I’m unsure whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of the situation. The situation being my current physical location, in my current emotional state, for want of a better word.
I’ve been crying, and again teetering on the brink of another flood of tears. I’m tired, in the mind and body, but most of all in my soul. Exhausted. I don’t, no I can’t deal with the struggle of being optimistic and I’m confronted with the overwhelming desire to just give up.
I don’t think happiness is an achievable goal for me.
I’m not like regular people.
I have a tortured soul and nothing or no-one can provide me with what is necessary to fill my proverbial cup of contentment. There is only one solution to amend my discontent. Maybe that’s why I’m here.
I do love my husband. I always have. I didn’t end the marriage because I don’t love him. I left because he can’t love me enough. He can’t be the glue that sticks all my broken bits back together enough to make me complete. He has his faults, but the problem is me. I am broken. Beyond repair. Countless men and a handful of lovers have proven that.
Why can’t I make it work with anyone else? I’ve had so many romantic encounters and I feel so fortunate to be handed so many opportunities on a silver platter, though I still can’t quite fathom how i am attractive to men, with my multitude of physical flaws. One life, one love. Maybe that’s true. Peter may be the only man alive with the capacity to fulfil me, but he’s too self-absorbed to be the man he promised he’d be in our wedding vows.
I’m destined for inner turmoil and misery. What’s the fucking point. The kids are grown enough now to flourish without me.
I’m finding it very surreal that in my black state of despair that I can still appreciate humour and also have a heightened appreciation for the sheer beauty of things. Kiara’s beautiful soprano. Josinta’s mischievous giggle. Jada’s sweet naive voice. Indi’s superb wit. I still have feelings, and that’s possibly my biggest flaw. I feel everything so deeply. I love hard, and my wounds never heal.
I thought of all of the men I’ve entertained. I could nearly effortlessly be what they wanted and needed, smugly relishing in the satisfying power of filling the void in the simple, masculine mind. The satisfaction, for me, is paradoxically superficial, only temporarily flooding my hungry psyche with the security of feeling wanted and ‘good enough’.
Elaboration on my promiscuous misadventures and sexcapades is inevitable, but currently secondary and superfluous. I’ve had so many men. Some taught me lessons beyond the bedroom, some just plumped up my inflated ego, and some I fought with futility for their respect. Self-contradicting, I realise. None had the power to live within my scarred heart in any comparable amount to my husband.
Maybe the man who loves me enough to despise me is my destiny. Peter Charles Stewart. The young man who swore to love me until death.
If I end it tonight, then maybe those vows are authentic. Until I die.
I could quit the fight, right here, tonight. Give up. Sweet, comforting peace, at last. No more hurt. No more struggle.
I’ve been mentally surveying the contents of Peter’s medicine cache since I arrived here with the kids at 6pm. He’s got enough there to kill me, I’m sure.
I can end my internal suffering once and for all.
(Ed – written four years ago, I’d been Dutching up my courage all night while I cried and journaled. My will to live battled my will to die. My old mate Vodka, albeit a somewhat love-hate relationship that we have, proved to have my back when it counted. I passed out drunk before I could go through with it.)