I haven’t been writing, I no longer feel like it. Life is fucking hard. Okay, that is a lie. I have been writing some what. Trying a different approach. I have been writing hate mail to Doc. Just sending it to him. Makes me feel a little better. Father thinks I am writing old friends, trying to stay in touch with people. Nope. Just Doc. I let him know most of California thinks he is a gay, and married to Bill when they ask if I’m in a relationship. How I’m okay telling them he found my blow jobs awful and turned gay to get those good ones. Even how he quit being a Doctor to make new self forming, vibrating anal plugs that you can write little love messages on. I even have put his phone number and a fake ad on some gay websites, to have them made. It really did make me feel better. I tell him what a horrible person he is for leading me on, and making me dream that there was such a thing as happily ever after. How I would have been a great wife, giving lunch time blow jobs, and after work drinks and blow jobs, even good morning ones if he would just have committed to truly making me feel he was really going to marry me. Of course the next week I would write him back, saying I’m sorry and how much I love him, and need him. How I will never throw his coffee away and if he would just make things right I would even make him pork chops. Then the next day I would be pissed I let myself believe he would care and write another saying I hate him again for making me feel like I had a chance. I think I have sent him like ten love/hate letters so far. I still think he owes me a baby. Since he didn’t marry me. Least he could fucking do, because I hate how much I love him still. Even told him how angry I am I fucked that stupid police chief to get a gun. If he had married me, I wouldn’t have had to do that! Strange, so use to older balls these days, I found the younger ones of the police chief not as smooth and enjoyable. Too firm. So then I had to write Doc again to tell him how much I missed his balls and hated him more for leaving me without that feeling of them against my skin.
So yes, I know I am becoming pretty unhinged. I feel it. How much I hate women who feel they need a man in their life to function, and cry all the time, beg their men to love them. I am almost becoming one of them, though I feel like, I should have shot Doc before it got this bad, so he would be gone, and I wouldn’t feel this way. I should have killed him while the love was good and strong, so I would have happy memories. It really made complete sense to me. So I of course wrote him again, on how he didn’t just destroy me, but he did my children with his lack of…….well…..cause he didn’t fucking set a date. I want my fucking ring back. Of course I did tell him, it’s his fault the kids Dad is dead too. He might as well have just thrown him in front of that train himself. So all is gone. I miss touching his face, kissing his scars, feeling his body on mine. I miss the shower sex, skin so much hotter then the steam, gasping for a breath, feeling like all of me belonged to him. Got damn it. I hate him so much!
My head and heart can’t be still, just so much, so much happening. Though I sit quiet for hours in the living room with the children, playing board games, or just watching Jackson paint, or the little girls fight over dolls. The kids are whining. They want to leave and go back to Maine. They want their horses back, the cold mornings, colorful leaves. They want to go back to the tribe. Mother looks sad. She has never left the reservation for so long. She removes her sad face when father walks in the room, but you can still feel it. I hear them talking softly late into the night. Mostly cause I am sitting in the hallway like some teenager being nosy outside their door after I have smoked a joint once the kids are asleep. Father telling her, we can go back if she is that unhappy, her saying, it would make her more unhappy if he didn’t do what made him happy too. Fuck, I want love like that.
I get bored when they start talking about me. How they know something isn’t right. Clearly. I moved back home. Ditched everything I tried to do in that city, and just came home. Restless. I want to go back to Maine too. I still cut, with his blade. I clean it nice when I am done, wrap it in velvet and back in the nice case it was in. I feel better afterwards. It really does relax me. Like releasing some of the darkness as the blood leaves warm trails down my flesh. I like picking scabs too. Bonus.
I better get some sleep, I want to write Doc in the morning before the mail runs. Last night Father talked of quitting his job. He isn’t feeling inspired there. Not how he thought he would feel. He sees not heart in his students, no one wants to really be a psychiatrist these days. Under paid and no real thrill like surgery and any other specialized medicine. He seems disappointed. I hope we will move soon. Hate it here.
poeditation 