The Reason

I want to be mad. I've tried to be mad. I can't though. I understand why she left. I would have too if I were her. The truth of the matter is it's my fault. I'm simply a broken person.


I've battled depression off and on as long as I can remember. I'd try to be happy, fail miserably and get more depressed than I had been before. At some point, before I met her, I decided to stop trying so hard and accept the "fact" I wasn't a happy person. And mostly it worked, for years. Sure it took out the lowest of the lows, but it also took out the reaching for something more. It's a survival tactic. One I failed to stop myself from doing, once I found what I was looking for.


I shut myself off from the world. I shut myself off from my wife. I struggled to have even the most basic conversations with her. After much trial and error, my wife discovered the best way to get me to talk with her was to get angry with me. Yelling and screaming until I snapped and the flood gates opened. Even then, my conversations were simple and basic. Here's the problem, here's the solution, the end. What I didn't see until recently was that finding the solution, finding it together, was often more important than the actual solution. Like a kids connect the dots puzzle, I'd connect the first dot to the last dot, and skip all the numbers in between. The goal of the puzzle is to get to the last dot, but if you skip out on all the steps in between you don't get the picture, and getting to the end isn't the point, the picture is. Every time she'd ask me to be more open with her or talk and communicate more, I'd try. I knew it was the right thing to do. I just didn't understand why, I didn't go through the experience. So inevitably I'd fail, and things would go back the way they were.


Of course the more often she yelled the more I'd retreat inside of my own head. The more I'd withdraw, the more she'd get angry. After years of this, my default was silence, hers was anger. She became someone she didn't like just trying to reach me, trying to show me how much she loved me. Of course I noticed the change in her, I didn't understand it though. Now that she's gone, I get it. I get how much she loved me, unselfishly and faithfully. I see how selfish I was to not share myself with her. To not put her first, the way she put me first. She loved me more than I realized. I not only took that for granted, I ignored it and did everything I could to undo it.


Why did it take her leaving for me to see this? Why was I so blind? Why was I so selfish? So here I am, alone and unemployed, spending every day in this house, that's more of a tomb to our relationship. I'm trying to make myself into a better person. I've barely scratched the surface though. I am going through the process and that takes time. It'd be easier to evolve as a human being if I had human contact on a regular basis. Job, friends, anything. I talk to people online, but the reality is, I have no idea anymore how to relate to people in any other manner than shared pain. I think that's part of the reason I became so shut off from my wife. For a time, I had everything I wanted, a wife, kid, a house and a job I loved and was happier than I ever had been in my life. I didn't know how to share happiness. So I guess I got what I deserved then ... I lost it all and now I'm miserable and alone.


Even if I wanted to talk to someone ... anyone, share a moment, have a conversation, anything ... those people have long since stopped calling. Every day I pray my phone will ring and someone will be calling to just say "Hi" and check on me, but no one does. I couldn't talk to them, and they must have thought I didn't care or didn't like them. The truth is that I don’t know how to make small talk, I don't how to relate to the rest of humanity, although I desperately want to. She used to yell at me for buying trinkets, novelties and oddities that I couldn't even explain to her why I had the compulsion to buy. But I know why now, in some weird round about way, if I had interesting things, then maybe I'd be interesting, maybe then I'd have something to talk about ... someday. Maybe then I'd have a chance at relating to another human being, if only for a moment. If there were a class, I'd take it. I don't know how someone goes about learning to do this. Especially in a situation as isolated and alone as I am now. My contact with the outside world is more or less limited to the internet. No eye contact, no body language, just the ability to walk a way at a moments notice without the slightest ping of guilt.


I still love her. Life would be so much easier if I didn't. Having realized how much she sacrificed, how much she tried to make us work, I almost feel like I love her more now than I did when she was here. She has no reason to be with me. I've been a terrible husband, and despite my desire to change, I'm still fundamentally the same person. She's the strongest person I know by miles, and yet her only weakness is that she cared for me. She battled for me for years out of love. How do I convince her that this time I really mean it when I say I'm going to change? How do I convince her we can feel about each other the way we once did again, while at the same time show her I'm a different person? I don't. I can't. I make the changes and hope she sees it, then hope she remembers. I know what the odds are, I know what she says, but I love her. It's that simple. I know I need to be a better person, with or without her, so what I need to do to move forward is the same either way.


