So much insane shit has transpired over the past several months… My hand got fucked up at school, and now it hurts to do so many things that I have found myself not journaling nearly as much. I never thought about how much that would impact someone’s writing before… so, now I don’t work at the school anymore because my dad gave me thousands of dollars, and I got a new job where I work from home. I hope in 2026 I do not change jobs at fucking all. So far this one seems like a good fit, but my anxiety about all of it is so high given what 2025 looked like for me… Why does life keep throwing me these horrible adult ears?
I want to write my book so badly… There’s been so much new material lately between Thanksgiving and my crazy aunt and grandmother and my brother… The problem is, it wouldn’t be flattering for any of those people if they read it… I was thinking today about what’s holding me back, and I think a huge part of it is that I want to write unashamedly about so many things in such detail, that it will probably be way too much for a book. I think I’m going to have to heavily edit the product after I write it. I think if I truly wrote the memoir I wanted to write, it would be a dense-ass book… so I’ve been delaying; trying to be selective of what I will include before I start writing. I’ve been doing rough drafts in my head, but none of them seem appealing, because they feel weak. Watered down. Palatable. And I don’t want to do that… I want rawness that would break the heart of every motherfucker that ever knew me. I want to be utterly exposed in the process as a fucked up human. But I want to do it from behind a page so that all the other fucked up humans in the world feel as if they are reading about themselves. I want them not to see me as some public figure but to project themselves into what I write. I don’t want my family to ever read it, and I want every stranger on the planet to see it.
That’s always been the goal. To write something brutally honest. I want to start that process.
My book and my dollhouse are the two things in life I aurally need to accomplish. For the sake of my inner child, we only had like 5 big dreams - a child, a husband, my own cute house with a big kitchen, to write a book, to have a treehouse, to make a complete dollhouse, to always have a real Christmas tree, to live in a big bustling city, to travel.
I don’t know if the treehouse or house with a big kitchen is ever going to happen. Some of these are checked off. Traveling is what everyone wants to do in any way they can, right? So that’s basic bitch stuff.
I determined last night what I want to do with the dollhouse. An epiphany about how I want it to be and what I want it to be. I can’t wait to start making things for it.
In other news, my new job is pretty chill. I’ve had horrible ADHD happening that’s almost debilitating and the worst anxiety ever and started week two riiiight on danger days. And I’ve gained 10lbs since I started smoking again, and I had a massive flareup this week, solely because I’ve been treating my body like shit.
So I did an injection today because next week is Christmas and we’re literally going on a pool-centric trip. I was supposed to be feeling myself and looking amazing. But instead th week of Thanksgiving, I just started binging like nuts and have been unsuccessful in stopping. I did an injection about two weeks ago, but this new job hasn’t helped my stress level. I’m perfectly successful with it, and I’ve done it all perfectly and it’s been a cakewalk, but it is so fucking hard for me to meet new people. Like these bitches are across the country, and I feel all the comparisons. I’m doing all of them. It literally makes me feel suicidal. And I can’t stop. I’m just in a fucking massive spiral of smoking and eating.
Every time I undergo any big change, I revert. I get so fucking self-destructive in response to stress. Why the fuck?? Idk how I’m supposed to be like a functional normal human. My fucking hoarder, agoraphobic, bipolar traumatized mom just died because of her eating disorder - the woman that homeschooled us, thus ruining our ability to function in the real world and instead moved us out to the middle of fucking nowhere where the only person around us 90% of the time was severely mentally ill.
And my dad acts like it was positive. Like he’s so confused why my brother turned out a complete failure of a human.
He’s like that because I couldn’t raise him alone, you fucking idiot. He’s like that because your dead wife curated him to be like this.
The resentment I feel about the decisions my parents made. They are so fucking stupid.
The days of my life I have agonized over thoughts that I hope I’m not doing to my kids what my parents did to me. They were a fucking train wreck. They should never have had kids. Like 3 failed pregnancies and then you have me?? Why were you still trying??
Then you just up and die with everything left undone.
A million “useful” things you’ll never use. Craft projects you’ll never do. Plans of going places you’ll never see and doing things you’ll never do.
No Grand Canyon. No doll house. No book. Some of my mom’s dreams were also mine. But I knew I would do those things differently. I didn’t think my dollhouse would be given to me in pieces.
I want to do these things by 50. All of my desires. I’ve worked so hard, and I’m going to coast for a bit. Mentally ill and coasting.
Ive been disassociated for days. I went to dinner with Jenna last night and literally can’t recall more than 5 total thoughts I had all night. It was just empty in there.
Lately conversation feels draining. Interaction with anyone is completely undesirable. I want to tuck myself into bed and be completely left alone. I won’t tho. Because my mom would have.
I wish I could stop dreaming about her.
