Manics typically don't sleep much. They're usually pumped so full of adrenaline that sleep isn't an easy thing to come by. According to the husband, he can lay in bed for hours and never feel tired.
Except when we need to talk.
The second we sit down to talk about us or the children or anything that doesn't involve daily schematics, his eyes start closing. If I'm looking for emotion or any sort of participation other than the occasional grunt, he loses consciousness.
But guess what?
The second I say "fuck it" and leave the room, his eyes pop open and he can magically play computer games again! It's a genuine fucking miracle!
In short, the guy is a douche. And if he is too rough with my kids or tells me to fuck off one more time I'm going to do things to his body that will ensure procreation to be an absolute impossibility for him.
I am tired of talking to a catatonic brick wall.
I deserve so much more than a self-absorbed selfish child who can't treat his family with respect for more than a week's amount of time.
I am so full of venom toward that apathetic asshole that it's frightening.
Fuck.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
Marital Counseling Part 1
"Your husband is a very angry man isn't he?"
The therapist's opening line was more of a statement than a question. Jeez. She zeroed in on Mr. Liar Liar Pants on Fire after one session? This chick is good. I nodded with my head down. "Very," I said.
"Do you love him?"
Her stare was piercing while I squirmed. What the hell kind of question was that? Of course I love him... don't I? I mean, why would I put up with everything if I didn't? "Fear," said my head. "Of course I love him," said my mouth. "Sometimes, anyway. He makes it very hard sometimes. Most times."
She nodded. I had the feeling that nothing I could say would surprise her. Just looking at the other patients in the lobby was enough to confirm that suspicion. Adult men rocking and twitching uncontrollably while their elderly mothers made soothing sounds or ignored them entirely. People who smelled like they belonged in the Victorian era where bathing was an option. Women with fewer teeth than limbs, who shouted at staff, other patients and the murals on the walls. They eyed my jewelry hungrily and I had an urge to say, "Fashion Bug, $4.75. Knock yourselves out."
It was an intake session. One of those wasted hours where you sign endless consent forms that are swiped by you too quickly to read and where you answer questions like, "How often were you abused as a child?" and "How would you kill yourself?"
My favorite question was, "If you ate or drank too much of something unhealthy, what would you do?" Shit. How does she know I usually spend Saturday nights eating a plate of Filiberto's nachos the size of my head? I said, "Wait for it to pass. Take an Alka Seltzer. I don't know." What the hell kind of question is that anyway? Does she really think I'm going to eat arsenic pellets or something? Oh wait, look at the rest of her clientele. No wonder she's asking me these inane questions.
Finally she asked THE questions. The ones that determine the truth about my household. "Do you feel safe? Do you think the kids are safe?"
Fuck I hate those two questions. I can either lie and waste everyone's time, or I can answer truthfully and reveal what a shitty mother I truly am. I chose to be truthful. I've been feeling a lack of time lately. Wasting is no longer an option.
"Sometimes I feel safe. Sometimes I feel like there's nothing I could do that would make him hurt me, or us. And sometimes he's a completely different person. The quintessential Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Those are the days that I feel like I could do the smallest thing and end up with a concussion. Those are the days we leave. I usually pile them in the car and we drive around or stay with a friend. He never leaves. He's too stubborn and never admits that he's done wrong until his manic episode has passed. It's best to leave and let him come to his own conclusions. So sometimes I feel safe. Today I feel safe. Tomorrow I might not."
She gave me that piercing stare again, "Do you believe that you need anything for your mood or emotions at this point?"
"No, I don't. Everything else in my life is great. My girls are wonderful, work is fantastic, my friends are supportive, money is getting better. It's just him. It's just him."
I held my breath while I waited for her to disagree. I thought for sure she was going to tell me that I'm crazy just like the husband does whenever he's angry with me. "I agree with you. I think you are handling a very hard situation the best way you can."
And we ended the session. She said it will be at least a couple of months before he joins us. She said that he obviously needs to work on many things himself and that she and I needed to come up with solutions and strategies for me.
So there you have it: A clean bill of mental health and one completely fucked marriage.
Here's a quote my friend B posted today:
Which of course begs the question: What the fuck am I doing here?
The therapist's opening line was more of a statement than a question. Jeez. She zeroed in on Mr. Liar Liar Pants on Fire after one session? This chick is good. I nodded with my head down. "Very," I said.