I also believe in our wedding vows. Not so much in the biblical sense, that it's God's will. In that it's a promise you make to each other, to love each other and to never give up. A promise you make, and invite your family and friends and co-workers to witness because it’s that important. A promise you throw a party to celebrate making. I can't help feeling like I've disappointed every person who attended my wedding. Our friends, my family, even her family.


A family friend brought his horses and buggy for us to use in place of a limo at our wedding. He lost his wife of fifty plus years around the same time my wife left. I saw him for the first time since the wedding several months later and I had the kids with me. He was so damn proud of my kids ... he was proud ... of my kids and the role he had in everything, and I couldn't even look him in the eye, let alone tell him she left.

At my grandfather's funeral, they had a slide show of pictures. I felt like every picture of him at our wedding was somehow a lie. I was upset that one of the last conversations I had with him was about her. I was mad because my goal, was to be married as long as my grandparents were, 67 years. I was disappointed with myself for thinking these things instead of mourning my grandfather.


I've heard they're tearing down the building we had our wedding reception in. It's like someone has a sick sense of humor and decided to erase the physical reminders of our wedding day.


I want to be mad at her. Mad at her for giving up on our vows. But I can’t. She tried harder and longer than she should have had to help me, to fix me, to get me to show her the love she showed me. She tried and tried until she broke. Until she didn't like who she became and then she left. I admire and respect her strength. I wish I could be more like her. I know she did everything she could to keep our vows, but I also know her leaving was the only way I was ever going to see the error of my ways, and how fucking stupid I've been. But god knows how much I miss her and that I’d do anything to be with her.


This is my life now.

Yule Be Sorry

I should be happy. I have the kids for Christmas, didn't even have to fight about it. For some reason my offered to let me have the kids for Christmas and Thanksgiving if she could have them for Halloween. I don't understand how that's even close to a fair trade or compromise but how could I not accept? I should be happy about this. But I'm not.


Every Christmas since my daughter was born my wife and I would have the same argument. She'd want to spend the night before Christmas at her parents or mine. I insisted that we be home, at our house, for Santa. Christmas morning I just wanted to be us, as a family. I always won the argument. She told me that because this was always so important to me, that's why she let me have the kids.


Yet, I'm not at home this year. I took the kids to my parents. I couldn't bare the thought of of being at what once was our house, sitting around what was our tree, without us being ... us. An incomplete family. I didn't even get the tree out this year.


Not to mention with my current financial situation I wasn't even sure that that Santa could come to our house. Grandma bailed me out again, without me even mentioning I needed help. What kind of father can't even provide presents for his kids on Christmas?


That's not even the worst of it. I know the holidays aren't about gifts or presents. It's about family and spending time with the ones you love. I'm spending Christmas at my parents for the first time in years. My kids are here with me and they will be spending their first Christmas without both their parents. That absolutely breaks my heart.


I know she choose this, both the separation and not having the kids tomorrow. But I still feel like I should be doing something grand and slightly stupid to try to bring us together. I'm tempted to load the kids up at midnight, and drive for hours just for a few moments of "family" time. I know that's a bad idea. She would think I was doing it to try to get her back, which wouldn't be entirely untrue.


It'd be mostly for the kids. I don't ever want them to know a moment of pain, or loss. I know it's too late for that.


This is my life now.

Break The Chain

We sit down in the living room to talk. Her in the recliner, and me on the couch. I can feel the distance between us and not just physically. This has been coming for a while but ... I still know how hard it will be. I know I need help. I know I can't do it alone. I know before that can happen I have to tell her exactly how depressed I am. I have to actually admit to her that I'm depressed at all.


I stare at my shoes, trying to form the words. Trying to admit my guilt, trying to admit my pain, trying to admit my condition. I manage a few half words, more grunts than syllables. My eyes fill with liquid, and I turn and lay on the couch and just sob, waiting for a comforting touch that I know isn't coming.


I hear a frustrated sigh and I just cry harder. After a few minutes, maybe hours, maybe days, I finally force out the words, muffled and deadened by the couch cushion my head's buried into "I am so depressed." I'd like to say it was a relief to finally say it, but it wasn't. It felt more like the last link to reality was slipping away. I fell into a primal painful cry. Waiting ... wanting that kind word, that comforting touch. Wanting my wife to cry with me, wanting her to take pity on me, wanting her to just lie to me and tell me everything would be all right. Just some acknowledgement she's even still in the room.


