The Ninth Letter of Madness

Monday is not my favorite day of the week by far. It doesn’t make it any more likeable when my mother annoys me. I swear she mocks me. No wonder why I never amounted to much or had any confidence in life. I certainly don’t like blaming anyone for my failures but she is a good place to start. I suppose I have burned myself out on her negative energy and need to stop going there for lunch. This happens. She is that type of person who constantly complains about something or sighs heavily so it would be wordless complaints. Nothing can ever just be happy and content. Everything is always an issue. Things are never calm. Today she asked me about what my newest venture was. I just left and spent my lunch alone in my car thinking of how much she irritates me.  I know, she is my mom, she isn’t getting any older and I should appreciate the time we have left together. But on the other hand, I can’t stand her bipolarness. I can’t stand the negative energy.

I am a solution specialist because of her. She has so many problems and I hand her the solutions but still she does nothing and so it’s a constant struggle. I quit smoking 6 months ago as an excuse to not go there on lunch. I then spent my lunch hour with Casie, who apparently no longer is my friend, which is fine because I just can’t handle negative people. What I should have done is went home and done my dishes. That would have been more productive.  I really am not a bad kid. I was in my youth. I figured it was because my mom was an alcoholic, my dad gone and my brothers mean. Without much guidance what can you expect from a child.

My mom is so dysfunctional and socially awkward that it’s a wonder that I have made it as far as I have. No wonder I would cry myself to sleep at night and pray for death. I am just angry now. I don’t know why. She stirs up all these feelings inside. I have forgiven my father for never being around. I know he had to do what he could to support his family. I accepted him as a person and didn’t judge him as a dad. I must say he is one of the most influential people in my life. I remember one day I asked him how he dealt with my mother? I always thought he was the bad guy when in reality I think it was her. Not that there is really even a bad or good side. We didn’t lack anything growing up. Except maybe healthy boundaries and role models. Somedays it pisses me off more than others. Today just happens to be that day. She gets on my nerves. I am not going there for lunch anymore. I can’t. I need to keep my sanity. I almost survived this year. I have a month left to say I did it. Full circle I have come. Face to face with the demons of life. If I could get it out in clear and coherent thoughts, perhaps it would be a great story. However, that is never going to happen so I guess it’s safe to say only you and I will know about it. Fuck it. I don’t even care.

I always aspired to be a writer. The pen and pad were my best friends. I wrote on closet walls, I wrote in notebooks, I wrote in the woods, I wrote in books. I wrote in code a lot. My brothers had no respect for privacy. I suppose sometimes it is necessary when you have to get out your mind what is inside your heart without being shamed. But what good is a writer without an audience? What good are the words without a reader? What good is this madness without fucking hope that it will ever mean anything to anybody? I am just angry today. I want to cry. I furiously type the keys at my desk in efforts to hold back my tears. Why do I need to even cry? I am so emotional. I have been for a couple years.

I remember watching American Idol and someone would get a golden ticket and I would bawl because I was so happy for them. Happy shit like that tugs at my heart strings. I don’t get it. I have the weirdest affect in the world. And I hate paragraphs. I do. So I am sorry for that. Nothing is ever going to be right in my world and I don’t care. I know what I gotta do. No-not die. I can’t do that. Good answer though. Wishful thinking. Oh, the humanity. No, I gotta leave this town and leave this me behind. I need to conquer new heights and see new things. Even though everything scares me. I just pretend that it doesn’t and it ends up working out. Like the time in New York when I was alone without a phone, a GPS, a map and had to figure out how to get out of Brooklyn. That is what inspires me to dream big. If I can do that, I can do anything.

I am a nutcase. I know. Just not so crazy to be committed. Not so fucking insane that I need to be kept from society. No. I am just crazy enough to be stuck in this life looking at all these fuck faces with their seemingly perfect life wondering how the fuck they can make it so easy looking? The happy couples that make me wanna barf. There is no such thing as a happy family. I am sorry but society will not get me on that one.

