just the worst

I must be the worst person in the world.

I can't even stand myself anymore.

Everyone I love tells me I suck and I can't have the love I want because I suck.

I'm sorry.

I don't know what to do to get the love I really wish I had. 

I wish I could exit.  Fucking Betsy.

I want to go home.  I don't know how to play the game.  I never win.  I want to go home.  

I'm sorry.

Please, let me go home now.

Celebrate Diversity

Celebrating diversity seems to have driven us farther from embracing unity.  The more we celebrate our struggles, the more those struggle will be perceived and continued. 

Where does it end?  We have pride month, where I should be ashamed to be a straight woman.  We have black history month, where I should be ashamed to be a white woman.  We make such a fuss.  Here's the problem for me.

When is women's month?   We only got the right to vote just over 100 years ago.  We still didn't have the right to own property in many states, and under various conditions after that.  Our husband's could have us committed until at least 60 years ago.  I don't even want to go into the latest messes.  But, yet, no month.

Where is single mother's month?  Talk about overcoming the damage of the white man... or even yet, single father's month?

What about Native People's month?  Like they don't deserve recognition for being fucking slaughtered and destroying their culture.

How about Asian American's month?  Umm... same.

What about firefighters month?  Or first-responder's month?

How about doctor's and nurse's month?

What about executioners month?

Where can we find room for evangelist's month?  Next to white supremicist's month?  Or just after Jewish People's month?  

How about sex-workers month?  Or road workers month?  When can we squeeze in a month to celebrate our modern boot leggers?

A month for cat ladies, a month for klansmen, a month for slim shadys, a month for vegans...

There are so many ways to live your little life.  Celebrate each day, it is your right.

Mr. Uncle Scott

I should call you again tomorrow.  I wish I could call now, at 4:44 am, but I don't want to wake you.

What wonderful things we will talk about.  How much will we accept and embrace each other's darkest, most gorgeous topics?  There's no question which of us is the lucky one.  

What dreams will be relived?  What moments will present us the chance to walk through together?  How many lilts and dips and shas and grins will we share this time?

I should call you tomorrow, today, actually.  

I can't think of anything more wonderful to be.

and here we are again

17 years ago, she was high and drunk and following through with her plan to go out with a blaze of glory and teach him a lesson.

I must believe she didn't see what this would do and to who.

I hate that her brain was too much for her to bear.  She was so incredibly tough.  She was so hard on me.  She hated me.  I was never good enough.

She didn't say goodbye to me, but she wrote lots of letters to what seems like everyone else.  I picked out the clothes she's buried in.  I chose the casket, and the music, and the photos, and the flowers.  I cleaned out her house. And tortured myself with her things.  I keep her memory to this day.

She hated me.  I guess I deserved that.  

She ruined my birthdays, wedding, honeymoon, farmabaloo.  She took my daughter from me.  She accused me of stealing to keep herself out of trouble.  She stole from me, anything that mattered.  And, in the end, I lost my best friend and husband over her death.  He couldn't get over it.

She hated me.

I worshipped her.  

I would have done anything for her, for her approval, at her request, just to avoid her punishment.  I was never good enough.

She has been in my dreams more and more lately.  Like a side character instead of being about her.  I feel like she's made it out of the dusty classroom limbo where she folded endless baskets of socks in sepia tones.  

I don't need her approval anymore.  I can never have that.

Doug and her would have been total thing.  Quentin was bad enough that his mind and heart broke when she died.  Doug, she would have taken from me.

Part of me thinks she is waiting to do just that, somehow.  That she can't allow me to be happy.  Even though she's gone, I can feel her hating me.  

Look, Betz, if you can see me now... if you can read what I'm writing... fuck off, bitch.

You bailed, you weak, spineless pussy.  You left your kids and our family over your immature mind games.  You fucking loser.  You suck.  You left us all.  Own your shit.  We all have cleaned up after your fucking bs for 17 years.

Fucking get someone else to torture.  I've had enough!  You will never give me what I want or need.  I have to accept that.

I live in constant pain and regret, and I can't opt out like you did, because now I'm the oldest, and I can't hurt mom and dad like you did.

I'm still messed up, you helped.  I want to be free to live my life and enjoy it.  

Let me go.

Let me go.

I know you hate me, please let me go.

I know I'm never going to be good enough for you.  Please let me go.

You destroyed our family, and my little family, let me go.

I'm sorry I couldn't help you.  Let me go. 

Please find rest.  Let me go.

Please find peace.  Let me go.

Please find resolution.   Let me go.

Please find the strength to let me go.

Know that I love you, let me go.

I will never forget you, let me go.

I've done all I can.  Let me go.

17 years, Betz.  17 years.  Please let me go.

I wonder if you miss me as much as I do you.

I looked for hours for your obituary,  it's gone.  Not on the web.  Not one word, not one picture.  Just a mention in grandma's obit; and a site that says you're still alive, 48, and on park street.

I saw Gene Simmons live in May.  Just to brag to you about it.  

I need to feel ok about being me.  

I don't think you, or anyone else will help me.  

I feel like everyone I love just cuts me down.  I'm so tired.  

I'm 46 now.  I know who I am.   I crave love and attention.   Always.

Fuck.

Rest in peace,  Betz.  Godspeed.