Not Good Enough

Sisyphus. You know the guy who keeps have to push the boulder up the hill and when he gets to the top watch it roll back down. Then start again the next day. And the next day. And the next day. And…

I never feel good enough. I feel like there is this boulder in my belly that I can’t get rid of. It certainly doesn’t feel good. Every day I think, okay today I will try to be good enough. But I’m not.

I vacuum. But not good enough. I fold the sheets. But not good enough. I clean the bathroom. But not good enough. I take care of G-Pa, my responsibilities, prayers, shaving, wiping up, going through the to-do list, eating healthy, cross-stitching, being a daughter, niece, friend—but never fucking good enough.

Why does the boulder feel heavier today because T. is mad at me for I don’t know what? We aren’t even officially together. I have no plans of going back to him. Why can’t I tell him that? Why can’t I say, “Fuck you,” to someone who has cursed at me, told me to get the fuck out, threatened to kill me, told me and the horse I rode in on to fuck off, made fun of people I respect, degrade opinions I have…because he did love me, make me feel desirable, compliment me, make me feel smart, take me out to dinner, listen to me, give me gifts, need me, include me—until he didn’t.

When is enough, enough? According to James Gandolfini in The Mexican, “enough is never enough if you love somebody. But T. ain’t Brad Pitt and I ain’t Julia Roberts. And life is not a movie. When is enough, enough? When I started looking at nut houses to get away from him? When I would fantasize about putting a gun to my head and pulling the trigger? When I was crying in the fetal position? When was threatening to kill my cat? When he was lying to me? When I wished that he had let me die when I OD’ed.

I don’t even know if I can honestly say I love him anymore. I don’t know who the fuck he is. He doesn’t tell me that he loves me. SO why the fuck do I care whether or not his probably drunk ass is mad at me?

Because I never feel good enough. There was an article in the Washington Post today, newspaper of which T. severely disapproves, about how gun control would cut suicide in half.

No fucking way. If you want to kill yourself—you are going to kill yourself. T. told me that—to just go ahead and do it, get it over with. Seriously, if you want to die because you can’t push that motherfucking boulder up that hill one more fucking day, you will find a way to die. I can list them for you. You can find them on the internet.

But what I can’t list for you is one, solitary reason why I am good enough.

So you can take away from me guns, sharp objects, pills, ropes, cleaning products, my car keys, and I could still find a way.

BUT the key take away here, kiddies. Is that even though I can; tonight I won’t. Hell, I am even a failure at suicide. But the Nuclear Option cannot be used on G-Pa’s couch.

Smoke 'em if ya' got 'em. God Bless