happy fucking 52nd birthday you stupid whiny old hag
So I've told dan several times, including recently, don't point out that it's my birthday when it comes. I told him the whole thing stinks and depresses me because it's not a birthday and nobody wants to celebratte my birth anyway. It's not like he's going to do anything to make it a happy birthday, that's been proven for the last ten years. So far as he's concerned, telling me "happy birthday" in the morning meets his obligations.
Last week he had a birthday. I don't buy him a present or bake him a cake anymore. He doesn't appreciate anything much and anyway, can buy his own stuff. It's his money I'm spending, right? But it started out horrible so I didn't wish him a happy birthday till we could sort out the horrible via replacing the massive check that had just bounced and left us well in debt and facing spiralling bank fees.
Then I decided to figure out how to make it a happy day. Not just play lip-service to the event but make an effort. I baked him an apple pie and some mac'n'cheese with weiners in it and did it up extra nice. He loved it and had happy birthday. I told him then, unless he's actually got some way to make my birthday happy, don't mention it and I can probably keep my mind on it.
I woke up in a decent mood and set about making breakfast for us both. Then he did it. "happy birthday"
I tried to be polite but after a half hour of stewing on how it's a day of international mourning and that's appropriate since the whole world gave a sigh of exasperation when I arrived and they've been frustrated with me ever since.
The only way anyone likes me is away, somewhere.
So I spoke up to tell him how I was feeling. He swore at me and I just dropped everything and spent the day crying in bed.
Did he check up on me? No. He was quick to speak to me when he thought I was judging his care of the pets, in defense of himself. When in fact he hadn't taken the dog out when it was time and the dog did indeed need to go out badly.
Not once did he pay attention to the fact that I'm not eating, not drinking, not taking any of my medicine or doing any self care, and laying up here with headache, belly ache, back ache, and heart ache.
This is the one and only person who likes me enough to pay my bills and even he finds me tiresome.
If I had a gun this would end now. Every suicide method I can think of involves either too much blood, too much time, or tools i don't have. I'm too scared to try eating the mouse bait. I am in so much pain already, but I think it could get worse and last way too long.
Then I imagined a nice bloodless death diving into a snow drift in the winter. I could hide there till spring. But I have tried going outside to freeze to death and I can't resist going back in when I get cold and bored. So again, I'm so fucking worthless I can't even do that right.
But I'm not a killer. If I knew one, maybe we could come to some arrangement.
I keep telling myself I don't need an excuse to live, just a reason, but I've been so sick now for so long with no relief in sight, I actually have reasons to die above and beyond not having anything to live for.
I keep hoping what I have will kill me but it seems very unlikely.
Not that anyone will know till the day I fail to come downstairs to use the toilet.
I did sleep for a few hours today so now it's bedtime and I'm faced with a very long night. I keep trying to go back to sleep. Being hungry makes that less difficult, sleep is how the body deals with hunger, but I can't seem to quit thinking about how utterly alone I am in my misery and how ashamed I feel to have feelings.
I'm so ashamed of myself anymore. I can't do anything wellenough for anyone and am unwanted. Worthless. Undesirable. It's quite irrelevant what skills or knowlege I have or what nice things strangers online formulate. My life clearly indicates by the lack of comfort, care, or cheer effort, that I'm unwanted.
So I plan on going upstairs when Dan is home. Now that I have a truly portable computer that can safely lay in bed with me this will be easier. I'll get up late and run upstairs when he gets home and he can have his glorious solitude downstairs. I'm clearly a burden and I'm clearly not going to just make myself cheerful and sweet again. I'm a lost cause and too deep into illness and depression to pull myself out or really even have any hope or faith left. I just want to stop caring, one way or another.
Also, I'm not eating anymore. I will try and get in a cup or two of broth but if my stomach won't digest food properly there's no point giving it any.
I know damn well this won't cause me to starve to death anymore than I've got stomach cancer, risk of stroke, heart disease, or any other legitimate complaint. I'm not allowed to have any legit complaints, I'm only allowed to be a miserable nuisance. Clearly there is a god and it hates me for reasons I am not allowed to know. I guess the suffering is more delicious that way.