"I couldn't understand what you said."


I try to catch my breath, I try to suppress my sobbing and gasping. I try to find those words again. I can't even catch my breath to say them if I could find them. I'm so exhausted I'm barely conscious. I have no idea how long I've been in this state. I roll onto my back, I open my mouth to speak and am interrupted.

She's saying something, I hear her but I can't process it. I freeze her words in my mind for later. I force the words out of my mouth like vomit. They make me sick to hear them. "I am so very depressed!"


I tell her I need help. I tell her how most days I can barely muster up the energy to move, let alone take care of the kids while she's at work. I confess my sins, seeking absolution. I tell her how last week I struggled to feed the kids breakfast. I'd hand my three year old a box of cereal and let her feed herself. I told her how I'd feed my eleven month old son. He'd follow me into the kitchen crawling and I'd toss him a dinner roll from the food pantry, right there on the floor. Like he was a dog at the table begging for scraps. I tell her that my son tried to drink pine-sol and of my failure to realize he'd even gotten into the cabinet this immediately because I couldn't force myself to move from the couch. I tell her how embarrassed and humiliated I am. I tell her how I don't want to be like this. I ask her, I beg her for help.


I can't look her in the eye, I can't even look in her general direction. I'm ashamed. I think I'm broken. Quietly and calmly she tells me that she doesn't know if I really want help with my depression, or if I'm just trying to keep her from leaving. Her words I froze fall and shatter. I can hear them echoing in my brain. That's what she told me. She's leaving. She's taking the kids. I thought I was broken, now I know I am. I'm already in so much pain, I'm not sure I felt anything. But I knew nothing would ever be the same again.


I tell her I am serious, I do want help. I know it won't make a difference to her though. She tells me if that if I want help, I have to find it. If I can't take care of the kids, then I shouldn't be around the kids. She's right of course, it's my lack of ability to care for the kids that made me realize how far gone I was. I'm told I have to keep it together for a week so she can make arrangements. I offer her the house, of course she doesn't want it. I ask her for the slightest bit of help, she tells me to call my doctor and get medication. I tell her I don't want her to leave but there is no debate, there is no discussion. I know that at that moment, I am not a good parent, I am not a good husband, I'm not even sure I'm a good person.


I struggle through the next week. I see my doctor, he writes me a prescription. He warns me that with any anti-depressant there's certain side effects. The most common is increased risk of suicidal behavior. The pharmacist also mentions this. I try to tell my wife this, she mistakes it for a threat to kill myself if she leaves. I don't want her to feel that way. That's not what I meant at all. I tell her at the end of the week, I'm going to my parents for a while. I tell her she can leave or stay, I'll honor her request.


I left on Saturday. She left the house on Sunday. That was March, it's the week before Christmas now, and still the pain is unbearable.


This is my life now.

"The Last At Bat" or "Grandpa and the Game"

“They'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces … The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again.” 

 – Field of Dreams, 1989

---

 There are very few memories of my grandfather that don’t involve the Cincinnati Reds. No, we never went to a game together, but it seems like almost every holiday, family reunion or just dips in his pool during a visit on a hot summer afternoon the Reds game was on the radio or the TV even if just in the background. It was on a beat up AM radio as he converted an old lawn mower, with terrible navy blue paint job courtesy of my cousins, into a go-kart for his grandkids. The game was on the television during birthday celebrations and on the radio as he tried to teach me about all the tools he had in his barn. A game was on as he over paid a thirteen year old version of me to repaint a fence, not in need of repainting. The game was always on.

If you’re lucky, your favorite team wins the championship when you’re young enough to appreciate it. That certainly was the case for me. In 1990 I was twelve years old. That was the year the Reds swept the heavily favored Oakland Athletics in the World Series. If pressed, I could probably recite the starting lineup of both teams. The height of baseball card trading fever gripped my classmates and they began wearing sports glasses to be like Reds’ third basemen Chris Sabo. Kind of a geeky cool. We cheered on sweet Lou’s team as they went wire to wire. We rooted for Billy Hatcher, Paul O’Neil and Eric Davis. We loved the bullpen trio known as the Nasty Boys, Norm Charlton, Rob Dibble and Randy Myers. Grandpa always rooted a little more for Myers though, as he “must be somehow related.”

