Attempting to Live for Them

"I'm not crazy. My reality is just different than yours."


November 2016


I love my kids. I try to provide the best life I can for them. I make sure that they have everything that they need. I can’t always get them everything that they want, and, in a way, that’s a good thing because I don’t want them growing up thinking everything is handed to them.

They know that Mommy can’t provide everything for them. They know that we struggle financially, so they don’t ask for things that their friends have anymore. And they don’t go for the expensive toys anymore, or they say something along the lines of “I know we don’t have a lot of money, but one day I’d like to have one of these,” so that I know for future reference because they know eventually I try to get them one or two things when I can for special occasions.

For the most part, they are good kids. They have their quirks and bad points that I wish I could correct (but at the moment, I’m having a hard time getting through to them), but I’ve raised them well enough, so far, that in public, those issues are not to come out. I guess it’s just one of those things that no parenting book will ever be able to assist you on; you just have to figure it out as you go.

They see me cry, but they never know why exactly. They just give me a hug and tell me that it will be okay. They deal with Daddy being mean, which none of us will never understand, and I try to protect them from it as much as I know how. Asking why yields no answers, but they are not learning from his actions.

I can’t explain to them that my mind is shattering beyond repair. They watch me take medications and struggle with all of the surrounding physical noise, but they don’t realize that all that noise is amplified. But still it continues. I can’t explain to them that my depression (or, according to my doctor, bipolar disorder) is why I yell more days than others when I don’t want to and know I shouldn’t.

Regardless of all that, I show them all the love in the world. I stay as patient as I can. I try my hardest to be the best mother I can, even though it’s not the role I feel I was made for. (I know some women want to be moms, and that’s great. I was not one of those women.) I am not main one home all of the time because I am the sole financial provider, but they know that it’s only because of them. 

They are the only reason I am still alive. They are the only reason I haven’t opted-out of my torment.


Today’s mind.

I had an amazing dream last night/this morning that I was in a perfect relationship with Thomas Gibson. It was a pretty intense, full blown color dream that I didn’t want to wake up from; so much so that I woke up late to get ready for work…haha. We were happy. There were lots of cute, smiley moments and laughs. We helped some kids together. The sex was intense. A very memorable dream, to say the least.

Why did I start off with all of that? Dreams like this depress me in a big way. They make my heart happy, and they give my mind the thrill of a lifetime when they happen; but when you get down to the root of it, it’s JUST a dream that will NEVER happen to me. I look around at my broken world, and I wonder why it has to be this way.

I’m not saying that I want a relationship with Thomas Gibson specifically (although he is hot, and I wouldn’t mind it). I want a relationship that is perfect for me. It doesn’t even have to be a concrete situation; it can be open, which is ideal, unless this person is so perfect and well-rounded that I feel like there’s no need for anyone else. But that seems like I’m asking for too much.

I want something that is solid between me and the other person. An understanding that cannot be matched. I want to be cutesy and loving with someone, but also still be able to have a serious conversation with them (that doesn’t turn into some one-sided bashing tournament, like my husband does). I want to be able to share all aspects of myself without feeling scared that they’re going to rip me apart for how I am, act, or feel. 

I don’t feel like I want a lot for myself, though THEY tell me it is forever impossible to find. I just want something for me that is special. I am tired of being broken down and abused, forgotten and cast aside like nothing. It has to exist for me, right?


To put it simply, I’ve never been in love. I’ve loved friends and family, but I’ve never felt love in a relationship for another. Yes, I have cared deeply, but that feeling of longing and emotion just has never been there. 

Regrettably, I’ve said “I love you” back more times than I can count to people that claim they love me in relationships, just to not make things awkward. I’ve become very good at lying and mimicking the “feelings” of love (or at least the appropriate reactions). No one has ever called me on it, and no one has ever come out of the relationship feeling unloved as a person.

I’m not saying these people didn’t feel those feelings for me truly, but I felt like they only loved the idea of us, rather than actually loving me. Or maybe my wall is just too thick to break…heck, I might be incapable of loving another human in an actual one-on-one relationship. Who knows. There’s no one that I’ve felt comfortable enough to just be myself with. I’m constantly hiding some part of myself from someone.