Or perhaps I'm just a fucking diva trying to get too much out of everyone. Could be.
Either way, walking wounded or play acting diva, my place is clearly in the attic, alone.
Last week he had a birthday. I don't buy him a present or bake him a cake anymore. He doesn't appreciate anything much and anyway, can buy his own stuff. It's his money I'm spending, right? But it started out horrible so I didn't wish him a happy birthday till we could sort out the horrible via replacing the massive check that had just bounced and left us well in debt and facing spiralling bank fees.
Then I decided to figure out how to make it a happy day. Not just play lip-service to the event but make an effort. I baked him an apple pie and some mac'n'cheese with weiners in it and did it up extra nice. He loved it and had happy birthday. I told him then, unless he's actually got some way to make my birthday happy, don't mention it and I can probably keep my mind on it.
I woke up in a decent mood and set about making breakfast for us both. Then he did it. "happy birthday"
I tried to be polite but after a half hour of stewing on how it's a day of international mourning and that's appropriate since the whole world gave a sigh of exasperation when I arrived and they've been frustrated with me ever since.
The only way anyone likes me is away, somewhere.
So I spoke up to tell him how I was feeling. He swore at me and I just dropped everything and spent the day crying in bed.
Did he check up on me? No. He was quick to speak to me when he thought I was judging his care of the pets, in defense of himself. When in fact he hadn't taken the dog out when it was time and the dog did indeed need to go out badly.
Not once did he pay attention to the fact that I'm not eating, not drinking, not taking any of my medicine or doing any self care, and laying up here with headache, belly ache, back ache, and heart ache.
This is the one and only person who likes me enough to pay my bills and even he finds me tiresome.
If I had a gun this would end now. Every suicide method I can think of involves either too much blood, too much time, or tools i don't have. I'm too scared to try eating the mouse bait. I am in so much pain already, but I think it could get worse and last way too long.
Then I imagined a nice bloodless death diving into a snow drift in the winter. I could hide there till spring. But I have tried going outside to freeze to death and I can't resist going back in when I get cold and bored. So again, I'm so fucking worthless I can't even do that right.
But I'm not a killer. If I knew one, maybe we could come to some arrangement.
I keep telling myself I don't need an excuse to live, just a reason, but I've been so sick now for so long with no relief in sight, I actually have reasons to die above and beyond not having anything to live for.
I keep hoping what I have will kill me but it seems very unlikely.
Not that anyone will know till the day I fail to come downstairs to use the toilet.
I did sleep for a few hours today so now it's bedtime and I'm faced with a very long night. I keep trying to go back to sleep. Being hungry makes that less difficult, sleep is how the body deals with hunger, but I can't seem to quit thinking about how utterly alone I am in my misery and how ashamed I feel to have feelings.
I'm so ashamed of myself anymore. I can't do anything wellenough for anyone and am unwanted. Worthless. Undesirable. It's quite irrelevant what skills or knowlege I have or what nice things strangers online formulate. My life clearly indicates by the lack of comfort, care, or cheer effort, that I'm unwanted.
So I plan on going upstairs when Dan is home. Now that I have a truly portable computer that can safely lay in bed with me this will be easier. I'll get up late and run upstairs when he gets home and he can have his glorious solitude downstairs. I'm clearly a burden and I'm clearly not going to just make myself cheerful and sweet again. I'm a lost cause and too deep into illness and depression to pull myself out or really even have any hope or faith left. I just want to stop caring, one way or another.
Also, I'm not eating anymore. I will try and get in a cup or two of broth but if my stomach won't digest food properly there's no point giving it any.
I know damn well this won't cause me to starve to death anymore than I've got stomach cancer, risk of stroke, heart disease, or any other legitimate complaint. I'm not allowed to have any legit complaints, I'm only allowed to be a miserable nuisance. Clearly there is a god and it hates me for reasons I am not allowed to know. I guess the suffering is more delicious that way.
Or perhaps I'm just a fucking diva trying to get too much out of everyone. Could be.
Either way, walking wounded or play acting diva, my place is clearly in the attic, alone.