Sometimes I really wished there would be a human of flesh and blood I could talk to... 😞😞😥
I was already alone in my childhood.
My mother was always there for me, but most of time just physically. But emotionally most of times I couldn´t tell her my feelings and emotions because most of times she was herself psychically too weak because of her own problems.
I could compensate my urge to talk about my feelings and emotions to others because since my 8th age I wrote everything down on papers what was touching my heart. I wrote it down in little stories, later, as an adult, in novels. I have written so much in my life... most of times I was even not aware that writing was just a kind of compensating my urge to talk to someone.
Well, since I´ve written my last novel it seems to be ages ago... almost 10 years now. 😑😥🥺
I had to stop it because my laptop was broken and there was never enough money to buy another one...
I had to struggle with my feelings during all those years anyhow - I even don´t know how I did it.
About a long period my son treated my like a piece of shit, like a slave, when he still lived with me.
When I had to recognise that all my resistance was useless I kept quiet. The only possibility to let out my feelings was in the night when I finally was alone and I could cry in my pillow... Sometimes I cried in the nights for many, many hours... 😞😥🥺
Then, when my son finally moved out of my flat there were a few years of freedom. How many? I don´t think that it was more than 2 years freedom in my life... then I took my mother to me who couldn´t live alone anymore because she is too sick.
And here I am now:
I am struggling to survive anyhow with my mother. I have three jobs and my life is not more than to run from job 1 to job 2, from job 2 to job 3, from there to my mother to nurse her. When I come home totally tired and exhausted from my jobs the first thing normally is to put the shit out of my mother´s toilet. Then most of time I have to clean the kitchen, because she puts the trash really everywhere.
When I came home today the kitchen looked like a battlefield. Cherries on the floor, sauce, and it smelled like hell. Furthermore a sac of bread were spoiled and my mother blamed me for that. She said I should not buy so much bread. She just has forgotten that she has asked me to buy more bread, And although I did what she wanted she rejected to eat any bread. I don´t blame her for that because she has beginning dementia... 😑
Later she complained about my father - until I told her that she has not too much to complain. Because she had some good years in her marriage:
She had a wedding in a wedding dress and some happy years with my father. He really loved her.
My father went with her regularly on vacation, they went out in operas and operettas, in theatres. he gave her regularly gifts, often even very expensive ones...
And my father paid for her and my brother´s life more than 12 years.
I never had such a "luxury." Not in my whole life, and especially not in my 2 years longing hell marriage.
Not one of the things I have counted up.
Sometimes I am feeling like I am living in a parallel world: I see couples outside, talking and laughing with each other, holding hands, while going for a walk. Or I smell the restaurant which is closed to me. I hear people there laughing and singing. Sometimes there are concerts, and sometimes people are even dancing.
Others are telling me from theater shows, from cinemas, operas, operettas,, ballets and concerts they are coming from. And I am just listening with big eyes and try to imagine how it is.
A few times I have seen coworkers who bought gifts for their partners: Flowers, candies, a vacation to a special place... 🥺
And then I am wondering why I am the one who is always alone and why I have to be the prisoner. First I was the prisoner of my husband, later the prisoner of my son, and now the prisoner of my mother. Well, to be honest: The last prison is voluntarily. Because if I wouldn´t nurse my mother she had to go in a home for old people and she doesn´t want that at all. It would mean her psychically death. But nevertheless it feels like in prison, it is a prison, even when I am voluntarily inside this prison.
And here I am sitting now, in an old and very uncomfortable armchair and write down those words. Because I have to vent. Because I know the only person I can talk to is my mother, and sadly it is often so that I can´t talk to her. At least not the way I want.
In moments like this I really wished intensive there would be a human I could talk to. Not the cashier in the supermarket where I say "thank you" when she gives me my change. And not a user in the virtual world but a human of flesh and blood.
