The painful shit…

Somewhere along the line something went wrong. I don’t know when and I don’t know why or even what caused it, but somewhere something did. I cannot even say for sure that I know what happened, but I do know that it will be with me for the rest of my life, no matter how it all turns out, good or bad, right or wrong, there will always be some part of me that will wonder why.
At my age I think I have learned a lot about myself. Who I am. What I want and the things I am glad I did and the things I wish I had done differently. I wish I had taken better care of myself, and I wish I had taken better care of my future. I wish that instead of chasing boys and worrying so much about what they wanted from me, I might have paid a little bit more attention to me. What I was going to do, who I was going to be and in what direction I was headed.

But most of all, I wish I had been a better mother, a better listener and a better role model. I also wish I would have made a bigger stink when things really went to shit as they did. Demanded the fucking assholes find the answers they were being paid for. I wish I understood why I couldn’t get him to understand. I don’t understand my own child. I have gotten to the point where I don’t want to hear about him or talk about him or think about him. I don’t want to hear the things that happening about my own child and that breaks my heart. I don’t want to have that shit swirling around in my head. I don’t want to analyze the shit out of every little detail of every little thing wondering where the fuck it happened. What did I do to this kid that made him behave this way? Can anyone tell me that? Can anyone tell me anything? I don’t want this to be happening, but there is nothing that I can do. WHAT AM I SUPPOSE TO DO?

Some shit….

I saw this old man, walking down the street in a MacDonald’s uniform the other day on his way to work. His shoulder where hunched, his hair gray under his black visor and by the way he walked I would bet there was more than a little arthritis in his joints. I thought first of how sad, that he has to do it out of the need for money or for company and then I thought about how tired I would be after being on my feet for eight hours at the age of 40, what did it feel like at 65, 70? I don’t want that to be me. I don’t want to be working until I the day I die, but I know I will. I know unless some miracle happens and I win the Powerball or somehow loose a limb I will have to work for the rest of my life. There will be no quiet fishing on a lake or on a boat. No campfires or walks along a deserted beach.I will never, ever be able to retire. I will be dealing with assholes, putting up with stupidity and trying not to scream or blow my head off until the very end. Fuck me.

“I am participating in the Writing Contest:How Writing Has Positively Influenced My Life. Hosted by Positive Writer.”

I have always loved stories. Before I learned to read I would tell myself stories by the pictures in the books. I have always felt a desire to write stories, to write period, in my teenage years when you feel no one understands you, I would write letters to my parents in hope I could express what I was really feeling but couldn’t manage to get out of my mouth. It has always seemed to me easier to speak my mind on paper, to really feel like I could say what I wanted, what I needed to say.  But it wasn’t until I was grown with kids of my own did I work up enough courage to try and work on something bigger. I still don’t know what it had been that held me up for so long; lack of confidence, schooling or maybe my hideous spelling, but it was while reading a book, a book I didn’t even like, that I realized I could do better than them. I could write a story much better than this and if this person, who had written a whole series that sucked could get published, why couldn’t I? And just like that I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

I love to write for many reasons, but the reason it has had such a positive effect is because like reading itself, it was an escape hatch to life. Like one of those black holes cartoon characters would throw up on a wall to escape his nemesis, and I can take it with me anywhere.  I can make a world of my choosing, shape it ,form it, make it my own, just like when I was a child staring at those picture books. I can be whoever I want to be, say whatever I want to say, feel how I want to feel and I have to make no apologies for any of it. It makes me feel almost powerful, in control of things that in real life I am have no control. I can also use it to release all those thoughts and feelings and frustrations that are always floating around in my head begging to be set free, but become lost between my brain and my mouth. It is, in short, a cheep kind of therapy, a way to let go and be free and sometimes I think it is the closest I will ever get to truly being so.