and after all that, after all that intense outpouring of fear and rage and misery, they then proceed to
not call you or check on you in any way shape or form
for the next several MONTHS?
And if they ever do call, there's no, "Hi, how are you?" There's no subtle sussing around for a way to help. There's always resentment, and anger, and irritation that you're so fucking needy and pathetic. That you can't just fucking get your shit together.
And then they're all fucking walking-on-egg-shells, because they don't fucking GET that what you fucking need is fucking HELP and for somebody to SHOW that they fucking GIVE A FUCKING SHIT by actually fucking CALLING you now and then, and not just to pretend that nothing's wrong and that they'll only talk to you if you don't bother them with all that annoying suicide shit that's just a bunch of attention-getting anyway.
No fucking SHIT, you fucking moron. Attention? A person who's lonely and terrified and miserable doesn't need any fucking attention. Naw, we're just being manipulative assholes. We really LOVE being this miserable, it's so much fucking FUN. It's just fucking GREAT. In fact, why don't you fucking TRY it, you piece of shit?
***
So.
You've mentioned suicide to them, because you're afraid you're going to do it.
You don't really WANT to die, but when the pain gets bad enough, when you haven't slept or eaten in days, when you're terrified to leave the house because you can't stand the idea of yet another harsh word or rude action that will send your already full-to-the-brim pain reservoir sloshing all over the place so that you fall, yet again, down the rabbit hole of despair at the cruelty and selfishness of other humans -
FUCK - people worry about a fucking PET TURTLE or some shit more than they worry about actual humans. "Oh, pweese, won't you check on little anklebiter for me? I'm so worried he'll get lonely. I don't want him to be stwessed."
Of course they don't fucking GIVE a rat's ass about YOUR stress or loneliness. No, that's YOUR problem, babe. After all, you've got a car, you can dial a phone - what more do you need? So you have no money. Eh, money's over-rated (says the guy with two houses, four cars, a boat, a living room full of excercise machines, who complains that his friends tease him that he doesn't have a widescreen in his fucking living room. Jesus FUCKING christ.)
***
A friend (obviously no longer a close one) committed suicide about a week ago.
I have to say, I understand (I think) how he was feeling: Alone, lonely, end of his rope, no end in sight, no hope, no future. Getting older, all the bright possibilities that once beckoned from a glorious future never came to pass; the disappointments accumulate, over and over.
You never expected to be a superstar, no; but you thought you'd be loved, cared for; that you'd have a family of your own, or at least someone to curl up with at night.
You thought you'd have a home of your own; a nest, a safe place, where they couldn't throw you out because they'd found someone else who could pay them more money.
You thought you'd be doing something worthwhile with your life, something valuable, something that made you feel appreciated and important and special.
And yet, even when such appreciation came to pass, it was never enough - it never filled that empty place inside, that always hungry place where lack of true parental appreciation for who you WERE should have been.
Instead they were always on about what you DID; they never seemed pleased with you, never happy to see you; just the sight of your bright, shining little face never sent them into raptures of joy.
You became what they call a 'human doing' instead of a human being.
And even that never worked. You could never please them - you'd do the art projects your mom wanted, but you were too good, too quick, too naturally talented. Your amazing early work was met with: Silence.
The fact that you read at the age of three was used as a way to shut you up alone for hours on end, assuming that you were totally self-sufficient and would be just fine. News flash to moronic mother: Shutting a THREE YEAR OLD up alone with a bunch of books is the social equivalent of - I don't fucking know what. But I know that it fucked me up. At the time when I most needed other people, I was continually ALONE. Yes, I know, you had the new baby to deal with. Right, so what was I - fucking dog meat?
Yeah, I know. You weren't really ready to be a mother - ill-equipped and all that. Whatever. How the fuck does that help ME? Answer: It doesn't. Not at all. It's just another pathetic excuse.
***
And here we go round the fucking hamster wheel again: Trying to figure out WHY.
Why ME? Why am I, particularly, so miserable?
In this culture we're held entirely responsible for everything that happens to us, from the circumstances of our birth to the long-term outcomes of said circumstances.
You will fucking NEVER be cut any fucking slack for having been, say, emotionally rejected by your father for committing the heinous crime of being born female.
No one will ever sympathize that you didn't get enough support; after all, you're a girl - you're just supposed to shut up and smile and get married and have babies and stay the fuck out of the way of all the important people, namely, men.
Men don't care because all they want is to fuck you if you're sexy; have you as a status symbol if you're gorgeous enough, or indenture you as a child-bearing machine and household menial if you appear to possess the right mix of - let's see if I can get this right - sugar and spice and everything nice, was that the prescription women got stuck with? While men got to do all the fun stuff - frogs and snails and shit.
No one will ever care.
No one will genuinely be concerned that you're like a flower that, season after season, put forth leaves and branches and a bud or two - but never blossomed.
They'll blame YOU for that - you see, it was your own damn fault. You were just too angry - you wouldn't suck it up and roll over and let them get away with their shit. You fucking CALLED them on it, every fucking time, and they got tired of the woman who wouldn't let them remain little boys with their little boy toys. You wouldn't play 'mama' for them.
Eh, whatever.
FUCK y'all. Fuck ALL y'all.
***
What a fucking INSULT to call suicide a 'long-term solution to a short-term problem'. You can fucking KISS MY ENTIRE ASS, you sanctimonious piece of shit.
Have you ever fucking EXPERIENCED what this person's going through? No, you fucking well haven't. You don't have a fucking CLUE what it's like. Not only that, you don't fucking CARE. You just don't want to be bothered. It's too much trouble. Plus, it makes you think, and you don't LIKE to think. Thinking is hard. It's just too fucking difficult. Thinking is for people who got a bad hand in life, and you, we'll, you're special. There's no way you'd ever 'let' something like that happen to you because you're in total and complete control at all times of everything that happens in your life, and anyway only losers ever complain about their lives. That's victim shit.
Don't give me fucking platitudes about how it will get better. How do you know? It's been getting steadily worse for the last ten years - what the fuck is going to change? Am I going to magically get younger? Win the lottery? Suddenly become beautiful when I never have been before? Suddenly develop a completely different personality that allows me to be blissfully oblivious to the total and complete mindfuck of being a woman in a male-dominated world?
FUCK you.
***
***
Hearing your father screaming, “Don’t let my son die” is what kept you here. You know, now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you really matter to somebody. I think that those of us who contemplate suicide do so because we’re pretty dang sure that nobody cares.
The sound of the gun will echo for a long time, true - but so will your father’s words. That will pull you through, will give you the strength to deal with the rest of it. Hearing somebody scream that is like somebody throwing you an emotional life preserver - it’s probably what helped you survive. You’re very lucky to have someone like that in your life.
I envy you. I wish someone would care about me that much. I’ve wished for it all my life.
No comments:
Post a Comment