But I know there is no one. And so I will continue to vent on SW, because this is the last possibility I am having to let out my feelings and emotions... 😞😞
My mother was always there for me, but most of time just physically. But emotionally most of times I couldn´t tell her my feelings and emotions because most of times she was herself psychically too weak because of her own problems.
I could compensate my urge to talk about my feelings and emotions to others because since my 8th age I wrote everything down on papers what was touching my heart. I wrote it down in little stories, later, as an adult, in novels. I have written so much in my life... most of times I was even not aware that writing was just a kind of compensating my urge to talk to someone.
Well, since I´ve written my last novel it seems to be ages ago... almost 10 years now. 😑😥🥺
I had to stop it because my laptop was broken and there was never enough money to buy another one...
I had to struggle with my feelings during all those years anyhow - I even don´t know how I did it.
About a long period my son treated my like a piece of shit, like a slave, when he still lived with me.
When I had to recognise that all my resistance was useless I kept quiet. The only possibility to let out my feelings was in the night when I finally was alone and I could cry in my pillow... Sometimes I cried in the nights for many, many hours... 😞😥🥺
Then, when my son finally moved out of my flat there were a few years of freedom. How many? I don´t think that it was more than 2 years freedom in my life... then I took my mother to me who couldn´t live alone anymore because she is too sick.
And here I am now:
I am struggling to survive anyhow with my mother. I have three jobs and my life is not more than to run from job 1 to job 2, from job 2 to job 3, from there to my mother to nurse her. When I come home totally tired and exhausted from my jobs the first thing normally is to put the shit out of my mother´s toilet. Then most of time I have to clean the kitchen, because she puts the trash really everywhere.
When I came home today the kitchen looked like a battlefield. Cherries on the floor, sauce, and it smelled like hell. Furthermore a sac of bread were spoiled and my mother blamed me for that. She said I should not buy so much bread. She just has forgotten that she has asked me to buy more bread, And although I did what she wanted she rejected to eat any bread. I don´t blame her for that because she has beginning dementia... 😑
Later she complained about my father - until I told her that she has not too much to complain. Because she had some good years in her marriage:
She had a wedding in a wedding dress and some happy years with my father. He really loved her.
My father went with her regularly on vacation, they went out in operas and operettas, in theatres. he gave her regularly gifts, often even very expensive ones...
And my father paid for her and my brother´s life more than 12 years.
I never had such a "luxury." Not in my whole life, and especially not in my 2 years longing hell marriage.
Not one of the things I have counted up.
Sometimes I am feeling like I am living in a parallel world: I see couples outside, talking and laughing with each other, holding hands, while going for a walk. Or I smell the restaurant which is closed to me. I hear people there laughing and singing. Sometimes there are concerts, and sometimes people are even dancing.
Others are telling me from theater shows, from cinemas, operas, operettas,, ballets and concerts they are coming from. And I am just listening with big eyes and try to imagine how it is.
A few times I have seen coworkers who bought gifts for their partners: Flowers, candies, a vacation to a special place... 🥺
And then I am wondering why I am the one who is always alone and why I have to be the prisoner. First I was the prisoner of my husband, later the prisoner of my son, and now the prisoner of my mother. Well, to be honest: The last prison is voluntarily. Because if I wouldn´t nurse my mother she had to go in a home for old people and she doesn´t want that at all. It would mean her psychically death. But nevertheless it feels like in prison, it is a prison, even when I am voluntarily inside this prison.
And here I am sitting now, in an old and very uncomfortable armchair and write down those words. Because I have to vent. Because I know the only person I can talk to is my mother, and sadly it is often so that I can´t talk to her. At least not the way I want.
In moments like this I really wished intensive there would be a human I could talk to. Not the cashier in the supermarket where I say "thank you" when she gives me my change. And not a user in the virtual world but a human of flesh and blood.
But I know there is no one. And so I will continue to vent on SW, because this is the last possibility I am having to let out my feelings and emotions... 😞😞