My husband is in the mindset, like the others, that I’m in love with him. Though, he also has the delusional thought that he’s the one and only person to propose to me; he’s actually the third. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, and I’ve yelled the truth at him when I get angry, but he chooses to take it as a joke and dismiss it (just like most of my feelings and emotions). I’ve tried to love him, much like women in arranged marriages, but I can’t force myself to love someone that treats me the way he does. I don’t even find myself attracted to him for the same reason. sure he’s cute, but his attitude and treatment of me and others is deplorable and a total turnoff.

I will probably never find love in this lifetime. I will probably never feel like someone truly loves and  cares about me whole-heartedly. I’ve lived this long without it and survived; living vicariously through others for the rest of my life can’t do any more damage than it already has. I’m not saying that I don’t want it, but I’ve come to accept me never having it.



Today has just been a day.  I’ve just been working.  A little slower than most days, but still working.  I’ve enjoyed the relative quiet and less hustle and bustle of the normal Thursday.  I can’t even tell it’s a holiday, to be completely honest with you.

My dinner idea was overturned, so we’re having something less exciting that we usually have on any other given night, which kind of bummed me out even more.  But I guess that is what I should have expected living with a controlling human being such as my husband.  Not like he would’ve had to do anything anyway.  So, another boring dinner for another boring night…in my [outwardly] boring life.



I’ve tried to close the book of my life plenty of times, in my past. Sadly, I’m a failure at that, too, which most people wouldn’t see as a bad thing. They would say things like, “God doesn’t think it’s your time to go,” or “The universe is trying to tell you something.” All words that are appreciated but (unknowing to them) fall on deaf ears.

I’ve only swallowed pills. So many pills. So many pills that I think that’s why most of my medications at a “normal dose” for the average don’t work for me until it’s borderline extreme. It’s frustrating actually. I want things to work so badly, but it takes so much tweaking and wasting (for me) a lot of money and time that I don’t have. I’d rather be put on a high dose and weaned off than a low dose and slowly notched up.

The accident I was in recently, I should’ve died. I wish I would’ve died. THEY tell me continuously that I should’ve died. If you look at the pictures, in a normal car, I would not be here, and if I was, I would definitely be useless and a financial drain. That’s how bad it was. That’s how bad it could have been for me.

I think about death and dying a lot, and not because I want to. It’s because I have to…because I am forced to. I have accepted it. Though I do have an affinity for torture and gore, which is convenient and quiets my mind for a short period of time, but only, a short time.

I only wanted to kill myself because everyone was happy about my paine, though they didn’t realize they were. all of their oblivious joy was killing me from the inside out, and I wanted no part of it anymore. I wanted zero part of what was going to happen in the near future. And in the beginning, my thoughts on this were my own. The voices were mere new whispers that I couldn’t decipher, so I ignored them entirely, chalking it up to static in the air. Stupid me.

Now, killing myself is their spoken word, not my thought. I think about it, but it’s a fleeting thought after something incredibly bad has happened. Why does this happen?


It’s very loud in my head.

  • You’re horrible. There’s nothing left for you. Those things you’re seeing…you should’ve died in that crash. *static*
  • He was only abusive because you deserved it. That’s why we miss him. That’s why he’s with her because she’s so much better than you. You could never amount to her.
  • *screams*
  • *maniacal laughter*
  • We miss him. Why did he have to die? He made us feel like maybe there was something. We weren’t special, but we weren’t nothing. *sobs*
  • JUST DIE! (repetitively)
  • You’re a worthless piece of shit.
  • Can we call you a failure of a mother at this point? There are no worse words in this useless mind. We only have what you feed us.
  • *wails*
  • *mindles babbling*
  • You belong in an asylum. The quacks can’t help you. We’re just thoughts, remember? The meds don’t get rid of us…just make us…*not understandable*
  • *distant stomping*
  • *screams*

This is a glimpse of what’s in my head right now. Fighting to write back as myself. It’s hard to a witch back and forth. it happens in my journal. Once it switches over I close my book because it wouldn’t end. I don’t know what to do. I am financially unable to get help. I’m just stuck.