"Do you love him?"
Her stare was piercing while I squirmed. What the hell kind of question was that? Of course I love him... don't I? I mean, why would I put up with everything if I didn't? "Fear," said my head. "Of course I love him," said my mouth. "Sometimes, anyway. He makes it very hard sometimes. Most times."
She nodded. I had the feeling that nothing I could say would surprise her. Just looking at the other patients in the lobby was enough to confirm that suspicion. Adult men rocking and twitching uncontrollably while their elderly mothers made soothing sounds or ignored them entirely. People who smelled like they belonged in the Victorian era where bathing was an option. Women with fewer teeth than limbs, who shouted at staff, other patients and the murals on the walls. They eyed my jewelry hungrily and I had an urge to say, "Fashion Bug, $4.75. Knock yourselves out."
It was an intake session. One of those wasted hours where you sign endless consent forms that are swiped by you too quickly to read and where you answer questions like, "How often were you abused as a child?" and "How would you kill yourself?"
My favorite question was, "If you ate or drank too much of something unhealthy, what would you do?" Shit. How does she know I usually spend Saturday nights eating a plate of Filiberto's nachos the size of my head? I said, "Wait for it to pass. Take an Alka Seltzer. I don't know." What the hell kind of question is that anyway? Does she really think I'm going to eat arsenic pellets or something? Oh wait, look at the rest of her clientele. No wonder she's asking me these inane questions.
Finally she asked THE questions. The ones that determine the truth about my household. "Do you feel safe? Do you think the kids are safe?"
Fuck I hate those two questions. I can either lie and waste everyone's time, or I can answer truthfully and reveal what a shitty mother I truly am. I chose to be truthful. I've been feeling a lack of time lately. Wasting is no longer an option.
"Sometimes I feel safe. Sometimes I feel like there's nothing I could do that would make him hurt me, or us. And sometimes he's a completely different person. The quintessential Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Those are the days that I feel like I could do the smallest thing and end up with a concussion. Those are the days we leave. I usually pile them in the car and we drive around or stay with a friend. He never leaves. He's too stubborn and never admits that he's done wrong until his manic episode has passed. It's best to leave and let him come to his own conclusions. So sometimes I feel safe. Today I feel safe. Tomorrow I might not."
She gave me that piercing stare again, "Do you believe that you need anything for your mood or emotions at this point?"
"No, I don't. Everything else in my life is great. My girls are wonderful, work is fantastic, my friends are supportive, money is getting better. It's just him. It's just him."
I held my breath while I waited for her to disagree. I thought for sure she was going to tell me that I'm crazy just like the husband does whenever he's angry with me. "I agree with you. I think you are handling a very hard situation the best way you can."
And we ended the session. She said it will be at least a couple of months before he joins us. She said that he obviously needs to work on many things himself and that she and I needed to come up with solutions and strategies for me.
So there you have it: A clean bill of mental health and one completely fucked marriage.
Here's a quote my friend B posted today:
Unless it’s mad, passionate, extraordinary love, It’s a waste of your time. There are too many mediocre things in life. Love shouldn’t be one of them.
Which of course begs the question: What the fuck am I doing here?
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Dear God
So tonight the sermon at church was, "Where Were You?"
Indeed.
The question alone gave me goosebumps, tears that wouldn't be quelled and a quivering chin.
So many times I've wondered, where were You?
When the husband slapped D, where were You?
When I got that horrible phone call from her preschool to tell me that she had bruises shaped like hand prints on her face, where were You?
When I had to tell my boss why I needed to leave immediately, where were You?
When I drove to the preschool shaking and sobbing, where were You?
When she was lying in the office, vomiting and crying and shaking, where were You?
When I scooped her up in my arms and rocked her while the staff called the police, where were You?
When I called the husband to ask him why, where were You?
When he denied everything, where were You?
When I had to give interviews to the police and CPS, where were You?
When I had to hold D for evidence photos, where were You?
When she was sobbing behind the couch and refusing to answer questions, where were You?
When D and I lay in bed at night and held each other and cried, where were You?
When the husband was banned from the home by the police and I wanted to torture him, bloody him, tear him limb from limb, where were You?
When my sister asked for D back after I had raised her all those years, where were You?