I started back to reading my old books. The ones that help me feel in control of life. The ones that discuss the universe and how I am the maker of my reality. The ones that give me some clarity of thought. If anything I can just hold the book and feel the power of the words I have read before. I need to return to that. I need to return to the source so I can feel alive. As is, I do not feel alive. I feel like I am just getting by and that is not the life I want to live. I don’t want any fancy house or cars or fifty pairs of shoes, I am a simple person. I just want to feel validated in this life. That must be my problem. But I don’t expect validation from this town, from these people, from my family. I just want to run away. Run away and live a different life. I am selfish and don’t care that I am leaving my family behind. I am selfish in the aspect that I can’t stay miserable with them. Well, miserable like my mom.

My poor mom. I do not want to be like her. I love her, I swear but her life makes me sad. She works at a job she hates and comes home, drinks and cleans. That’s her life. No one calls her on the phone. No one comes to her house. She just sits at home and drinks. Her house is immaculate. No doubt why I feel like such a rebel when I don’t do my dishes for weeks on end. Not that I have many to do because as I have stated previously I do not cook. They are just pint glasses from my own liking of alcohol, however, I assure you I am not an alcoholic. I wished some days I could be. Wouldn’t it be nice not to be bothered by such intrusive thoughts.

I would give anything to just be fucking normal. Well, maybe. Normal has its own problems. I suppose though that being normal means not even knowing what it’s like not to be normal. I am more of a binge drinker. Although I do have a highly addictive personality. Take letter writing as my newest one. Lucky you. Just burn them to keep you warm at night. I don’t mind. I will never know. I almost don’t even care. God. I feel like a loser. I battle with myself. Right now I am like no I am not a loser. Then I am like, no you are a loser. It’s very loud inside my head. I think out of the thirty five years I have had here on earth that only like two have been good. I don’t even think that they were consecutive.

I am ready to just submit to my madness say fuck it and sign myself up for some goddam rubber walls. Problem is they won’t take me. I’m not fucking crazy. I can’t even pretend to be crazy. I am honest to a fault. So maybe I will go back to the numbers. Read some lunar charts to see if this life gets better by month. I know that I will be fine as I am always fine….but in the meantime, making it to fine, that’s fucking difficult. So fucking hard. I can’t imagine what you think of me. I really don’t care though. I suppose it’s this gift I have. I can just switch things on and off like a light switch. I trick myself a lot into forgetting. I write letters in my head to mix with letters in the mail so I never know what was sent. Maybe you enjoy the madness. At least one of us does then. I free write at work, print and delete. It’s clever isn’t it? Probably not really. I am back to being depressed. Not that it ever went away. Not that it will ever go away. I don’t think it ever can go away.

I always fantasized about being Sylvia Plath when I was younger. I was going to write brilliant material, then die and have my writings published. So many flaws in this thinking. One night, I was going through some old journals and told Keisha that she gets it all when I die. This is my legacy. I explained that she shouldn’t share some of it. To which she was like yeah no one will read them but me. Then I panicked. Like-WHAT? What have I been doing my whole life documenting things if no one will ever enjoy them or benefit from them? Suddenly, nothing seemed like a good idea anymore. It was like something clicked inside and told me that everything up until that moment was pointless. I was not Sylvia Plath. I was not going to be famous in my death. I would be a nobody as I was in life. And that saddened me. I suppose nothing will ever make me happy. It must not be in my chart. I am not destined for anything but misery. But at least I know what that is. No surprises there.

In my youth, I would take risks and seek out death. In my present day times though I am too apathetic. It has got to be this town. I have to leave. I am not running away from myself. That would be stupid. I love myself. Well, somedays are better than others. Today I am not really a fan but other days I am. It’s this stupid bipolar. Or borderline. Or whatever the fuck diagnosis they wish to name me. I call it brilliance, they call it madness. In the end I don’t really give a fuck. I smile and continue on my day. You cannot possibly understand what an amazing feat that is. And why, why do I continue on this miserable mad path? I suppose because it’s the only option I got. I hate not having options.

