And not much has changed.
Reading back on my last entry, I'm still living the same life and thinking the same thoughts. Always coming back to the same place- a deep, black hole of nothing.
Today is Monday, which we traditionally think of as a beginning- the first day of the week-at least according to the Western world. The day most of us start the working week if we do so Monday to Friday. The day we always tell ourselves we're going to start that diet, give up smoking, get up early to go for a walk/run/workout at the gym etcetera.
Today I woke up to a text message letting me know that my casual job has no more shifts for me. I took a deep breath and watched a podcast on YouTube with Joey Diaz and Henry Rollins. I then received my expected call from Centrelink about my application which thus far has been almost on par with performing dentistry on myself. The person I spoke with was kind and helpful in the only way he could be in his limited capacity. More things to fill out and supply which wasn't asked for in the initial application and going into the office itself. The call ended with him making an appointment for this coming Wednesday at the local job centre as part of the deal.
I walked into my lounge room and noticed my cat had brought a rat in which was mutilated and left in all its grossness for me to clean up. I went into the bathroom and when I reached there, I had a breakdown. I sobbed, I screamed. I looked around my bathroom for something sharp to carve into my thighs but I didn't do it.
Maybe I needed to scream. I've read about primal screaming - not just the Bobby Gillespie variety- and its therapeutic benefits. For some reason I always envisioned going to an empty beach with the ocean raging ahead of me and screaming a lifetime's worth of pain to the elements. Screaming so hard and loud that I collapse on the sand feeling only exhaustion and relief.
In true Maggie style, it wasn't that beautiful beach on a cold Winter's day. It was sitting on the toilet in my messy bathroom in my leopard print pyjamas. Wearing my rubber boots so I could go outside in the rain to dispose of another rat corpse. Wanting to carve lines into the skin of my upper thighs and watch streams of blood run onto the lino. I screamed and I screamed and I screamed. I sobbed. I yelled. I cursed myself for being here at this place again for never learning the lesson. That fucking saying 'those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it' must have been created for me.
But I didn't do it. I didn't reach for the sharp implement. I sat there and wondered what was worth living for.
- My mother is dead.
- I have no children.
- I'm not married.
- Most of my friends are cared for with families etc.
They say to embrace your difference. Wear your weirdo like a badge of honour. And so on and so forth.
My whole life- even as a child- I've been aware of my difference and of the darkness that surrounds me. At the age of eleven, John Lennon released an album called Walls and Bridges. My sister bought it and I listened to it a lot. Thinking back to that time, I realised that even at that young age, I was able to connect with his song 'Nobody Loves You When You're Down and Out'.
Nobody loves you when you're old and grey
Nobody needs you when you're upside down
Everybody's hollerin' 'bout their own birthday
Everybody loves you when you're six foot in the ground
School was always tough and although I have always made friends easily enough, I was a target for the bullies.
I left school traumatised by the experience. It took me years to be able to walk past a group of teenage boys without almost having a panic attack.
Work over the years hasn't been much better. When Sinead O' Connor wrote the lines in her song Black Boys on Mopeds 'these are dangerous days/to say what you feel is to dig your own grave, she knew what she was talking about. As a person who says it like it is, honestly and forthright, you soon realise that people don't like the truth. Lies are sexy. If truth and lies were shoes, truth is a classic pair of stillettos, black patent leather with a six inch spiked heel. Truth would be a pair of Crocs- not sexy at all but comfortable and reliable. When you say what you think you might as well paint a target on your chest and wait for the arrows to fly. A free thinker in a work place- especially a corporate on- is quickly made known that this is not on and you'll be taken down by ever peg imaginable.
I've never been good at games. I hate pretence. Every job I've had your co workers always tell you 'play the game, cover yourself' but why? Why can't we just do our jobs without some narcissistic arsehole playing favourites and making it difficult for those they don't like? I don't go to work to make friends. I have friends. I do have a responsibility to treat others with respect and kindness. Not just as part of the code of conduct but as a member of the human race. As an empath. As someone who likes being kind. It's my nature. Most people I work with usually bore the shit out of me but I never impart that to them. It's unnecessary and irrelevant on all levels.
I'm in a desperate situation and the only person to blame is myself. I continually make bad choices and it's led me here. They say everyone is only two steps away from homelessness- I'm dipping my toes in - that's how close I am.
Years ago I said that I wanted to die at 55. When I said that, it seemed so far away. I'm only five weeks away from it. Was it a prophecy? Maybe it's my time.
However, thoughts of suicide and wishing for terminal cancer aside, if I can get myself out of this shit can I've placed myself in, I can imagine a better life for myself. If money were no option, I'd spend the rest of my healthy, active days circumnavigating the globe and visiting every single place I could.
Money is an option and I need to find it. I need to get over my lack of confidence and my anxiety and rock one of these interviews and stop fucking things up. Maybe I should stop being silent and tell my friends how things are. I'm so afraid they are going to hate and shame me for being so pathetic. I want to have faith that they still love me and that they would be devastated if I killed myself rather than admit the self hatred I feel, that I'm already soaked in shame and humiliation. To have faith that they would band together to keep me here so I can rebuild.
Maybe it's just better to be fearless and not care what anyone thinks. I always say I don't but I do.
Now that mum is no longer here and hasn't been since December 31, 2017 when she finally let go of her body, it's time to stop being sad over her death. Maybe I should just say 'fuck it' and throw everything in. Bet the lot and take a chance. I'm already losing at life. People will always say no. It's okay to fail. I tell myself that and then crumble when I do fail. Then I don't do anything because then I don't get rejected. Whatever way you play it, it's all bad.
I portray a life of hunky dory on social media. Look at me volunteering for social justice! Look at the food I'm baking! Look at me having dinner with my friend at his house! Look at my cat! It's all smoke and mirrors, friends.
Somewhere in my heart and mind is joy, happiness, fulfilment, creativity and peace. It's been overtaken by anxiety, fear and a deep, black depression that never goes away. I would seek treatment for it but that requires money. That's why in my mind, it's cheaper to die. I'm worth more dead. Unfortunately, this is my life at present.
After my breakdown in the bathroom, I decided to dig up this old blog I attempted way back when and read the last entry. In it I talked about creativity and how I need to be part of it. To do so in anyway I can. So I logged in and started writing. I'm listening to Led Zeppelin and finding it as comforting as I did at 15. I'm going to post this and don't care if it sounds convoluted or senseless.
I'm laying it to waste knowing full well a group of trolls could use it to hurt me. I don't care.
When I was a child, I loved writing stories. Creative writing was my thing. I don't know why I let the trolls at school crush this. Now I'm an older woman closer to death than I was, it's time to not care. Just write stuff and see where it goes. Stories, poems, blogs, whatever. So what if it's crap? It can't be any worse than fighting the urge to stick sharp implements into my body to make the pain inside come out. It might not hurt initially but it does eventually and the scars just add to the shame you already feel.
I'm going to leave these words here. I'll try to come back. Just write words that might not even make sense.
I need to work out who I am.
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