Yesterday was Bob’s birthday, an incredible disaster that I imposed. Today I walk in fear as I have these several months that I have know Duane is home. I cannot collect my things. My mother has broken so many promises this year alone at the cost of $8,500, not including the $4,300 incident from last year and the $85,000 back rents on my home, which she offered to the bank on a silver platter.
People think that getting sick is a break, laziness, weakness. It is hardship of every kind. There is no one to trust. Those that are the closest take the most advantage and the government makes it so that all of the assets that you hold for emergencies are exhausted and that you do not keep more than $100 balances in your accounts or you really do not need help. For pete’s sake, one cannot get roadside assistance for $100 anymore.
Bobis the most wonderful boyfriend I have had thus far. I hate to sound as if I feel that it is temporary. I don’t want it to be, but I cannot see someone who would rather I figure out how to change from the gilded trash that raised me to somewhat secular in behaviour. The taming of the shrew so to speak. I wish that my Bobolink could do that... I would love that. But somehow, I feel caged. I don’t know what to say, what to do, how to be, how to love when I am always wrong. When I ask what I do right, I hear - Lots of things... but there is never a list.
I fear that the man who has me so terrified I cannot sleep at night and am finally ready, unknowingly able, to press charges against may be out of my reach. All of the late night threats, dirty whispers, attempts on my life have been training to become a soulless bitch.
I try to do yoga, meditate, medicate. None of it works. Talk therapy creates some sort of empathy to create an easier path to forgiveness, if you buy it. Talking to police, doctors and religious figures often leads to insults and to the ones that are predators - a notification on one’s forehead that “Confused Abuse Target Here” and they intercept one’s life.
So often have I started this and even with the good guys - I fight it. I fight the love, I fight the care, I fight the whole thing. Why? Because I’ve been groomed to be hyper-vigilant and always ready to fight or so scared that everything is a con that I am a total sharpshooter to anything that comes my way... or feel that I need to get in touch with my inner honey badger.
Either way, none of it does me well. Each and every time I step on my own two feet. I don’t have love for those that I used to and don’t know how to love those I want to. I only know how to lonely and alone. I don’t like it. That cannot be the only way to be happy or the only way to live.