While I asked myself how I had let this happen, where were You?
When I knew that I hadn't been able to protect my precious D, where were You?
God, where were You?
You held D when I couldn't.
When I could, You held us both.
You helped me make the twenty mile drive when I couldn't see through my tears.
You gave me strength to take care of H and A and to shield them from our reality.
You held my hand while I spoke to officers and caseworkers.
You gave me the words to say so they knew how badly I wished I had protected her.
You held me through my shock and despair.
You gave D peace and the incredible gift of forgiveness.
You gave me Your Word and showed me the truth of redemption and the healing of forgiveness.
You sat next to me at the trial and held me up while I spoke at the stand.
You sat with me through those long, lonely nights while the husband was banned from our home during court proceedings.
You comforted D while she cried at the window each time her daddy came to take A and H for a visit.
You were there while D discovered a faith that has brought her through each storm we've weathered.
You gave me the words to say to convince my sister that D would indeed be safe with me. Through any means necessary.
I don't understand Your ways. I don't understand why mental illness exists and why You allow children to be hurt by those that are meant to protect them. I don't understand so many things. But I know that I'm not alone. And that even in my deepest despair, You are there for me and You love me when I'm incapable of loving myself.
And for this I am eternally grateful.
Indeed.
The question alone gave me goosebumps, tears that wouldn't be quelled and a quivering chin.
So many times I've wondered, where were You?
When the husband slapped D, where were You?
When I got that horrible phone call from her preschool to tell me that she had bruises shaped like hand prints on her face, where were You?
When I had to tell my boss why I needed to leave immediately, where were You?
When I drove to the preschool shaking and sobbing, where were You?
When she was lying in the office, vomiting and crying and shaking, where were You?
When I scooped her up in my arms and rocked her while the staff called the police, where were You?
When I called the husband to ask him why, where were You?
When he denied everything, where were You?
When I had to give interviews to the police and CPS, where were You?
When I had to hold D for evidence photos, where were You?
When she was sobbing behind the couch and refusing to answer questions, where were You?
When D and I lay in bed at night and held each other and cried, where were You?
When the husband was banned from the home by the police and I wanted to torture him, bloody him, tear him limb from limb, where were You?
When my sister asked for D back after I had raised her all those years, where were You?
While I asked myself how I had let this happen, where were You?
When I knew that I hadn't been able to protect my precious D, where were You?
God, where were You?
You held D when I couldn't.
When I could, You held us both.
You helped me make the twenty mile drive when I couldn't see through my tears.
You gave me strength to take care of H and A and to shield them from our reality.
You held my hand while I spoke to officers and caseworkers.
You gave me the words to say so they knew how badly I wished I had protected her.
You held me through my shock and despair.
You gave D peace and the incredible gift of forgiveness.
You gave me Your Word and showed me the truth of redemption and the healing of forgiveness.
You sat next to me at the trial and held me up while I spoke at the stand.
You sat with me through those long, lonely nights while the husband was banned from our home during court proceedings.
You comforted D while she cried at the window each time her daddy came to take A and H for a visit.
You were there while D discovered a faith that has brought her through each storm we've weathered.
You gave me the words to say to convince my sister that D would indeed be safe with me. Through any means necessary.
I don't understand Your ways. I don't understand why mental illness exists and why You allow children to be hurt by those that are meant to protect them. I don't understand so many things. But I know that I'm not alone. And that even in my deepest despair, You are there for me and You love me when I'm incapable of loving myself.
And for this I am eternally grateful.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Financial Whiz Kid
I am irate right now. I'm writing so I don't put arsenic in the husband's stupid Dr. Thunder. (I don't really have arsenic. But sometimes I wish I did. Sorta.)
Two years ago we were in great financial shape. Our credit score was somewhere in the high 700's and our only debt were cars with low interest rates and our house. In a year's time, the husband made a string of terrible decisions that fucked us royally and ended with us filing bankruptcy. Welcome to the financial hell of Bipolar.
Now we own our own business. And the Financial Fucktard is back at it again.
I just got off the phone with him. And he's lucky the conversation wasn't it in person. Here's how it went down:
Husband: I just bought lettering for my truck. It was a great deal. Only a couple hundred dollars.
Wife: Dude, that's a lot.
H: It's great advertising. Oh and I also bought (insert stupid technical crap here). They were under a hundred dollars individually. A great deal.
