Dirty

As I sit here, alone, reading a book and contemplating how it relates to me, I scratch my head. My hair is greasy. I try to remember the last time I showered and I can’t. Maybe a week? Maybe a few days? I have no idea. I wonder if it’s laziness or depression or isolation or something else that causes me not to bathe regularly. I can’t remember the last time I brushed my teeth. Two days? Three? I wonder if it’s because I don’t talk, so I¬†know no one will notice. I don’t bathe because I’m not around anyone anyway, so what do I care if I’m clean? I wash my clothes regularly.. Sort of. I wear a suit to one of my jobs and I washed the pants and shirt for the first time two days ago. I’ve been working there a month. I wonder if anyone notices or smells me. I don’t clean my house. I just try to put things away as I use them so it doesn’t get out of control. I haven’t vacuumed in over a month and a half at least. The dog poop in the backyard is starting to smell. No one notices because no one visits. Once upon a time I had chairs in the backyard. Donald and I would sit out there and smoke cigarettes and talk and cuddle together on one of the chairs. I used to have friends over and we’d have a fire and roast marshmallows for the kids. The last time the fire pit was used was when I still had my kids, my boys.. His kids, not mine. We laughed and cuddled and I was happy. Happy.. I can’t remember what that feels like. People think I’m happy. I’ve gotten so good at pretending and smiling, fake laughing and acting normal while in public, people think I’m ok. I’m not ok. I’m just good at faking being functional. After being out with people, going home seems more empty. Seems more daunting. I’m afraid of the emptiness. I’m afraid of my thoughts. Most of all I’m afraid of myself. I hate myself. I hate myself for what I’ve become. For what I used to think I was.And for what I thought I could be. But I fell short. I always fall short. I go through the motions and I do what needs to be done, but it’s empty. Hollow. My life consists of pretending. I don’t even remember who I am, who I was, who I used to want to be. My tears consume me when I am alone. I am alone most of the time. No one knows. No one notices. And no one cares. No one calls. More than half the time, no one responds even if I reach out. They’re tired of me. Tired of being bothered by my burdens. By the neediness. Even if I ask for them to come over, they don’t. Or they say they will but never show. No one wants me around and no one invites me anywhere. No one rings the doorbell. And no one calls. It’s a lonely empty existence. A pain that never ceases. I wish I had the courage to let it go. But losing Donald. Losing RoRo. Losing someone I barely knew, Mathis. Losing them to suicide, is an emptiness I’m not comfortable with. If anyone is out there that still cares, I don’t want them to feel that hurt. Although it would be exactly how it is now. They don’t ever see me or talk to me, or even try, so how would it be different? I wish I had the courage. But I’m just too scared it will hurt. Too scared to mess it up. Just like I’ve done with every other aspect of my life.

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Thinking

Most of the time I am alone. Alone with my thoughts. My fears. My emptiness. My hatred for myself. My pain. My memories. My tears. Alone. No one calls. It’s been months since I’ve heard from my family. Sometimes I wonder if they even love me. If they loved me they would call. If they loved me they would visit. I’ve come to the conclusion that I am just a disappointment. A lost cause and a failure. If they loved me, they would care. They would want to know what I was up to, they would want to say they love me. I used to call them.. But I’ve since wondered how long it would take before they reached out to me. My friends have all but disappeared. Too many times I’ve needed something. Love. Comfort. Money. Attention. Too many times I’ve asked for help. I never ask for help. It took a lot for me to admit that I needed it. I’m about to be homeless because I was jobless for too long. Depression, exhaustion, defeat, fear and I don’t know what else prevented me from being able to get of my ass and try. I miss my best friend. I lost him to meth.

Six months ago was the last time we spoke. We got in a huge argument about his lying and his habit and I kicked him out of my life. He beat the ever living shit out of me. Hit me so many times in the head I was stupid for about 9 hours. I was slurring my words and couldn’t formulate a complete thought. I was confused when I spoke and halfway through a sentence I forgot what I was going to say. I couldn’t eat for a week because my jaw was so messed up. He choked me. For those 3-4 minutes that I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, couldn’t even gasp or whisper, trying to grasp what was happening, I thought he was going to kill me. He said, “I hope you die bitch” as he choked me tighter. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t scream. My best friend for the past four years. My protector. My confidant. My strength. He was trying to kill me. I played dead for about 10 seconds, hoping he would let go. He didn’t. I reached up, still not really wanting to hurt him, and reached for his eyeball. I didn’t want to gouge it out. I hoped he would let go. He did. I ran into the house and grabbed my gun. I held the phone for several seconds, not wanting to call the police. I wanted to save him. I wanted him to get better. I wanted my best friend back. I was terrified he was going to kick in the door and finish what he started. I called the police. I was hysterical. I was terrified.

It took them a month to arrest him. He still hasn’t been sentenced. Two months ago he was arrested for grand larceny. The court website said it was greater than $3500. I was thankful. I was sad. I wondered how he got to that point. I wondered what would happen to his children if he went to prison. I loved those boys more than life. For a time, I almost felt like they were my own children. I pretended they were. They pretended they were. They loved me. And I was happier than I’ve ever been. A family. I had a family again. And they loved me. I miss them so much it hurts. I constantly think about them and wonder how they are doing. But I can’t call them or see them because of the restraining order I have on their dad. If you can call him a dad. He is a shell of a person. A walking mannequin of who he used to be. Once upon a time, he was a good person. I miss that person but I don’t know him anymore.

I barely know myself anymore. I’m a joke. My life is a joke. I don’t have a life. I purely just exist. Most of the time I wonder how long it would take for someone to notice I was gone if I could just work up the courage to pull the trigger. Months probably. My dog would die of starvation. I love him. He is the single reason I still exist. He is my world and I barely even take care of him. He eats regularly and we snuggle, but it’s been so long since we’ve left the house. I rarely take him on walks. He is depressed. So am I. I feel guilty for not taking him out, but I just can’t find the motivation to do it. And more than that I’m scared. I’m scared to leave my house because I no longer trust anyone. I don’t feel safe. I’m always looking over my shoulder wondering if he will come back to finish what he started. Simultaneously, I wonder if he’s getting help. If he’s getting better. I hope that he is. But I know that I will never speak to him again even if he is. I’m scared of him. And I hate him. But I love and miss my best friend. And I know I will never have him back. Meth changes people. Forever. I will never trust him again.

I don’t trust anyone. No one cares about me anyway and it seems so easy to break that bond. I wonder if I will ever matter to anyone again. So many times I wonder if I even matter at all. I long for comfort. For friendship. For love that never comes. A few times I’ve say in my bathtub, holding my revolver. The and revolver that Donald shot himself with two years ago. I play Russian roulette, but I’m too much of a coward to hold it to my head and pull the trigger. I count how many times it lands on a bullet. I wish I had the courage to pull the trigger. I wonder who would find me. I wonder if they even would.

So I sit and write. Hoping someone will read this. Hoping someone will care. Hoping that maybe someone will respond. Tired of taking to myself. I have gone weeks only talking to my dogs. Only speaking at work. And starting at a phone that never rings. I want someone to care. I want someone to notice. But no one ever does. So I’ll sit. And I’ll write. And I try to gather the courage to do something other than exist. But it is an endless cycle that I have been living four years. No one ever stays and I am always alone.