Wednesday, November 19, 2008

How much longer?

I was going to write about my entirely pointless date on Sunday -- trust me, it was pointless, and fortunately, I was able to end the agony after about an hour -- but I was taken ill. I've apparently taken just enough of the painkillers to burn up my stomach without entirely destroying my liver. So says Dr. Cool, whom I saw today. Now I'm suffering horrible stomach pain, for which he gave me samples of the latest super antacid, and moderate back pain that I can't really do anything about. I've missed 2 days of work, which I hate doing.

How much longer is my life going to be a series of mishaps and miseries just one step short of actual tragedy? On top of missing work, I have to file an MVAIC claim to deal with the damn ambulance bill. Ironically, the MVAIC office is located in the building where my last job was. Which I was fired from because I didn't want to learn computer programming and web design, I wanted to reserve my memory for forensic psychology, which has now been altered to forensic social work.

I haven't written about that job, and the horrible witch who fired me -- the Empress of Passive Aggresssion -- and the HR director who promised me she'd tell me in advance if I were going to be let go, and didn't. I also haven't written about the Beth Din lawsuit I'm involved in, and how I trusted a person I should have run from. Just more evidence that either I make my own extraordinarily bad luck, or I'm cursed.

Huddled in my bed trying to distract myself from the pain with an Agatha Christie novel, lacking enough pillows to prop myself in a way that would minimize the discomfort in my back without exacerbating the burning in my middle, I honestly wished I'd either never been born or died as a young child. I know there are scads of people -- my parents, nieces/nephews, friends -- who would disagree. But how long do I have to keep suffering for their sake?

What kept me from going to the pharmacy to buy a couple of bottles of Tylenol P.M. and ending it all? I don't know. A promise I made to my parents and friends that I'd never try to kill myself again. A promise I made to my niece Shira that I'll spend all of Thanksgiving weekend at her slightly emptier house. A friend and colleague who told me that he believes I'll accomplish great things in my career.

I'm a cognitive-behavioral therapist, right? So I tried to convince myself that being single for the rest of my life isn't so bad. Children are a lot of work, aren't they? I hear that from all my friends who are parents. I can focus on my career. I can have a lot of interesting lovers and make up for all the sex I'm not and haven't been having.

But on the way to and from Dr. Cool's office I kept seeing young frum mothers, with their stretchy headbands and stick-straight falls, pushing baby carriages. And I hated and resented them. That will never be me. I'll never be a "young" mother, no matter how young I look. I may never be a mother, and it makes me cry to type that.

I'm just miserable, and I don't know how much longer I can ride out this streak of bad luck. Statistically of course it's supposed to change. I don't think I believe it will.
Copyright (c) "Ayelet Survivor"

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