Time has a way of making us older and of course it did with me. I obtained other interests including girls, and in High School the division leading Reds were robbed at a chance at the post season by the strike shortened season. I never fully came back to baseball after that. In college I soon a found that as a casual fan the Reds were hard to follow. I’d always check the standings before a visit to my grandparents. Free agency, trades and other talent turn over meant I wouldn’t know half the players from one visit to the next, but by looking at the standings I’d be able to remark to Grandpa how the Reds were looking that year, which usually they weren’t looking good. When Barry Larkin finally retired in 2004 I’m not sure I could name a single player. Even the field had changed. As Grandpa’s eye sight, already limited by a childhood accident with Red Ryder carbine-action - two hundred shot air rifle with a compass in the stock, further deteriorated in his remaining eye he stopped watching the games on TV and started listening to the games on TV.

By 2008 I had started my own family; I had a career and house hours away from grandparents. At my job I was invited to a Reds “meet and greet.” Before spring training, most big league teams will send certain staff on a tour of the state, stopping for these meet and greets to be hosted by radio or television stations broadcasting the games. The stations in turn will invite local businesses they hope to buy advertising time during the games. Some people go because they’re legitimately interested in the advertising opportunity. Most go because they’re fans, or they want to meet someone famous. Some go for the free lunch.

I sat at a table in the conference room at a table with mostly women who wanted to meet someone famous, and some seeking autographs for disappointingly uninvited husbands. The voice of the Reds, Marty Brennaman was the first of the Reds staff to arrive. He took his seat at the front of the room and politely answered questions while signing autographs, including a baseball I picked up at the store on the way there. A man slightly resembling Alan Hale, Jr., the Skipper from Gilligan’s Island, soon bounded into the room with a “How-Dee Folks!” Former pitcher Tom Browning then preceded from table to table introducing himself and chatting with fans. He added his signature beside Bennaman’s.

Tables were then dismissed one by one to the buffet and as I waited in line Browning came out to join the queue. One fan offered to let him go ahead in line and he declined with a chuckle. “No thanks. They have to hold the Q&A for me, they might not for you” and he took his place at the back of the line behind me. Soon a father came up with his very young son. “Son, this Tom Browning” the father beamed. “He’s the only Reds’ pitcher to ever pitch a perfect game.” Browning shook the boy’s hand, and the son was awestruck despite the fact he was too young to understand the statistical feat of a perfect game. The father then asked “What do you remember most about that game?” I pondered for a moment how many times he’d wished he’d been asked a question about the other 321 games he played, but he didn’t seem to mind as he looked into the distance trying to recall a day years ago, but seemed like only yesterday. “I got into a fight with my wife,” he explained “so I got to the ball park early that day, then we had a rain delay, so I sat there and stewed on it even longer. I think I was so steamed about it, that it wasn’t until the fifth inning when my teammates started avoiding me for fear of jinxing it that it occurred to me what was going on.”

I returned to my table with a plate full of food. Soon a man dressed in baby blue sweater and matching knit cap, with designer sunglasses and gaudy gold jewelry entered the room. He went table to table, introducing himself to each and every person with a handshake and a non-optional autograph as (current second baseman and face of the club) Brandon Phillips. If you didn’t tell him your name when he introduced himself, he was sure to ask. A woman at my table returned from the buffet mid-introduction and shook his hand as she sat down. It was obvious to him, and the rest of the table, she fit into the “not a fan, but seeking n autograph for the husband” category. So to the amusement of the entire table he told her his name was Eddie Murphy. He added his signature to my ball and continued around the room.

That Christmas along with a new Reds’ baseball cap, I presented Grandpa with that autographed ball. I told him about how I had obtained the ball and who had signed it. I’m not sure he could read the signatures or even see the signatures at that stage in his life. But to this day it sits among the family photos on the bookshelf.

During the autumn of his 91st year, Grandpa took an unfortunate spill down the basement stairs. He spent most of the next few weeks in the hospital, in and out of consciousness, sometimes completely lucid, sometimes totally unaware of his surroundings. During the third week, he was again on the mend. I kept vigil at his bedside while my sister went home with my grandmother. Early in the evening, he woke and we spoke. I told him of Grandma’s suggestion to put the game on for him and asked him what he thought about that. “Oh I don’t know” and he laid his head down and closed his eyes. “You know I think I would like the television on.”

