I am Jon Bellion.
Low low low low.
I am 70kg. For some reason, this means that the world is ending and that there is no purpose.
I read an article about not wanting to be a parent in the paper today. It could have been about me. And cue guilt. She is my sun and stars and everything I do is so that she can be the beautiful creature she is. But how much of me, of my life, of who I am / could be is gone now? One woman commented on how resentful she was of her partner who’s life barely changed and how at the three week mark she began to feel angry towards him. The tool’s life hasn’t changed except for he got rid of me (and really, I was surpluss to requirements already)… but how much has he put on hold for her?
He told me today that she would need a jacket…. It took me the usual breath to adjust and to stow my initial response. I just went back inside and picked up a jacket. What the fuck. Seriously…. he doesn’t have one? He can’t provide a $10 jacket for his daughter?
I get so twisted that my world. My life. All of me is turned around for her.
The girls signed me up for some kind of “craft group”…. when the fuck do I have time? Or the resources? Or the headspace to invest in crochet. For fucks sake. I can barely keep myself above water.
The thought of going back to work tomorrow and teaching classes again makes me feel ill.
I just need a hug. I need comfort and someone to pat me on the head and tell me that I’m doing ok and that I’ll be ok. But we don’t hug. We fuck and when we’re not fucking, I’m an afterthought. I need to find it in myself to make myself feel better. I don’t have that skill.
Instead, I shall caffinate, clean, cry and stitch myself back together. Put the mask back on and pray that no one sees just how poorly made I am.
Rosem’ry described Jess yesterday as a china vase – beautiful and artistic and if you smack it on the wrong angle it will shatter into a million different pieces. I’m just a $2 mug from kmart. I don’t even have the beautiful. And unlike a vase, replaceable. Fuck repair.