W: Didn't you just tell me yesterday that the business is barely covering bills right now and that there is only a couple hundred dollars extra a month? I think we need to stick to the bare necessities for a while and build up a nest egg just in case.
H: These are the bare necessities. I need them.
W: You can't run the business without them?
H: No.
W: You've been buying a lot of things lately that are not necessities.
H: Like what? (Yelling)
W: Don't yell at me. I can't keep track of all these different stories you keep giving me. It's bullshit. Last week you said we were doing so well that you wanted me to stay home again and you'd pay me to do paperwork. Then last night you said we were barely making it. That's three different stories in just a few days. I don't want you buying anything until we really discuss what the real situation is.
H: Look, we're making a couple hundred extra a week. Not a month. Okay?
W: What's so wrong with building up a nest egg in case there's a bad month or two?
H: There won't be. If there is I'll just work harder.
W: So all the people who have been struggling with the recession just need to work harder?
H: They just made bad choices. I'll work harder.
W: You're not impervious.
H: I don't think I'm impervious.
W: Well you seem to think it can't happen to you. Why didn't you work harder when we had the cars repossessed? Or had foreclosure notices posted on the garage door? You just weren't working hard enough? Why is having a nest egg such a terrible request?
H: I'm sick of your bullshit. I'll talk to you when I come home.
W: I'm so disappointed in you.
*Click*
I hear they're doing great things with cardboard boxes nowadays.
Two years ago we were in great financial shape. Our credit score was somewhere in the high 700's and our only debt were cars with low interest rates and our house. In a year's time, the husband made a string of terrible decisions that fucked us royally and ended with us filing bankruptcy. Welcome to the financial hell of Bipolar.
Now we own our own business. And the Financial Fucktard is back at it again.
I just got off the phone with him. And he's lucky the conversation wasn't it in person. Here's how it went down:
Husband: I just bought lettering for my truck. It was a great deal. Only a couple hundred dollars.
Wife: Dude, that's a lot.
H: It's great advertising. Oh and I also bought (insert stupid technical crap here). They were under a hundred dollars individually. A great deal.
W: Didn't you just tell me yesterday that the business is barely covering bills right now and that there is only a couple hundred dollars extra a month? I think we need to stick to the bare necessities for a while and build up a nest egg just in case.
H: These are the bare necessities. I need them.
W: You can't run the business without them?
H: No.
W: You've been buying a lot of things lately that are not necessities.
H: Like what? (Yelling)
W: Don't yell at me. I can't keep track of all these different stories you keep giving me. It's bullshit. Last week you said we were doing so well that you wanted me to stay home again and you'd pay me to do paperwork. Then last night you said we were barely making it. That's three different stories in just a few days. I don't want you buying anything until we really discuss what the real situation is.
H: Look, we're making a couple hundred extra a week. Not a month. Okay?
W: What's so wrong with building up a nest egg in case there's a bad month or two?
H: There won't be. If there is I'll just work harder.
W: So all the people who have been struggling with the recession just need to work harder?
H: They just made bad choices. I'll work harder.
W: You're not impervious.
H: I don't think I'm impervious.
W: Well you seem to think it can't happen to you. Why didn't you work harder when we had the cars repossessed? Or had foreclosure notices posted on the garage door? You just weren't working hard enough? Why is having a nest egg such a terrible request?
H: I'm sick of your bullshit. I'll talk to you when I come home.
W: I'm so disappointed in you.
*Click*
I hear they're doing great things with cardboard boxes nowadays.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
All's Quiet on the Crazy Front
For now.
400mg of Epitol, 200mg of Seroquel XR and Clonazapam nightly and as needed and we're level. The husband is helping around the house, is patient with the kids, and hasn't harassed me about my health in days. (My health blows by the way. The entire staff at my cardiologist's office knows me by name.)
I even kissed the fucker.
I don't kiss.
Ever.
But I did. A full on makeout session (and by full on, I mean more than thirty seconds. Huge, I know.) and I didn't become nauseous. THAT is progress. I held his head in my hands and let myself go weak in the knees. For the briefest of seconds I remembered how happy he used to make me. How I used to wait by the window and run to the door when I heard his car pull into the driveway. How he was always the first person I called with good news. How he used to make me laugh until my sides ached. How tender he was with the babies and the compliments he'd received on how natural he was at fatherhood.
