But I try, and I try…
Oh LORD, I’m feeling sorry for myself again. At least that side of me is: the squirming, deprecating side. The me that never gets too happy or too encouraged, because she knows, we all know, that the other shoe will drop.
It is a rodeo, and you are never certain to stay on. You might get the big bucker, the season ender-no-the career ender. Just when things were gettin’ good, too.
ALMOST made it. NEARLY clinched it. SOOOO stinkin’ close.
Didn’t we almost have it all?
This is the mind of an addict, the thinking of an alcoholic. But I’m 26 years clean and sober. Loathing myself into a relapse. No, I haven’t done drugs, haven’t drank…but now the beast is sugar, sweets, food, fatness. Using is now eating. I’m a failure because I’m fat. Not, “I gained weight.” No- I went from, “Gee, you look good!” to ” She’s a fat-ass pork pie!” in 15 seconds flat.
And its out of control in the blink of an eye. I hate how I look, I hate how I feel. I hate how what I look like makes you feel! I want to hide, I want to cry, give up, quit. And I’m not even on a diet. I’m hateful and quitting just thinking about making an effort. Because, of course, I’m a loser.
You don’t care, dear reader. There is no “dear reader”. They’ve all gotten sick of me long ago. The whining, the complaining. No joy. They could tell I was an empty shell. Nothing to see here…move along.
I’m sick of me, too.
Maybe tomorrow will be a better day. If sleep comes, I will count it as my friend. I lay here under 3 blankets with my dearest Kleo. She keeps me warm, a little, snoring, black and white piglet dog. Sweetest creature ever made. She loves me. This I know. Because I make her dog food everyday, and take her out to poopie. Not because I’m lovable, because I am decidedly not.
Out of the Gutter Art 