To be fair, it probably wouldn’t matter what kind of life I had; I would probably hate it. Whether a Sherpa in Tibet, or a princess in Abu Dhabi, I suspect my brain would still tell me everything is well and truly fucked before I even opened my eyes in the morning. As a Malibu mom I still spend roughly 95% of my time awake telling myself that nothing is wrong by trying to be mindful, or staying in my body, or eating ice cream. Which is a shame because one of the few things that is good about my life at forty, is that I’m technically not fat. So let’s hope that holds.
I can’t really blame my kids for ruining my life, because I had a bad attitude even before I had children. I was born with a sense of entitlement, believing that people were who they appeared to be, when people smiled at you it meant something, and I would always be loved. Sadly, these beliefs proved idiotic, and at some point I must have internalized this sad state of affairs to create the behemoth of insecurity that nestles behind the ball-busting facade. I’m so insecure, I can’t even tell when someone really loves me, as I’ve been shown conclusively over the last couple of years, that even when people seem to love you, they can still yell at you daily, or fuck off out of your life for no apparent reason, or for a stupid reason; no matter how much you have been there for them, or liked them, or loved that little swirly thing they did with their tongues.
I don’t care if you hate me, because you will never hate me as much as I hate me. So I win! I will never be good enough in my own eyes except situationally- the added bonus of my weird personality disorder is that I can briefly feel good depending on the response of others. Then it immediately fades when they’re not there. Is that the technical definition of psychosis? Or just being an actor?
Even when I was married, I have always used love or romance to distract me from all this. There is so little that really makes life worth living, is it wrong to reach for an errant penis to try and make it better? Well, as a matter of fact, yes there is. The penis is hollow, not literally (as far as I know, I have never cross-sectioned one) but the feeling one is left with is. Like trying to fill an endless leaky bag with sand, I can’t reach for men anymore and it is fucking killing me. I’m so bored with life right now I could die, wish for it daily in fact, but G-d will not oblige, vindictive white bastard that He is.