Don’t read this. I’m just venting and it’s not worth reading.
What? You’re still here? Go away, I’m ranting to myself.
Everything is my fault. Sorry, world, you’re fucked. It’s my own fault everything is my fault too, so if you have to blame something on anyone, I’m your fucking huckleberry, pals. It’s my fault my family is a mess, it’s my fault my house is a mess, it’s my fault the world is going to hell in a handbasket. I’m the incarnation of Satan himself, only not as clever, and if you don’t want to feel firsthand the effects of everything being my fault and everything falling apart, stay the fuck out of my orbit.
It’s my fault my house isn’t clean, because sure I could get off my ass to do it myself, or to help when someone’s in the mood, but every time I do I’m in someones fucking way, so the best thing I think I could do is sit out of everyone’s way. And then it’s my fault for not figuring out how to get things to clean themselves because heaven knows no one is going to actually clean shit up, and if I can’t do it without being in someone’s way it won’t get done. It’s my fault. There isn’t room in the house for any of my shit so throw it the fuck away, and there isn’t room on the fucking planet for me unless I do what everyone else wants the way they want it done. And stay invisible while I’m doing it. Because, it’s not about me, it’s about everyone else. What ever everyone else wants is so much more important than what I want.
It’s my own fault I’m upset about life, because my emotions are my own responsibility, I should have better control over my triggers. It’s my fault because I picked my relationships and what I did to them was to fuck them up. It’s my fault I’m not Mary Fucking Poppins. I should just be able to do everything and fix everything and it should magically hold together for 60 years after I’m dead. It’s my fault I’m not rich, it’s my fault I’m not a skilled plumber, auto mechanic, welder, master carpenter, interior decorator, metalworker, and fixer of whatever other shit needs to be fixed, and all this of course I should be able to do without making any mess of course. And it’s my fault I’m not a great and rich and famous writer too.
Yup, somebody shit in my cornflakes. No, not literally. But it made me mad and I needed to say something about it and nobody wants to hear my shit because it’s my shit and it’s stupid and it doesn’t matter to anyone in my house; it’ll pass and they’ll expect me to suppress my triggers while trying to understand and accommodate that it’s my fault they’re pissed off and screaming because somebody shit in their cornflakes and I’m the one being passive-aggressive, because I’m not allowed to have an outlet.
It’s my fault I’m not satisfied and that’s the truth, because if I want something, and trust me, I want something a lot, I shouldn’t want what I want because I should be fully satisfied with whatever’s already before me, what people are willing to provide should be enough, I should be more Catholic than Protestant, or better still completely puritanical, and live in dread fear of whatever I want being sinful and in bad taste.
And on the flipside of that, it’s my fault nothing I do satisfies anyone, it’s never enough, it’s inadequate, it’s too small, it’s too big, it takes too long, it doesn’t look good enough or like what was expected. Unless it’s a crisis for them and they need it and it’s fucking perfect , and then tomorrow it won’t be remembered and today it won’t be received with gratitude. Someone will throw a fit and make me feel like it was all worthless, like me.
Sometimes, like now, I want the fuck out. This sucks.
Oh look, everyone ELSE left, so now I can do some chores or something. Not that anyone cares. I’m Eeyore. Except I swear. I swear I live with people who can be real fucking ass holes sometimes. And I’m not allowed to have negative (counterproductive) feelings about that because they’re my damned family. I’m sorry to my family too. Because it’s my fault it sucks. And I’m sure it sucks for them, because I make it suck. So I’m sorry to my family too.
And I’m sorry for venting today. But it’s better to write than to cut, or hit, or alcoholic, or worse. And, if you’re still here, I’m sorry I made you read this, because that’s my fault too.
Rant over. I’m sorry.