How fucked up is it that if I ever get this crap of a book published, one of the acknowledgments will be to my dead cat, Widget?
I am such a sick sick girl. I honestly am sitting here wondering how the hell I am going to face another day without…my cat. It’s a cat. I know it’s a cat. Every rational bone in my body is screaming it’s a fucking cat. But she was my cat, and she was a very special cat. She wasn’t like any cat I have ever had in my life. She never left my side. We had some very deep philosophical discussions. And with the loss of my closest confidant, my mother, Widget had become the only person (yes I know, CAT) that I could spill everything to.
She even talked back. Not that I ever understood a damn thing she was saying, but at least I felt like I wasn’t just speaking to a wall. Now All I have are walls. Walls cracking and crumbling from water damage. Walls with holes punched in them from a man before he managed to get the medicine he needed to get his head on straight. Walls closing in everywhere.
Every day I become more and more alone. Every day a little more of my life is taken from me. Every day life becomes a little less worth living.
People and things keep dying, opportunities keep slipping through my fingers, years keep passing by. I just turned 31, or 32, I can’t even do the math(a birthday went by recently as just another day), and I am a miserable failure of a human being, of a mother, of a woman, of a writer, of an anything. I’m literally sick of living. I’m sick of waking up in the morning. Sick to fucking death of it. I’m not depressed. I’m not even really sad anymore. I know the difference, because I spent all of 2008 depressed or sad or just frustrated and lost, trying to find some way to fight the pain or chase it away. Now I am just completely fucking done.
I’m sort of at the point where I don’t understand why we don’t have suicide booths. You know? Why can’t I just go to the hospital, check in, and check out. I’ve already been told by my oncologist that my life isn’t worth 300 bucks, literally, I can’t receive further treatment, lifesaving, quality of life treatment, because of a past due bill of 300 bucks, even though I have Medicaid to cover all current bills now. So yeah, why can’t I go to the hospital, check in, pay 200 bucks, 100 bucks, or hell, even 300 bucks, and be put down the same way you do old dogs, and be done with it?
I can see there being a thing against irrational suicide, I get that--people try to slit their wrists or pop a truck load of pills and then it fails and they are all, “I really didn’t want to die,” cry for help sort of thing. But when you sit down and rationally work it out, and honestly decide you are just done with the bullshit, just done fighting against the current, you should be allowed to make that choice. I am honest to god ready to lie down and die. It’s not a cop out, it’s not a lazy choice, it’s a rational decision based on facts. I’m tired, I can’t do this any more, my kids are tired, they deserve better, my husband deserves and wants better. There is no miracle coming my way, I got no one and nothing going for me.
I’m going to dedicate a book that will never be published to a dead cat. I’m such a fucking winner.