Yet somehow this feels like the calm before the storm.
Because there is ALWAYS a storm. There is always a crisis or a meltdown or some sort of tantrum that I'm left to clean up. Usually while sobbing and using words like "fuck" and "douchebag."
I'm tired of having the rug pulled out from under me. I'm tired of always being sick because I exhaust myself by always being on edge. I'm tired of being angry. I'm tired of having so much to forgive. I'm tired of hiding in the closet so I can cry without my kids hearing me.
I'm fucking exhausted.
The husband will stay level. Even if I have to tranquilize him to do it.
That's a lie. I don't want him tranquilized. I want him healthy. And I want him to do it because he loves himself and he loves his family and he wants us to have the best of him. Because there is so much more to him than we've had these last few years.
This disease is a monster.
400mg of Epitol, 200mg of Seroquel XR and Clonazapam nightly and as needed and we're level. The husband is helping around the house, is patient with the kids, and hasn't harassed me about my health in days. (My health blows by the way. The entire staff at my cardiologist's office knows me by name.)
I even kissed the fucker.
I don't kiss.
Ever.
But I did. A full on makeout session (and by full on, I mean more than thirty seconds. Huge, I know.) and I didn't become nauseous. THAT is progress. I held his head in my hands and let myself go weak in the knees. For the briefest of seconds I remembered how happy he used to make me. How I used to wait by the window and run to the door when I heard his car pull into the driveway. How he was always the first person I called with good news. How he used to make me laugh until my sides ached. How tender he was with the babies and the compliments he'd received on how natural he was at fatherhood.
Yet somehow this feels like the calm before the storm.
Because there is ALWAYS a storm. There is always a crisis or a meltdown or some sort of tantrum that I'm left to clean up. Usually while sobbing and using words like "fuck" and "douchebag."
I'm tired of having the rug pulled out from under me. I'm tired of always being sick because I exhaust myself by always being on edge. I'm tired of being angry. I'm tired of having so much to forgive. I'm tired of hiding in the closet so I can cry without my kids hearing me.
I'm fucking exhausted.
The husband will stay level. Even if I have to tranquilize him to do it.
That's a lie. I don't want him tranquilized. I want him healthy. And I want him to do it because he loves himself and he loves his family and he wants us to have the best of him. Because there is so much more to him than we've had these last few years.
This disease is a monster.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Truths
When I was little, I used to dream about the kind of man I'd marry. His looks didn't matter so much (although he MUST be bigger than me. I'm not marrying a Manorexic) but he needed to be kind. I imagined a huge teddy bear of a man who wanted to bring home every animal with big sad eyes and was adored by kids. I imagined someone blue collar with callused hands and a gentle heart. Someone who could build a bookshelf and wipe a tear. Someone who would know to kiss me when I'm ranting, hug me when I'm angry and surprise me with a note when I'm hurt. Someone who reminded me of how amazing my mother is when I'm angry at her and who would take the kids out for ice cream when I was being an ass.
A partner.
Someone who could be strong when I was weak and who would let me be his strength when he had none.
Someone who laughed at my jokes and reminded me to be kind when I went too far. Someone who made mistakes and took responsibility for them. Someone who would rather lose everything else instead of his integrity.
Someone considerate and with compassion.
I have no idea why tears are running down my face. The husband isn't a bad man. I always tell myself that if it wasn't for his Bipolar, we'd be happy. But I know that he really isn't any of those things I just listed. He puts himself first. Always. And sometimes it just breaks my heart.
A partner.
Someone who could be strong when I was weak and who would let me be his strength when he had none.
Someone who laughed at my jokes and reminded me to be kind when I went too far. Someone who made mistakes and took responsibility for them. Someone who would rather lose everything else instead of his integrity.
Someone considerate and with compassion.
I have no idea why tears are running down my face. The husband isn't a bad man. I always tell myself that if it wasn't for his Bipolar, we'd be happy. But I know that he really isn't any of those things I just listed. He puts himself first. Always. And sometimes it just breaks my heart.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
The Safety Plan
Today The Husband had an appointment with his psychologist at the Marc Center and he asked me to go with him. I was nervous and excited at the prospect of getting things out in the open. Actually, I think the words I used when explaining it to coworkers was, "I can't wait to call him out on his bullshit." Then I'm pretty sure I called him a douche.