I sat down beside him and told him the score; Houston was up 2-1 in the sixth inning. If the Reds won, then they also won the division. Soon the game was tied and Grandpa again closed his eyes. I sat there with him through the next three innings not truly knowing if he was awake or not. Then in the bottom of the ninth the first batter, right-fielder Jay Bruce, hit a walk off, solo home run to give the Reds the win and first trip to the post season in 15 years. I watched the champagne celebration for a few minutes, then closed my eyes and for a moment I was twelve again.

It was Grandpa’s last game. He was gone four days later. He left behind three children, seven grandchildren, eleven great-grandchildren and his bride of sixty seven years. Joseph Boniface Myers, you may be gone from this world but your name lives on ... through your daughter and my mother, Bonnie and your great-granddaughter and my daughter, Josephine. To me it feels like you’re still here. There’s still a game on.

Now I Lay Me Down Not To Sleep

Everyday the cupboards grow more and more bare. Most households are stocked fairly full of food that will never be eaten. "Someday we'll be in the mood for that odd flavor of Hamburger Helper. There's nothing wrong with it ... we just have eight boxes of flavors that are better, so we'll eat those first." So they sit, in the back with a jar of pickle relish and peach flavored salsa. Someday when you move or remodel you'll laugh at them being four years out of date, before pitching them. Every shelf in our house has been purged of expired food.


There wasn't a good feeling having purged useless clutter. Only despair that there's one less meal to eat. One more meal we're going to have to concoct from someone else's left overs.


You know what my first thought was when I heard about the earth quake in Haiti was? "Damn, now everyone's going to send their food donations there and I'll have crap to eat." What the hell's wrong with me?

I was trying to watch the news about Haiti and my daughter was screaming and laughing and being loud in general. I couldn't seem to get her to play quietly. So I pulled her into my lap and started to explain to her, in terms that a three year old might be able to grasp, what happened and why I wanted to here about it. I told her that there had been an accident and a lot of buildings had fallen down and a lot of people were sick or hurt. My daughter gasped "Oh No!" I thought maybe I'd given her a bit more than her little mind could handle so I also explained she didn't need to worry because that kind of thing wouldn't happen here and that there were a lot of people that were going to try to make them better. My daughter then looked me in the eye and said "Can we send them soup to make them better?" I told her we could and cried. The wonderful naivety of her solution got to me. That and the fact I was lying to her. I knew we couldn't afford to spare something as valuable as soup.


I thought things on the job boards would pick up after the holidays, but they really haven't. I almost had a job. The guy was starting a business on the side, and wanted me to work part time, and then tack on some freelance on top of that, to get the side business started. I explained to him that due to the constant juggling act of income, I couldn't do that, it would increase my income enough to get my kids Medicaid, but not increase it enough to allow me to afford something to replace it. (Anyone think healthcare isn't broken?) Not wanting to completely talk myself out of a job, I also suggested to him, that given my freelance rates, I'd actually be cheaper for him to hire me full time, than to go with his original proposal. He thought about it, and told me he'd crunch some numbers and get back to me by the end of the day. The end of the day passes and I wait the weekend to hear back. Monday morning I get an email from him informing me his full time job laid him off. So now everything he wanted me to do for him, is now his full time job.


I'm so tired of looking for a job. I've sent out over 350 resumes, to job postings. That's not even counting all the unsolicited letters, "give my buddy a call," and other random resumes I've sent out. My wife suggested we take a vacation with our tax return. It's not financially responsible, but I needed a vacation (from work) fourteen months ago and couldn't get one. Then I got "let go" and threw myself into finding a job. Hitting the job boards is tedious. Scanning line by line of fifty-two job boards every day trying to find something I'm qualified for, that's local, and pays me more than unemployment does. I know my wife needs a break from her job too. At least now she has regular hours, even if it is nearly fifty hours over six days a week, barely above minimum wage, with no overtime or benefits. It's not the "right" thing to do financially, but it might be the right thing to do to keep our family from imploding.


We're struggling, to say the least. I never know if we're doing any better or worse cause we barely get to see each other. The only sign I've seen in any direction is that she wants to plan *something* with me in the future. Even if it is something we shouldn't be spending our money on.


