Ever feel that way? Of course you do. The effing neighborhood is full of barking dogs. The effing neighbors are playing loud music and talking loudly in a drunken stupor. Effing raggedy little noisy kids screaming and running around.
I'm doing this on my effing own. I know people read, and care, but there is no one but me to get the mortgage modification done, to make those phone calls, to contract that bankruptcy attorney and gather all that paperwork. No one but me to be a bad mother to an 18 yr old who still can't clean up and who wrecked his bike again, twisted his ankle, skinned up his knee, hurt his wrist and now can't even get the weeds in the yard whacked down this week while the weather offers reprieve. No one but me to fully shoulder the worry and consequences should he fail to get that honors project finished or that English paper written, and should he lose all his credits and tuition waiver for next semester. This is what I didn't die for? To continue on in parental failure? To wallow through each day in depression and anxiety, a few decimal points short of needing to be on a watch list?
Oh, and now the effing noisy motorbike again; the one they rode up and down and up and down the street last night until well past midnight...
I have no husband for whom to stick around. No small children to finish raising and with whom to spend more time. Grandchildren are a long way off, thank goodness, so they aren't even motivation to keep going.
Shit. Just remembered I set my facebook up to automatically post blog entries. This sure doesn't belong there, and I certainly don't want my son reading this. I think he may be depressed, on top of ADD and barely-into-college teen-aged angst. I had to drop him from my insurance, because I am paying COBRA. I can't even take him to the doctor. Will his father step up if/when I die, if my son still needs to be parented? He sure hasn't shown the ability or desire thus far. I can't do much for him in my current condition, so I really am not seeing how not dying really was of much benefit.
Don't anyone dare say you would miss me. It's not about you missing me. It's about me hating this effing futile existence and wanting out. 20 more months in the countdown to Medicare. Anything serious comes up between now and then, tough shit. I'm not having any surgeries, brain radiations or seeing any orthopedic doctors. I'm not changing medicines or doing any chemos. Even if I do make it to that magical two-year mark to which the government is sure I'll live in order to see Medicare, I am not doing anything drastic to drag this crap out. So nothing better break. Effing bones had better hold up with this effing Zometa treatment. Effing CEA numbers had better stay where they are with Femara. If it spreads, it better spread straight to somewhere that will kill me fast, because I am not putting myself through treatment HELL to stay around and suffer through more of this effing life. This effing neighborhood. My effing disability qualifications, the effing guilt and the effing frustration, futility and daily funk.
Perhaps, as the anonymous internet comedian at some point said, my only purpose in life IS to serve as a warning for others.
If I thought skipping my Femara would be a speed pass to ending this effing mess, I would stop it tomorrow. I am not to the point yet where any speed passes are available, however.
Went to meet the woman who is using the photos of my bracelets in paintings! They are so beautiful! She's going to give me one when they are all finished!! Poor Ellen though; I cried on her shoulder, spilled bad life attitude all over her, and she'd just met me. Well I wasn't exactly in good shape when I left here to go meet her!
I do feel a little better now, for having verbalized it to poor Ellen. Haven't changed my mind about any of it, just no tears streaming down my face at the moment.