I know myself as a failure. That’s how I recognize myself the best.
Not good enough, inadequate…an imposter in my own life.
No matter what role in life I take on, I’ll never do it justice.
A mom? Please. Not good enough. You’re lucky they’re still here. Still okay. Not to mention the fucked up genetic disorder you yourself handed all 3 of them on a silver platter. I do everything I can for them. My every waking moment is in service to them. But I’ll never feel like I’ve done enough. I always feel like I’ve done something wrong.
A wife? What, are you kidding me? It’s a literal miracle that he loves you. And I’ll never understand it. He deserves so much better. I’ll never deserve his seemingly undying love. He’ll never have a negative thing to say about me. But will I ever believe him?
A friend? I do the best I can, but let’s be real…is that anywhere near enough? I’ve lost enough friends to suicide to take it personally. I need to do more. Do better. But I just don’t know how.
An addict. That, I have down. That, I have succeeded at. I’ve successfully given in and given up to the addict tendencies. I used to fight the label, fight the description. But now I fit the definition so well it’s honestly laughable.
I hate this, I hate this so much.
It’s late at night after a long ass day.
A couple drinks in and feeling good. I don’t need another one. I can stop here. It’s not too late to stop.
But then I pour another anyway.
And I regret it.
And I drink it anyway.
A failure at its finest.
Fighting this fucked up urge every single night.
My days are filled with taking care of others. With surviving. With trying to fill the cups of everyone around me, while feeling so empty myself.
I’m trying to numb this immense pain in the only way I know how.
My life has been one of trauma and pain and suffering.
Of rape, of loss, of the threat of my children dying at a very young age due to their genetic disorder….my life has been abuse and pain and heartache.
And alcohol? It’s been there.
It’s been there since I was 15 years old and no one else was.
And it’s still here now.
Except for now, I have people that love me. I have my husband. I have my kids. I’m not fundamentally alone. In theory, I have support.
Yet, I still have pain. And I am still weak.
I’m still suffering.
I am still a failure.
I guess that’s the only me I’ll ever know.