Annoying Mosquito

Sometimes, I just don’t want to be here anymore.

I’ve fought hard and continue to try to banish this unwelcome emotion and for periods of time, I’ve even succeeded. I’ve gotten too cocky about it a few times, thinking that I’ve finally accomplished what seems like the impossible.

But what’s really near impossible is being able to just talk about it with someone without scaring them so badly that they either:

A. Avoid me like the plague, which happens 89% of the time

B. Try to lock me up in the psych ward

It seems to me that suicide is becoming more of an epidemic because people just don’t want to get involved.

I would go back to weave some nice baskets if I honestly thought that I’d follow through with a plan to end this thing called life once and for all. I really would, even though the accommodations and quality of care were less than desirable.

They stopped my pain medications, gave me insulin when I didn’t need it, upped a med that was making matters worse and their idea of a mattress absolutely destroyed any chance that I’d be able to sleep, heal, rest and not wake up in severe pain every morning.

They also served me decaf coffee.

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Yet as much as I fear having to go back inside, in order to save my life, I guess that I fucking would.

It helps me when I can talk about what I am experiencing openly without being afraid of the assumption that I’m holding a steak knife across my throat. 

I really just want somebody to listen to me and that was what my mom did, bless her beautiful soul.

Here’s the craziest thing…I can go a few weeks without the thought even crossing my mind. Actually, the idea of it absolutely appalls me to my very core and I’ll wave my hand at it like it’s an annoying mosquito (that I know deep down will be back eventually to suck at my blood.)


Since my mom died almost three months ago, the notion to bring on my own demise has come back around hot and fresh, just like my morning cup of caffeinated coffee.

I’m also astonished how my grief is being handled by the few friends that I claim to have.

They mostly avoid me like the plague.

It’s blaringly obvious (more than before) that I don’t have many people who consistently check up on my mental state.

Even then, what is there to really say?

It’s really hard for me to make friends and it’s always been that way. I don’t know if it’s because I’m a introverted empath or if it’s because I’m just a weirdo with a mood disorder.

Hell, it’s probably both.

Back in the old days when I still was able to work for a living, I socialized with my coworkers. Those relationships fizzled out once I went on disability, which my mom had told me meant that they really weren’t my friends anyway.

She always had a knack for explaining the world to me, especially when it came to relationships.

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I’m starting to think that I’m just destined to be on again/off again suicidal. When I look forward at the big picture, it’s the one thing that loves to land on me, trying to suck me dry.

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An Adult Orphan

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My Aunt Merrie passed away in the mid-60’s of a brain aneurysm at the age of 36. She was painting her kitchen when it happened. I was named after her and my grandma Mary, who also died in the 60’s, I’m not certain of the year.

I never got to meet either of them, since I was born in 1974.

I’ll be inheriting photos of them and my grandpa eventually, already framed and ready to hang in my living room, so I’m downsizing my collection of Beatles artwork. Cherished pictures of my deceased loved ones are more important, not to mention that since asshat left, I don’t really listen to them much these days. They bring back memories that make my heart itch (because it’s healing?) and I can’t get myself to really dig them like I had before.

Everything changes and I’ve known this factoid for years.

But today, I feel like an adult orphan. My dad has been gone going on 33 years and tomorrow marks 4 weeks since my mom passed away. I have no father figures to celebrate with and my poor daughter sadly has nobody to fill that roll either.

It’s just another Sunday, I told myself this morning.

But, it isn’t.

Today, I feel the heaviness of being parent-less for the first time on a holiday, even if it’s a made up one to generate money.

I’ll Never…

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I have to somehow accept the fact that my life didn’t pan out the way that I expected it to.

I’ll never be able to go back to how I was before my health conditions took over and made me so fragile, mentally and physically.

I’ll never be able to go back in time and listen to my instincts before I married the asshat.

I’ll never be able to tackle problems and situations with a mostly calm, collected mind without becoming overwhelmed, like I used to do.

I’ll never be able to clean my entire house in one day. (Become one with the clutter and dust!)

I’ll never be able to fully trust another human ever again. (Besides my extremely ill mother.)

I’ll never wake up again and not feel like a dog turd. (Unless I’m hooked up to a morphine drip.)

I’ll never…