Why do I bother?
A page in the diary "A Day in the Life Of..."
Written by babz 29. Jun 2008 11:32 PM
I'm currently very frustrated. This whole one handed thing is giving me the s***s, big time. I am an independent person, and I hate feeling helpless or that I have to rely on someone. So the little things like my teammate having to tie up my shoelaces at training and a lady on the train helping me put my jacket on cause I couldn't do it all make me really agitated. As you can imagine, my Mum having to cut my dinner up for me in front of my step family was pretty humiliating for me. I've even had to buy velcro shoes because I couldn't keep wearing my slippers everywhere. I'm sick of being so helpless, because it brings up memories that I would rather not think about.
My step siblings are very opinionated people, and they like having debates, which I don't personally have a problem with. Tonight at dinner though they managed to talk about my two favourite (note the sarcasm) topics: rape and hospital. So when I'm busy trying not to think about two of the reasons why I don't like feeling helpless they have to go and debate about them across the f*****g dinner table. Then they started talking about their Mum, who suffers one of the psychiatric conditions that I also have, and believe me, the way they talk of her isn't favourable. I sometimes wonder if they talk about me the same way behind my back. Not many people can make me feel as ashamed as they can. I feel like I'm something they scraped off their shoe with a stick.
So to top off a really awesomely c**p day, we've been pulled from national championships. I worked my ass off for this, I put myself through hell and my hard work is worth jack all because someone else couldn't be bothered putting in the work. It isn't fair, it is not f*****g fair. I thought that things were finally starting to look up again, that I'd finally done something good, but it appears that I was wrong.
So here I am at home alone, unable to do anything for myself cause of my stupid arm, feeling like dirt because of my step siblings and thinking about HIM because they decided that debating about appropriate punishment of rapists is acceptable dinner conversation. I don't think about it as much as I used to, but sometimes I am reminded and it becomes this all-consuming, soul-crushing hatred. I didn't do anything wrong, I didn't deserve what he did to me, he was supposed to help me. I hate that he didn't go to jail, I hate that I might walk past him on the street anytime and not even know. I hate the fact that I don't remember what he looks like, because a fear is so much worse when you don't know what you're afraid of. I hate that he can still get to me, I hate that he can still make me break down, I hate that I can't be strong. I hate it that he can make me think of ending it all as a way of just making the pain go away. I hate that tonight I am alone with my hate.
I don't want to hurt anymore. I don't want to live but I certainly don't want to die. I feel... stuck. Stuck in the no mans land between illness and recovery, the point where it is just as far to turn back as it is to keep going, but turning back is that little bit easier because of its familiarity. Oh my goodness, I'm being soooo melodramatic. I think I just need to go to bed. In the morning, today and all its crapiness and disappointment will be behind me and I can move on.