I also just realized I hate my job. I hate answering the phone. I hate the client that never stops calling. Maybe like the fan that never stops writing. At least I don’t write in cap letters and sound completely bat shit. I never called Dr. Phil. God. I hate this woman! It is hard to remain professional when your ears bleed from listening to her spew nonsense conspiracies about her ex-husband. I hate her and I cannot escape her. There lies the problem.

I am defiantly all worked up. My chakras are plugged. My mental state is on the rise. I am just venting to keep myself in check. My vibration sucks. What the hell is wrong with me? My thoughts will be the death of me yet. I feel like I am aimlessly wandering with no purpose and the sad part is that that’s true. The best part about this is that this is the storm. I am in the eye of the storm. I will come out stronger and better than ever. I just have to keep focus. Whatever the fuck that is. I am just miserable and I apologize for writing you such misery. I wished I had happy news to report. Like hey I just got a puppy. Although that is a clear indicator of me losing my mind. I would also expect to be slapped on that note. Regardless, I am fine. I am alive. I may not be happy and have a bad attitude today but it will pass. Nothing stays the same forever.  I don’t need love, I don’t need support, I just need to get the ugliness out to let the beauty in. Isn’t that how it works?

I know I am not alone. I cannot possibly be alone with the burden of these thoughts. Heavy thoughts. I don’t want to be at work. I don’t want to be anywhere. I don’t feel there is a home for me out there. I am a much more pleasant person face to face then in my letters. Not that we will ever meet. We couldn’t possibly. Not after baring my soul upon you. I know we have before. I know I have written before. God, I am such a flake. I feel better on paper then I do in the flesh. I shouldn’t be so hard on myself, I suppose. In reality though I am just a freak. Maybe I am not, I guess in the end it doesn’t matter. My child loves and respects me so that says a lot. Like mega tons.

It could be worse. It could be better, but it could be worse. I know that I need a new job. I feel alienated at work. I am after all the only one who knows how to answer the damn phone and doesn’t shit talk the rest of the employees. Well, other than these letters, shhhh. Our secret. I do not look forward to coming to work each day. It is really something that takes considerable amount of effort and no thinking. If I think-it’s over. I lost. Thinking gets me in trouble. Just like writing. If I write, then it happened. I try to not tell my hippocampus some things. I just would rather not remember. I would rather not have regrets. And I am pretty sure I am taking a sick day on Wednesday. I don’t care who gets pissed. My boss will be in Florida. So the other two have to answer the phones and actually work. Boo fucking hoo. They shouldn’t give me sick time. I abuse it. I used to have perfect attendance at jobs. Then they give me sick time and I take full advantage. That is not my fault. They enable me. The best part about sick days is all I have to do is send an email saying I won’t be in. Wednesdays are usually the days I take. If no one has noticed a pattern by now they are stupid idiots. I hate Wednesdays as much as I hate Mondays. Actually it’s really just the people. I hate fake people. I wonder if they already have bets on me missing? If it were me, I would. I guess I am a horrible employee when I don’t like my coworkers and want to avoid the phone. I hate the phone.

I wished I had something to do as my thoughts are no longer flowing so easily. I feel more calm now that I settled on a sick day for Wednesday. This is great news for you I am sure. One less letter to bog you down with. I hope they are not too bad. I enjoy writing them. I try not to think much about them after I send them. I don’t know if at some point I am going to hit a breakthrough or not but if you see it before me, please let me know.

It just dawned on me where all these repressed feelings were coming from. It’s been a year since Randall’s funeral. A year since I was manhandled. A year since I lost that life. I do not mourn it but simply recall the misery of it. I am certain it is that in which makes me feel angry and depressed. I don’t have anyone to share my feelings with. Nobody that would listen. Nobody that would care. And I don’t say that like a sad thing. Like, feel sorry for me. That is nothing that I want from anyone at any point of time. I am just reflecting. Just absorbing. I need to change my vibrations. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day. Maybe Wednesday when I am having a mental health day I will be better. Maybe I will wake up tomorrow and feel right with the world. This anger doesn’t wear well on me. It’s depressing. I hate being depressed. More so I hate burdening anyone with my depression. I am sorry for that.

Until I write again-

Much Love,

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