Christmas here is.... well, it'll be another one for the book of nothingness.

I moved to an apartment an hour from here just over a year ago. I put all the money I had into deposits and first and last months' rent and so on. For six months, I was in a safe, clean, non-threatening environment. I was lonely sometimes, but nobody EVER once said ONE single unkind thing to me. I swam. I lost 30 lbs. I rested when I needed to, and was the closest to "okay" (whatever that is) I've been in years. I had hope.

Dear Lord, was I dumb. Once again, I've learned from my mistakes, but that doesn't mean I can unmake them. I put trust in another person, believing that just because I don't throw other people under the bus, it doesn't mean they won't do the same to me in a heartbeat. They have and they will continue to do so.

I ended up being forced to move back to the very place where emotional hell exists. I cannot do anything right, and my depression is deemed my own fault for making bad decisions. If I clean, it's my job, so there's no thanks, just more crap dumped in my path for me to deal with. I'm not okay to deal with it. Punishing me as a reward just doesn't work. I'm so depressed, it feels like it creates a whirlpool, sucking my soul down into the darkness. If I cook, I can't get "thank you". If I request groceries so I can cook, I get lambasted and told I'm wasteful. It DOES.NOT.MATTER. what I do; appreciation for the effort is never going to be forthcoming. Whatever I do, it's never enough, although since it was what I "should have done, anyway", there's no praise.

Yes, I can move back to Arkansas and live with my brother and his little girl. I know I'd be loved and overwhelmingly appreciated, but just ONE time, I'd love to be in my OWN home - with someone who loves me and wants to spend time with me but isn't a stalker and doesn't hit me with his fists or abrade my soul with words.Moving back there means I'll be safe, but it also means STILL being a half. JUST an odd half - not part of a whole.

I miss Christmas cantatas and caroling and Chinese gift exchanges and family and Christmas dinner and laughing and reminiscing. I was supposed to be the keeper of the stories, the teller of the stories. Those stories are locked away inside me for a time and place and people that may never be aligned.

I miss New Year's Day dinner to celebrate my dad's birthday, after being up most of the night for a scavenger hunt and watch night service. I miss, more than just about anything, belonging.

Right now (and so many other times) I need to be wrapped up in a big snuggly hug and feel a loving hand stroking my hair. I want to be reassured that it's all going to be okay; that I'm not going to be either always alone or always abused. The words and being ignored hurt even more than the blows ever did. There were okay times between the blows and the forced conjugal situations. Here and now, there are the times I'm ignored and the times I'm a moving target for hatred. There's nothing in between.

I think I know how the ancient Children of Israel felt when they were told to increase their production of bricks, and did, only to be told they had to do so without proper supplies. I'm not Rumplestiltskin; I can't spin straw into gold. If I had mountains of money, I still would have flaws to make me "less than".

I'm sick of being alone, sleeping alone, talking only to the dogs and cats, existing only electronically to most of the people in my world. I'm a real person. The tears running down my face are real. They were caused by the vicious words and manipulations of real human beings. Yeah, this isn't much of a step forward. And it's not about the presents. It's about being needed and loved.

I'm really trying not to throw myself a pity party, but I  some of the meanest, most undeserving people I've ever known are smug in their own homes with friends dropping by to deliver Christmas cookies or just visit, and sitting at the table with family and friends and knowing that, flaws and all, they're one of the privileged few, no matter how awful they may actually be. Somehow by leaving a man who beat and sexually assaulted me (between the times he was nice), I took a step in the wrong direction. I'm so tired.

Tristesse

Il a été de cinq mois. Il s'est passé beaucoup de choses, mais très peu de choses sur les faits essentiels de ma vie ont changé. Encore une fois, je me trouve assis dans une pièce faiblement éclairée, salle larmes coulant sur mes joues, s'égoutte sur ma chemise. Encore une fois, je me demande pourquoi la vie de délices de râtelage déjà blessés âmes sur les champs de verre cassé.Aujourd'hui j'écris. Je l'appelle "poésie", même si c'est vraiment juste un véhicule tangibles pour exprimer la même vieille douleur d'une vieille blessure rip fraîchement ouvert.

Tristesse

Il pleut dans mon âme à nouveau. 
Gouttes de liquide douleur humidifier ma peau. 
Nous les femmes âgées ont besoin d'absorber tout ce que nous pouvons 
dans l'espoir de garder 
les jeunes filles innocentes 
nous l'intérieur frais
 et plus réceptif aux plus sentiments de rejet.

S'il-vous-plaît, seulement un peu plus de temps, 
dites-moi comment je suis la meilleure amie jamais, 
la main- d'œuvre la plus qualifiée amant, 
plus amusant ami, le plus gentil et le plus généreuse, 
puis conclure votre éloge en disant
 "mais l'amour a très peu à faire." 

Encore une fois, s'il te plaire.