I’m not havin’ it!

Are you serious!? They’re at it again. The judge, the jury and the people in my head. It’s all going great and then ALL of my peeps decide to have breakdowns and breakthroughs at once.

And the straw that broke the camel’s back… I couldn’t get #3’s computer to work!

{Are you fucking kidding me?}

I write with a paper and pen because the mother fuckin’ computer mocks me daily. DAILY. It blinks, it stares with its pretty pink case and laughs.

{Pink. My favorite color}

So, I am going about my day-doing Mom duties that I should be doing and bam; the #3 Man’s mood flips. Suddenly I need to take care of his computer. I’m not the IT department. Christ, pay someone to do it for you. Quite honestly, I can’t always fix shit.

They have gotten into his head.

They. Telling you you’re not good enough, not smart enough, thin enough, sexy, attentive. They. They are in my shit daily. Now they are creeping out of my head and into my family’s heads.

Honestly, I don’t want to deal. Just when I decide to make a change in my own life-SCARY as it may be, everybody else has to snap. I physically need to leave the premises to get any peace and privacy. I am actually in a Buck’s parking lot writing now.

{CHAOS}

I have charmed myself into believing I was something I wasn’t over the past ten years–now I am left trying to undo some of the damage of pretending to be normal. I really believe there are normal type people. I am not stupid. I know everybody has their own set of issues but me pretending to be a normal type is just bullshit.

My first memory of not normal would be my adoptive father throwing Marie through the damned fish tank. I just kept rubbing my hands over my ears to block out the screaming and yelling.

Have I mentioned I have become a yeller? Not only when I am pushed. I am now a loud ass talker too. I swear it’s unconscious so I get heard.

Listen up Mother Fuckers, I don’t know how to fix shit anymore! I can’t pretend, I can’t play, I am struggling to love, to be loved and to just get through the days.

The jury is in. They. They are wearing me and my peeps down, and I’m not havin’ it!

Copyright © 2011-2012. Eggs.Smoke.Sex. All rights reserved.

Words and images on this blog are copyrighted and not to be reproduced in any way without my express permission in writing. Please contact me with any queries at cognitive-ly@live.com

 

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