I'm so alone anymore. I try to talk to her, I just don't know how to anymore. It seems like everything that comes out of her mouth is negative. For Christmas, I spend some money to have printed, as a surprise, a calender with pictures of the kids on it. We've done this for family every year since our daughter was born and this year it just wasn't going to be possible. Not an expensive gift but one with a lot of sentimental value. Thanks to some generous friends I made the calender in secret and gave her one for Christmas. I thought I was going to be the hero. I thought of all the things to spend money on at Christmas this would be the one that was okay. She opens it and instead of being happy she's upset that she didn't get to help pick out the pictures this year.


It seems like it's that way with everything anymore. I make dinner and somethings wrong with it. I clean the house and I'm cleaning the wrong area first. She's always been a pessimist, but the unemployment's just made it worse. Maybe because I could escape it for nine hours a day by going to work before. Maybe because the stink of failure is too much for her to bare anymore.


I know I'm losing it. I might be like really depressed. I can't tell anymore. I'm sleep deprived. I sleep on the couch for two hours a night, if I'm lucky. Most nights I have trouble falling asleep. I can't go to bed, I'll wake up my wife. So until she gets up for her shift at 2:30am I try to sleep on the couch. I'm 5'11" the couch is 5'9" from end to end. If my shoulders are 3" across then the couch is 2'8" deep. I sleep on my right side, facing the back of the couch, one arm awkwardly under the pillow, then up between the pillow and armrest with my hand jutting in the air like a 1st grader wanting to be the first to answer the teacher's question. My left hand clutches a throw pillow to my chest. My left foot curls around the top of the other armrest, and my right dangles, awkwardly off the edge. I tried going to sleep earlier but in that awkward position, sleeping more just makes me more exhausted.


When my wife goes to work I move to the bed room. At 4:30 or so my nine month old son, sleeping at the other side of the room wakes for his bottle. At 6:30 he wakes up screaming and the only way to calm him down is to hold him and let him sleep with me. I can't fall into a restful sleep while holding a baby, so until he wakes up I again, usually at 8am I am half asleep. I sometimes go days without sleeping more than two consecutive hours. I rarely sleep deeply enough to have dreams, and when I do they're nightmares. Ironically not of losing the house or having the family pulled apart. My nightmares are of going back to work for the same people I was working for before. The rules of unemployment say that you can't turn down a job. And in my dreams they offer me the job, back and I have no choice but to take it back, and I'm bitter, disloyal and angry. Then I wake up relieved I don't have a job. I'm fairly certain most mornings if I didn't have two kids who were totally dependent on me I wouldn't even make it out of bed. Is it sleep deprivation or depression? Does it matter?

I know I'm losing it. I'm making breakfast for myself and the kids and I did something my daughter didn't approve of, like give her juice instead of milk, so she yelled at me. I just starting crying, I sat down on the kitchen floor and cried. A few days later I'm changing my son in the living room and he's squirming, which is frustrating me. I finish up and toss his diaper into the kitchen trash, but I miss and it falls on the ground. So I go pick it up and toss it again and it falls out. That's what sets me off this time. I sit on the kitchen floor and cry for a minute. Then I give up and go to the bed room. My wife was home so I could. After a few minutes she comes back and starts talking to me trying to figure out what's wrong. I'm too exhausted I'm not sure I was doing more than whining semi-coherent sentence fragments. She's trying to solve the problem, but for some reason, this involves discussing how I could get more sleep, not actually letting me get sleep. If I knew how to get more sleep, I'd be doing it; if you have a solution tell me when I can make coherent thoughts. Finally she leaves me alone and I sleep for six hours. Today, I'm cooking dinner, and I'm making Hamburger Helper and I just start crying. No reason why.


Am I depressed or is this an entirely appropriate reaction to a life that in general sucks in seventeen different ways? Maybe I'm just habitually sleep deprived. I don't know anymore. I want to scream for help, but there's no one to hear me except for my wife who seems to only be able to say the complete wrong thing anymore. I just want her to be there for me. I just want her to tell me it will be alright. I want her to believe in me again. I want to believe in myself again. I want to not struggle to remember the good memories and what I'm trying to get back to. I was happy once, wasn't I? It's been so long. I keep going for the kids. Even if all I can get going is to the kitchen to feed them and to the TV to turn on PBSKids for them. I don't manage to accomplish much else these days. At least until late at night when I'm fighting both boredom and insomnia. I feel such a sense of accomplishment by winning several races in Mario Kart Wii. My daily self esteem is built on my success in a video game the night before. That's it. That's all I've got.


This is my life now.