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›comments[0] ›all comments ›post #570 ›bio: kristen ›perma-link ›12/3/2024 ›14:26 ›archives ›first post ›that week
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Her fingers were cold. She had been or was trying to be a martyr for the electric bill. Although after writing that, she scurried to the thermostat to turn it up to the extravagant temperature of 57. Having seen that she had a super stellium in the 12th house, she had decided that maybe although she had flirted with it for so long, perhaps it was the thing to do to end her life. This caused her pain to write, yet it was relatively easy to imbibe. No one who knew her would be the least bit shocked as she had been ideating suicide since forever. It was a bit of an adjunct to the "I'm leaving" vibe she also gave when the going got at all tough. She hoped so much, but nothing specific. All she really craved when she really stuck her mind into the flat tire was good food, great companionship, excellent conversation, creative outlets, and so much sanctified solitude in between... oh and control. The medication may have helped a little bit. She certainly didn't want to be a bother to anyone. That was all over with. She knew she was going to be laid off in the new year and the only options she had were pet-sitting and wiping old bottoms. That might be totally fine were there something else. Perhaps there were other people as self-scorned and ostracized as her. She didn't know how to meet them and no longer cared. She figured maybe June would be a time to do it. The only hard part was she'd have to wait until after her mother died. It felt extremely rude to give her such pain - the only one who would really suffer. It felt like a symmetry a bit. Her sister's brother in law who was as crazy as narcissi was also dead of his own hand while living within a house his parents gave him. It didn't make her happy to die. She just couldn't figure out any other way to not be someone's reluctant charity case. Wilmington had been a disaster. It was supposed to be a spiritual mind quest to rejuvenate her lost mojo. Instead, it felt like darkness. She was gone after the first day - feeling the emptiness: "this town doesn't need, want, or value you. fucking go." It was beyond sad as it had been in her back pocket for ages to always have this refuge. Now, it was definitely done. She spent thousands trying to find the right setting for her birthday. It hadn't worked. She enjoyed seeing her first love, but it also killed her a tiny tiny bit. His life was perfect beyond wishes. The only problem he had was mild boredom. She did a terrible job being entertaining. It had been a hard time entertaining. Prior to Wilmington, she had hosted a pal - and fuck it was weird as shit that this pal came and visited her. They had previously spent maybe three times together outside of work. But, came this odd friend did. It made Narcissi feel even more of a failure, but it hadn't mattered at the time because wilmington/brigadoon beckoned. She was going to repeat the life-enhancing time she'd last had. It was all set. The whole experience had - coupled with the tragic trajectory of her work's demise - deflated her. It had taken... And she looked at the past and thought what a waste anyone who had ever had to deal with her - how sorry she was that she had been such a shit fuck up. She now just wanted to be no trouble to anyone - retreat retreat retreat. All the fucking words bile She wondered how other people might feel who thought their life a huge waste and almost worse than a waste - a boring catalyst of flops. She had read so many books and written none. She had thought so many things. The Eliot smith lyric always haunted her "the things you'll do. you won't but you might!" He killed himself. It felt somewhat brave. And sure, there were maybe two or three people who liked and loved her; but the people who were around were mostly non-stimulating to her. She hung out with them, but there was nothing. She thought of that suicide she had read about that quashed her - the person who killed themselves within a body bag so as to not be a burden as much as possible. For murder (and she'd surely get to that murder mystery she'd been meaning to write one day), it always perplexed her that people took so much care and worry to someone for whom they'd not give a shit in life. Almost as if it was a video game - a puzzle to solve. For suicide - for self-murder, it felt different. There were no multi-pronged investigations. The sentence was passed. Judgment given. At least she was somewhat at peace with the parents. She didn't have to hold up the injustice and unaccountability of her father anymore. Everyone was doing fine, and she could finally become the abortion he'd wanted her to be. It had been brutally cold in the charity house for the last five days. She worried always about the cats, the plants, the feeling of warmth. Why couldn't she be like others she saw - fucking dumb and ludicrous yet full of the life zest. Fucking Brittany spears for fuck's sake dancing her ass off for anyone with a public account. There was nothing anyone could do. The one thing that would save her would be winning the lottery, but she didn't play so that was unlikely. If she had all the money and wouldn't need to depend on anyone, that would be a way. Instead, she was old, ugly, she supposed she was lazy too. There were things that galvanized her and got her focus, but they were more tactical and less strategic. If you were in crisis, she would care so very much it would keep her up at night and she'd devise ways to save you. It had been a fun dream to think she could get paid to care about people - the mental health worker. The inmate running the asylum. Now, she realized the best she could do was $18/hour being a baby sitter at a psych ward. She was old. It was done. There was no room for $18 hour jobs anymore. She was not into life enough to try to patch together some survival that left her alone with jeopardy on the telly every night. She wondered if her boss would feel badly as that would be the straw that broke the camel's back - to lose her income. Hopefully, no one would even know. She was going to tell her sister that she didn't need a funeral after all. She had been pissed when the sisters of her sister's brother in law didn't give him a funeral. Now, she was fine with it. Who needed to get any closure. Closure was obtained. Her entire existence was closed. The nagging part was that she thought she was such a kind, interesting, brilliant person. She genuinely was puzzled that it had all turned out like this. The puzzle was solved a fraction when one accounted for the fact that she had been in exile since divorce #1 - kind of dead since then. She had destroyed someone by being crazy. She had thought she was so magical and the shit when she had cheated on him - thought it was all going to turn out in some polyamorous bliss. She had been fucking crazy. She still "loved" thinking about husband number two slapping her across the face and calling her "fucking crazy" repeatedly. It felt somewhat nice that she was able to write again. It had been hard to be so numb the last fortnight. It sort of sucked that the boring topic of offing herself was what brought her back to the ring, yet who gave a fuck really. Who would ever read this? Why did she even write it here? because it was the one thing she had consistently given: these words into her mind. She was secretly very proud of her writing. She knew in her heart of hearts she was a fucking good writer. It had been told to her enough - she believed it. If only she had been able to do something with it, but fuck it fuckers it's all fucked now. And of course dumbasses she didn't REALLY want to die. She really wanted to be like one of you - loved by someone, feeling worthy of love, feeling forgiven, feeling wanted, feeling connected to life. It was her huge pride that caused her to plan to die. She didn't want her sister to roll her eyes and give her $500 a month or her stepfather to tell her what she should have done or her mother to pity her or her aunt to bemoan. She definitely didn't want to live with her brother. She had thought about all the exits you see... all of them. Nothing worked - even prostitution - come the fuck on. She was fifty plus. It would be great to be a touch manic to offset this depression, yet she was tired of all the falseness. She looked back on times she was "happy" and wondered if that was really madness. And when she masturbated, it was hard to recall real nice worshipful sex. She never came unless she didn't care remember? And the best thing would be for her to keep shutting up, keep waking up and sleeping, keep her bills paid, keep pretending it was all fine. It was possible due to her tremendous desire to not be trouble to those she loved. Hard part was not being able to see the path out. It felt too much like a dark lonely crypt with circles worn into the stone floor. Because she didn't see a path out, she sought an exit. Remember, control and pride. She was one of the smartest people she knew, and she was a fucking idiot.
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