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We don’t need to talk about it 2021-04-22 - 3:54 a.m.
Fighting a constant battle in a custody dispute for my nearly 9 year old son. From the woman who abandoned him 4.5 years ago, and led to some bad shit in my life. This is a woman who could be replaced by semi-sentient beef cattle, or an automated voice messaging system. She wanted the plug and play lifestyle, but it turns out T just wants to code and have her around as an emotional kachina doll.
Wife #2 stable for now, but fuck if I know how long that will last. After G was away for nearly a month at his grandma-in-law, she finally calmed the fuck down and got off her high horse of complex PTSD. Apparently she bitched me out because I didn’t thank her for watching him. I did. I am.
You can’t hear a fucking thing over someone that inhaling saltwater.
I had a conversation with my wife, S, about how I needed to work during the day and not pay exclusive attention to my son. Because I make the stable income. Because I am the only ticket out of this fucking pitiful excuse of a town in a flyover state. Because tracking the pandemic doesn’t matter to the overwhelming vast majority of people, and doing it for nearly free is a goddamned stupid past-time.
I had to tell Katherine to go fuck herself and shove her opinions about where G stayed and for how long. Being poly, I still love this woman, even when a few years later, clear as day, mutual reciprocation was all there ever was going to be. Plus her three existing kids are fucking trainwrecks, each for entirely different reasons.
I’ve sucked at updating for years. But one thing that never fails to amaze me is realizing that the present you live is a mirage or a ghost of the present.
Rachel, Comet Girl, who wanted to have kids but hated the idea except for me, who fell face first off the earth and to some nebulous orbit.
Katherine, who I wish chose me even despite her existing spawn being fuck-ups:
The Captain. Friends technically for over a quarter century. I texted him once in the last five, I think. Kind of a bitch when a fat white man owes you money and you have to convince him to pay you back by telling his ex-wife/teenage crush of mine to bust his balls.
There are so many memories, here and unrecorded. I barely remember most of these people. I’m sure the sentiment is reciprocated.
And I just want out. I can’t find a new faculty job in a better place. I can’t get grants to fund my lab, again needing a better place. And I slowly feel control deep away down my fingers, goo and sand trailing away and getting caught on the chest scars.
I live in hell. I made this hell. Not of my free wanting, but I made it.
Some nights, tonight being one, I need several mg of Clonapin, 400mg of cyclobenzaprine, 3/4 of a bottle of half decent red, and 1,000mg of ibuprofen to hope to sleep a now 2.5 hours before the circus starts up again and the calliope music plays.
Death would be a blessing. All of my friends are dead or gone. Any sense of family I have with my PTSD son abandoned by his biological mother and my complex PTSD wife abused for decades by her father is wrought by my hand.
I slave away to try to make a mirage a reality.
I would never commit suicide. I’m not the type. But death would be a blessing. I have suffered and it keeps hurting and no meds or therapy helps and I want my past mistakes of 5-10 years ago not to haunt me like gentlemen rapists lingering outside my parlor door.
I have no one I can rely on. And I did this purposefully. Because who can deny I’m busy, because I always am.
Because I am bailing pitch black water to save a freighter with an iceberg’s gash along the side. And some day soon, like at the end of the year when my funding runs out, it’ll sink, and I’ll bob along the water. Numb and beyond feeling cold.
And no matter how bad it gets I will still hold on. Because G needs a dad. And my wife needs health insurance for a rate immunodeficiency.
No, dear reader, as you may have guessed from the start, there is no denouement or flash of insight. It’s the same slightly drunk autistic, wondering rarely what happened here or there, and largely wanting death by some means convenient. After G is an adult and can handle it.
I never got to have a daughter either. Unless Siobhan didn’t have an abortion and kept the baby. It gnaws on me. Wondering if she told the truth and wasn’t just masquerading for the cum from some surfer dude who spent months living in her apartment and bitching about me constantly when I was with her.
The people are meaningless. The progeny are what matter. All I asked for were at least two. Maybe I should have cut my losses at this stage, gone full pervo and found a girlfriend with a pregnancy fetish, or who was in her late 20’s to early 30’s that went the same professional route I did and needed fuck-fuck STAT to get some units out.
Somewhere along the way I fucked up big time. Several times. It’s not about why or who or when. Just what is going to happy to drive its claws deep into my face and pull me into the inky water.
I’m genuinely sick of being alive. I never wanted any of this. This is what I get when I trust people. Well I don’t anymore, at least. That’s a toss of the horseshoe.
I need to finish this bottle and pass out, I hope.
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