Yeah. I'm pretty fed up with his lying.
The appointment did not go as I'd planned.
The first thing she asked was, "Is there any domestic violence at this point?"
I thought for a minute. Then said, "Does hitting his car with my car count if there was no vehicular damage? What about slamming my arm in the bedroom door? Or purposely locking my keys in the car and leaving me without a ride to work?"
Since all of those things are considered domestic violence, (who knew?) she refused to meet with us together. Something about opening a can of worms and then sending us home to fight about it not being a good idea.
She told me that she would set us up with a marital counselor who would meet with him for one half of the appointment and meet with me for the second half. And then when she deemed it safe, she would eventually meet with us both. But only when she felt sure that the arguments wouldn't end with my body stuffed in a freezer.
Then she told me to leave.
Without any sort of help for me at all.
And I started panicking. My eyes welled up with tears and I felt like I was going to vomit. How could she hear how bad things were and then just say that she'll call me in a few weeks? Where the hell is the professional responsibility? I can't wait any longer. I need a fucking life preserver. For reals.
She must have seen my panic because she changed her mind and asked the husband to leave the room instead. Then she asked me if I had a Safe Plan.
What kind of fucking relationship needs a Safe Plan?
Mine. That's whose.
Fuck.
Apparently I should know which shelters I can go to with my girls. Where they're located and what hours they accept lodgers or whatever you call women who are fleeing their husbands. I should have a secret nest egg that he can't access. I should have the Crisis Hotline number memorized.
Which begs the questions: What the fuck is the Crisis Hotline number? What the hell is it and why the hell didn't anyone tell me about it when I was trying to get him admitted back in November? Bullshit.
So now I'm sitting here, trying to figure out what my Safe Plan is and contemplating how I can possibly love someone that I need a Safe Plan for just in case he loses his mind and tries to do unspeakable things to my corpse.
I'm disgusted. I'm dismayed that I'm here. I always insist that I'm not an idiot. But I'm starting to think that I am. I'm starting to think that I must be to even be sitting here writing this in the first place.
I wish this was fiction.
And I want my fucking picket fence.
Yeah. I'm pretty fed up with his lying.
The appointment did not go as I'd planned.
The first thing she asked was, "Is there any domestic violence at this point?"
I thought for a minute. Then said, "Does hitting his car with my car count if there was no vehicular damage? What about slamming my arm in the bedroom door? Or purposely locking my keys in the car and leaving me without a ride to work?"
Since all of those things are considered domestic violence, (who knew?) she refused to meet with us together. Something about opening a can of worms and then sending us home to fight about it not being a good idea.
She told me that she would set us up with a marital counselor who would meet with him for one half of the appointment and meet with me for the second half. And then when she deemed it safe, she would eventually meet with us both. But only when she felt sure that the arguments wouldn't end with my body stuffed in a freezer.
Then she told me to leave.
Without any sort of help for me at all.
And I started panicking. My eyes welled up with tears and I felt like I was going to vomit. How could she hear how bad things were and then just say that she'll call me in a few weeks? Where the hell is the professional responsibility? I can't wait any longer. I need a fucking life preserver. For reals.
She must have seen my panic because she changed her mind and asked the husband to leave the room instead. Then she asked me if I had a Safe Plan.
What kind of fucking relationship needs a Safe Plan?
Mine. That's whose.
Fuck.
Apparently I should know which shelters I can go to with my girls. Where they're located and what hours they accept lodgers or whatever you call women who are fleeing their husbands. I should have a secret nest egg that he can't access. I should have the Crisis Hotline number memorized.
Which begs the questions: What the fuck is the Crisis Hotline number? What the hell is it and why the hell didn't anyone tell me about it when I was trying to get him admitted back in November? Bullshit.
So now I'm sitting here, trying to figure out what my Safe Plan is and contemplating how I can possibly love someone that I need a Safe Plan for just in case he loses his mind and tries to do unspeakable things to my corpse.
I'm disgusted. I'm dismayed that I'm here. I always insist that I'm not an idiot. But I'm starting to think that I am. I'm starting to think that I must be to even be sitting here writing this in the first place.
I wish this was fiction.
And I want my fucking picket fence.
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