I was writing in a notebook to have a journal of my thoughts and feelings but my hand cramped up. Living with lupus, aches and pains are a normal part of my day. I come here to rant because I know no one actually reads these things.  I know no one will ever see this one as I write it completely anonymously. I have another blog that I use my name and actually post stories that I want people to read.  Today I wrote a poem about killing myself and posted it to my facebook/twitter/google page. One friend “liked” it on my facebook, but I know she didn’t actually read it.

The desire to end my life is becoming more intense every day. I live with my parents and while my Dad and I get a long, I can’t stand my mother. In 41 years I honestly can’t recall her ever saying anything positive to me or about me. “You could be so pretty if you’d just lose weight/wear makeup/ hang with the right people/work the right job.” I honestly don’t think she knows anything about me.

I’m 41. I have cardiomyopathy, diabetes, sever depression and lupus. The last few jobs have either triggered a lupus flare and caused every joint in my body to seize up (which hurts like a son of a bitch) or I’ve gotten panic attacks that brought me to my knees to the point where I was barfing up my toenails. All of this is completely exhausting so I sleep a lot. And I do mean A LOT.

Right now I’m struggling with the heat and sunlight of a texas summer. It triggers migraines, muscle spasms and just generally leaves me hot, sweaty and miserable.

I tried working for myself by starting a pet sitting business. All of my friends encouraged me and I find working with animals to be therapeutic. My mother told me it was a stupid idea, because everything about me is stupid. In this case she was right. I just don’t have the people skills to ask for business. Two months in and I haven’t been able to get a single client. All of my friends who were going to use me suddenly disappeared. I’ve no idea why. I’m way better with animals than I am with people.

The final kicker was what my mother said to me after I took the door magnets off of my car. I’d taken them off to run the car through the wash.  The blowers on the thing fold my front license plate us like a taco, so I wasn’t certain if the magnets would survive it.  When I came home, my mother tells me, “Oh I’m so glad you took those tacky magnets off your car. I was so embarrassed having that sit in my driveway.”  Ouch.

So two weeks ago I started driving for Uber. There are risks to be sure, but I kind of enjoy it. I can work when and where I want to and I met some really nice people. Mom started bitching me out for not working and I confessed that I was working. She through a gigantic fit when I told her. Apparently that’s not the “right” job for the pompous primadonna’s daughter. Now every time I leave the house she demands to know where I’m going. It’s like being in prison.

No, she wants me to become a teacher. That’s the “right” job for me.  I tried that several years ago but apparently that has slipped her mind. I worked a year as a substitute. First of all, the germs in dealing with children rocked my little world. I have never been so sick in my life.  Then I got “fired” from one school because I lost a 2nd grader. “How does one lose a second grader” you ask?  I’ll tell you how. The elementary school that I want to offered no support at all. I had no idea what to do and there was no one to help. So end of day comes and stupid me trusts the children to know what they’re supposed to do. When they announce that the walkers – students allowed to walk home – are dismissed, this one little girl told me it was ok for her to walk. I didn’t know. I had absolutely nothing to go by, so I let her go. An hour later I get a frantic phone call that this child is missing. I literally almost threw up and offered to come back to help look for her, which was declined. They did find her out walking an hour later – unharmed, thank God. But the next day the principle called to tell me that I was an irresponsible idiot, what would have happened if the news had found out, and I would never be asked back to their school.  I never subbed again and to this day I get sick to my stomach whenever I even think about it.

I tried writing again. I used my uber experience to write an intro to a story that I thought was interesting. My “support group” savaged it and I cried. Apparently I don’t have the chops to be a writer either.

So where does that leave me? Tired. Fed up. Hurting. Lonely. Hopeless. Some days I want to die so bad I can’t stand it. I’ve even found myself debating the best way to hold the gun – mouth or side of the head.  I mean, that would cover all of my mother’s issues with me. In the grave she’ll always know where I am. She’ll never have to pay another penny toward my support or worry what’ll happen to me when she’s gone. Plus imagine all the attention she’ll get from my death. “Oh your poor dear. We’re so sorry for your loss.”  She’ll eat that up like a fat kid at an all you can eat candy buffet.

I’m scared. While intellectually I know suicide is the best option for me, and my family, I’m too chickenshit to do the deed.  Maybe my Mom’s right about how lazy and useless I am after all.

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