my stories. Really hard to do that from beyond the grave.
And I'm sure as hell not telling you before hand. You might try to stop me. The Devil demands his due. And there's no gold coin in my mouth to pay the ferryman.
But I don't even have my conceit. If 'I don't share myself' is how you see me, and you are my cherished, closest, dearest friends, how does the rest of the world see me? So I can't even ask you to scan the obits, 'cause what'll they say about me? What'll be carved in my stone? "Didn't fully share self."
So just scan the police reports. This is what you'll find: "Body found in apartment after complaints from neighbors of odor. Young woman. White. No known next of kin. No known occupation."
And that's all they, or you, or anybody will be able to say about me.
You know what I wuz gonna do? Yeah, you know.
I've blocked people for much less than these cold, cruel, callous, CARELESS words stabbing me, now, right through the chest. It's fvcking hard to breathe right now. So what I wuz gonna do was block you all. Turn off the PM. Delete my email account. Close out fb.
Why? Because who fvcking cares about a wee irish lass who doesn't extend herself to share herself, and why put myself through all this pain of writing a PM when you turn around and slap me in the face with your sweet little knife blade of a 'joke' that you have the gall to *smile* about as you deliver it?
Do you know how to find out what someone really means? What somebody really believes? They make a joke about it.
God, I am hurting so much right now.
You know what I don't want. I don't want an apology. You are as you are. And I read in your PMs, over and over and over and over again that this is an accurate description of how you see me. And I don't want 'oh, it's okay, and you're great,' sympathy PMs from you. Telling you straight (heh: 'straight') that'll hurt much worse. And you know what I don't want, I don't want you to see this as anybody other than yourself. Try that on. Read your fvcking PMs to me AFTER I've already written entry after entry begging you to look in the mirror and read these words to yourself before you send them to me. And what I don't want? I don't want you to show up at my God damn funeral and tell my mom and bb how my words touched you and what a shame for a girl to have died so young, and what I don't want? for you to be all nice-nice to me for ONE FVCKING PM and then you slipping right back into your vicious berating brow-beating sh!t you hurl at me that you call a PM.
You know what I do want?
You know, I can't even answer that question. I am so deep in the sh!t I can't see that it can get any better than this. So I may as well eat sh!t and die. Gonna anyway. Gonna anyway.
And I told you this. Over and over and over again. You read Rosalie and Me? Yeah, I can tell you have because you've fvcking reviewed it! (get the fvcking hint?) I count one person who read it, and he left the review on another story in another chapter. You know what he wrote? "I thought I was fvcked up, but you take the cake!"
That's honesty. He knew the score, then decided to stomp me, because there's no better feeling that kicking somebody's who down or kicking somebody else when you're down. As I've been the recipient or received the brunt from you, over and over and over again.
So now I have to decide. Do I check back in? Last time I did that, I was out of it for six months — no phone, no computer, no nothing but me lying on a bed so doped up on valium and other stuff that all I can do is wet myself in bed and "get better" — but that doesn't mean it'll only be six months this time. Last time they made a mistake: they let me out. "Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me." Those "health" "care" "providers" are not ones to be shamed, nor fooled, ... well, not twice, anyway.
Or instead of checking back in, do I check out? I mean, seriously. This is what I have to live for? Your easy insults and careless, carefree heartlessness? And me, as I write, crying and crying and crying, to get your reviews that you get it. But now that you've gotten it, what do you do with it?
You know what 'it' is? 'It' is me. I'm an 'it.'
I'm an 'it.' A thing.
And you get it. What are you going to do with it? And you know, Rosalie will miss Ren when she dies.
But I can't say that for me. I mean, 'it.'
what am I grateful for? what am i totally dependent on God for?
You know, I think I have to go back to confession, to confess I can't even think of a single thing I'm grateful for.
Ingratitude. That's the worst sin of all. God gives everything, and what am I grateful for? Nothing.
I can't find one single thing I'm grateful for. I'm grateful for nothing. I am nothing. And I don't share myself. Even though I've actually cried so hard I've bled tears in what I've written to you and for you, but that's not good enough for you.
I'm not good enough. Shama-lama ding-dong.
You just so have to put me in my place.
And my place is nowhere.
I do have a question. What are you grateful for? Maybe I can be grateful for you being grateful for something. I have another question. How do you show your gratitude?
p.s. day what-fvcking-ever without drinking — four if anybody's counting.
P.fvcking.s.: there's no such thing as a 'mean drunk.' I know. I'm Irish and Italian. A drunk is the happiest person in the world, when he's drinking. He only gets mean when you take away the bottle. But when he has the bottle, he's happy and smiling, and lightheaded, giddy and doesn't feel nor know nor remember a thing, and has no regrets. He has just the sweet, strong taste of peat or potatoes or corn or grapes.
'He.' I don't even rate a gender of value.
And I'm not drinking why? Alan Watts: "But I'm only happy when I'm drunk." ALAN FVCKING WATTS. And Seymour killed himself, because why? Nobody knows, but he told his psychiatrist that the most valuable thing in the world is a dead cat, and nearly got committed for it. By his fvcking wife.
Banana fish. (And don't you dare say, "Huh?" You have fvcking google, don't you? Fvcking read it).
... and today a little two year old blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl pranced around her much older than me mom, and "I don't share myself" was a bitter, bitter taste in my mouth that I almost cried for her, for them, for her happiness and hope, and what if she's actually Rosalie Lillian Hale? What if she's actually me? Wouldn't it be a blessing from God if a comet came down from Heaven right now and crushed her in her happiness? How would've I asked her mom not to have her child turn out like me? A glorified check-out girl, delivering happiness one cup of coffee at a time?
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