The holidays.

In a general statement, I hate all holidays. It’s not that I am a “Grinch” towards them all, I actually used to look forward to them when I was younger, but then my world was ripped apart by a metaphorical tornado. It was never able to recover.

I celebrate, in my own way, the holidays for my children. I try to give them a slightly memorable experience so they don’t feel excluded in discussions in school, family gatherings, or in random questioning frim nosy strangers. We talk about what the holiday at the moment is really meant for, and we do whatever is planned at that time. Plain and simple. They enjoy it, and since they are younger, and it has been explained to them early on why Mommy doesn’t do what the grandparents (or other extravagant family members) do, they don’t make a big deal about why things are not the same in our home. Nice, right?

As I stated before, I used to enjoy the holidays. I used to spend most of them with my dad’s side of the family or, in a very memorable way, [in separate households] with my parents, depending on the day. I definitely found a great love for the Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, and Christmas…but now. Now, those are my most loathed holidays, especially the days leading up to them.

Once the tornado came in, they ruined a lot, especially a lot of family norms. They made family gatherings officially nonexistent, at least for my family. They made things miserable and impossible. What once was fun was now looked at with despair and longing. They even found a way to ruin my birthday every year! And that’s not even a holiday!

I dealt with it for years, but the damage was done. I haven’t been able to, obviously, bounce back from it. I just have this feeling of disgust when anything holiday related sweeps through the stores. A lot of sadness is bottled up inside me over all of this, watching happy families collect their items to celebrate. I will never again have that joy.

Somewhere…lost in there.

As the TV blared last night, and I started getting fuzzy, I gave up and lost myself in my voices. I didn’t cry. I just listened to the rants and the belittling, the heartbreak and the fast whispers. It has now seeped outside of my head, and I can hear a frantic newborn baby cry, so I listened to it, too. I was so close to just covering my ears and folding into fetal position, but that won’t get me away from THEM. It  will never get me away from THEM.

I can’t remember what it was like before the constant noise. When my life was “normal.” My life before my kids is a blur to me, which sometimes I miss, but I don’t miss it enough anymore to want to venture back there.

You know, I never got to live out my 20s like most do? Never got to go out with friends and just be myself. Never got to just hang out on a random night having a few drinks…or even a coffee. Never being part of my own crowd. Never just looking for a job I really wanted while trying to finish school. I was thrust into motherhood unexpectedly; forced to abandon finishing college; treated like a diseased freak that no one would give the time of day; and ended up with an abusive man.

My life is now being a mom to more kids than I bargained for, forced to work, partially college educated…and living miserably AND with mental issues that started from tragedy and already existing depression. How wonderful. But I digress.

As I was huddled in the corner of my mind with all of THEM hovering over me for their own reasons, I waited for something, nothing to pull me out. I blankly looked at my husband from within as he sat blissfully unaware and uncaring of what I really go through. The ever-growing noise of the children and their constant fighting filling the air as well. I can’t get away. There’s NEVER silence.


I tried to act like a functioning member of the family today because [come on] who else is going to care for the smallest nugget of the house? It was very nice out today, and all I could do was listen to the sound of the leaves rustle in the wind from the open window as I stared blankly out of it…when I had some spare moments. The senseless control I’m under in this house is like a prison, maybe even worse. At least most prisoners get yard time.

I’ve never mentioned that the husband was controlling for no reason. Or maybe he does have a reason that he’s holding onto, though he has said he let go of it. I cheated a couple of years ago, and he’s afraid I’m off to find someone better iN whatever I do. Let’s face it, I could find someone better if given the chance, but I don’t deserve it and know I’ll never get it. Anyway, he makes it very hard to enjoy a day or a moment, if I find something to enjoy (which is rare), and I hate confrontation; so as not to get into an argument, I just go about my lonely, boring life.

Such a sad life I lead. Voices controlling my mind. A husband controlling my reality. I don’t get a break!

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