Wednesday, June 9, 2010

You might be a genius if you skip this altogether.
I am always surprised how people need to be effected by something to care. Case in point:
Somewhere in the walk from the mail drop in our office to the main post office upstairs my rent check is floating around. I asked someone to check with the mail people at 8 this morning. It’s now 11. So fuck her. I went up there and banged my way into their super-secret secret knock office. The post person basically had the attitude of Oh Yeah—That was last Tuesday—I’m not sure how this is my problem. So fuck her too. Like could you be bothered to maybe move some stuff around to see if it fell behind something?! I’m not asking for zip codes to be changed or anything—Just put yourself in my shoes that I am freaking out b/c my god damn rent check is lost. My guess is changing zip codes would have been a more well received suggestion. What the fuck happened to empathy? Oh right—APATHY.

I am depressed. I am tired. I am really tired from hiding my depression. I resent having been the responsible one my whole life. Could I just get some fucking peace and quiet to have my nervous breakdown in? Nope. I thought for awhile this was in my head. This feeling of if I do not take care of it—No one will. This is a horrible behavior to have. Especially when the roots of it are wrapped around a despondent, selfish, depressive mother. The woman who was overwhelmed by laundry. Easy for her—she’s dead now. So even if I were to engage in how overwhelmed I feel—I will not. I will not be like her.

In all honesty—I cannot be trusted to take care of anything. Filling ice cube trays, finding my way to work, returning books on time, remembering whose birthday is when. Right now I do not even want to. It feels so expected of me. I know this is all fairly typical in PTSD people. But I see/hear/read about all these people that just don’t work because they cannot handle it. Or they have the energy for other things/hobbies but they don’t work or function in society. Or they fucked up school. Whatever. I wish someone would explain why the fuck it is that my entire life I have been apologizing for doing what I needed to for survival—But yet nearly every accomplishment in my life has been an OVER accomplishment. Talk to me about that mutherfuckers. Not telling me I am an embarrassment of a daughter for defending myself. Or that I am a failure at my job because I need a day off to hide. So I can function for the next 364 days.

I am not bad. But that is what the world sees—because it’s easier to deal with.

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