My brother has a life. My brother has a wife. Heigh-ho the derry-o my brother has a life.
My aunt has a life. A very active life. Heigh-ho the derry-o, my aunt has a life.
She’s 80, by the way. At that stage where she should be winding down. Where she should be more isolated and alone. But she isn’t. She just keeps going and doing. Church. Groups. Friends. Events.
She makes me tired.
She is involved in more activities than I’ve ever been involved with. She has…a life. She has purpose. She has a reason to get up each morning. Even if she’s kind of depressed. Because she’s 80. Nearing the end. And that’s a hard place to be.
I, on the other hand, have no life. Never have.
I, on the other hand, don’t have a reason to keep going. Or doing. Other than my dogs.
I have no reason to keep trying. To be alive. Been trying for a long time. A very, very, very long time.
I’m tired of trying to find a reason. To keep going. Tired of trying to find a purpose. Tired of finding none and coming up empty over and over. Tired of grinding everything out by nothing other than the power of my will. Doing everything because I have to.
Oh, I guess I have a life of sorts. Pathetic as it is. Mostly it consists of just trying to get through the week.
I go to work. Do the best I can within the parameters of the very limited authority and space I have been given on the job. It’s the only place I have any hope of contributing. The only place I have even a minimal amount of influence. Not really much influence at all. Not many options. Not much hope.
They pay me very little. I make barely enough to survive.
Actually, I don’t make enough to survive. I’m going the hole. Every month. I’m going down the drain.
There’s no hope. No hope.
And I’m old. Which makes it ever worse.
I wake up in the middle of the night in a panic. Because I’m going down the drain. Because there is no hope. Because I can’t change my destiny. No matter how hard I work. No matter how hard I try. I’m doomed. Nothing is going to change that. It never has and therefore, it’s impossible to believe it ever will.
But beyond them, well, there’s nothing. I sit here alone, typing words on this blank screen, hoping to connect with some unseen person out there. Someone who will hear my heart. Someone who will understand. Who will care.
I’m listening to TV without watching, drinking a glass of wine to dull the pain. Or to anesthetist the lack of pain.
Maybe even drinking a couple of glasses.
Maybe even drinking three.
Because not being able to feel is just as painful as feeling. Or maybe it’s even more painful.
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work I go.
To a place that is hostile. That place where I work. Where I’m under attack. I’m trying to hang on. I’m trying to get through. But it isn’t working out. It isn’t working out because this isn’t living. Not at all. This is barely getting by. This is really not even getting by. And I’m tired of barely, not even really getting by. Tired of just surviving.
Just like I’m tired of being alone.
Just like I’m tired of not being able to find a reason to live.
The only reason I keep hanging on is because I want to leave a record behind. A record of what happens when a person is sexually abused. By their father. When they’re a child. I want people to understand what it does to that child. I want people to know it destroys their soul. Their whole life. Everything. All that they might have, could have, should have been. It’s gone before they even got started living.
All that I might have been, could have been, should have been. Gone.
It destroyed me. In spite of all my efforts to heal. To overcome. I am hoping it will matter. I’m hoping what I went through will make a difference somehow. To someone.
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work I go…
I go to work where I make next to nothing. Where I am nothing.
Then I go home to my Miniature Schnauzers. They’re happy to see me. They think I’m something. They love me. They think I’m wonderful. They dance and wiggle when they see me. My heart comes alive when I see them.
But I don’t matter. I don’t think I’m anything. I don’t think I have any value.
So I drink wine. Too many glasses sometimes. I hold them on my lap and love them while I drink my wine. To dull the pain. To dull the lack of pain.
Then I go to sleep.
And do it all over again the next day. Hoping against hope that tomorrow will be different. Better.
That the weekend will be better. Will make life better.
Heigh-ho the derry-o, I want to have a life.
But all I have is this pathetic imitation. This pathetic imitation of life.
I live in a vacuum. I try to deceive myself into believing I have a reason to keep living. That life is worth living. Or will be. Tomorrow.
It’s not working.
I don’t have a life. Or a reason to live. Beyond my dogs. Beyond loving them. Taking care of them.
I need a real life. I need to finally live.