Forty three and not going to make it to forty four.
At this point I sound like the boy who cried wolf.
I’ve been talking about it, and fantasizing about it, writing the notes and making the plans.
For years and years this roller coaster of looking up and crashing back down again.
Every time I think I hit rock bottom, I rise, I breathe, I smile for a moment, only to fall harder next time.
I’m only here for others. If I were living for myself I’d be gone by now.
It’s so painful inside my head. Inside my heart. Living as a constant failure, unworthy of being loved. If I were everyone else around me, I wouldn’t love me. Maybe it’s conditional, out of obligation… Because I’m your daughter, because I’m your wife, because I’m your mother, you have to love me. But you shouldn’t. I don’t deserve it.
I wish that you would realize.
Should I make them hate me before I turn 44, so they can see my leaving will be for the better good of everyone?