Tired. Tired of breathing. Tired of stupid people. Tired of drama. Tired of working. Tired of the endless list of tasks that never end. Tired of being tired.
Enough said. It’s 6:45. I’m simply trying to keep myself awake until 8. Worried if I go lay in bed I’ll never leave it again or I’ll be up in the middle of the night. Who knows. Really, I guess I know I need to do more – Be up. Play with the dogs. Enjoy the fresh air. I know I need it. But I also just want to hide away, sleep if I’m not working.
It’s just been an exhausting week. Never ending bullshit with stupid people. Facing and seeing people I never want to see. I knew the day I eventually saw my ex-husband would be dysregulating. Yet, I didn’t grasp how truly messed up my insides would become. I don’t miss him. I don’t want him. I don’t love him. Yet, it’s like his appearance peaks my anxiety, returns me to an instant panic, to a bad mental place. Now, to regain the control and remind myself he can’t hurt me anymore, the memories are only that, memories. I got out alive.
After 14 months of not talking to his family his mom texted me to say his stepdad was doing better and surgery went well. Why? I had no idea he was sick, none, zero. I reply with questions and simply get told them hospital he’s at. No response to questions or my next text. I’m convinced she told me just to lure me in. If she was in the hospital dying I’d never care. That lady made my divorce hell with her son. She knows I love her husband to death tho. She knows he’s one of my favorite people. She knows that will lure me. And boy it sure did.
As nobody would respond to me I checked with the hospital Friday night I wasn’t in a restricted list. Yes, she’s crazy enough to do that. I’ve saw her do it to his own son and grandchildren in the past. Nope, I was good, here’s the room number, come first thing in the morning and have a nice visit.
So Saturday I get up and go – Grab a plant, newspaper and balloons and what do you know – Captain Douche is in the parking lot. The whole reason I went early was to avoid this. I don’t want a scene so I nicely ask if it’s okay that I go in – Yep, please do, then I can go home. Ummmm, no. You aren’t blaming me for not going, I’ll wait in the car or come back later. No, go in, I didn’t even want to come. But my brother thinks someone has to. I’ll tell him you’re doing it and then I don’t have to. I’d rather be watering my yard. Seriously? He was sure to mention he’s lost weight and ask if I think he looks sick – Yep, sure do. Lay off the drugs and eat food. It’s hard to eat sometimes. Okay. Have a wonderful day.
I quickly decided I was told because she knew exactly what I’d do. I’d show. I’d care. It would take the pressure off her and her kids. The last time he was in the hospital I literally stayed from 8 am – 10 pm for a week. Fucking dicks.
It was amazing getting to see him tho. I’ve been cast out since the day I filed. Not welcome and she’s always home. He loved me. I loved him. I feel for him being left in that shitty family. It’s his choice tho. He’s managed this marriage for far too long and will until he dies. I stopped again today for a quick visit. Thankfully he’s getting better. But being 87 they said it’ll take longer for him to heal up. It’s just great he’s healing at all. I told him I’d stop back this weekend but I’m smart enough to was until Sunday as I know the jerk will be at work. Not that I think he’s coming at all anymore. I didn’t ask today. Don’t care. I just don’t want to see him.
Still not speaking to my own mom and I have zero interest in changing that. I never will. Last night I was talking to my son and he mentioned not wanting to race anymore. It’s expensive and he’s over it. I asked why he was racing then as I’d told him to take the summer off and think if he wanted to sell his car or not. Why? Because his grandma throws a fit if he doesn’t. Because she gets mad at him. I want to just punch her in the fucking face. Why does she do this to people? She’s a shitty excuse for a human. The kids upset, depressed and pouring money into a hobby he doesn’t even want to do. I told him to ignore her and quit. I can’t because she says she co-signed for my car. Yep. Want. To. Punch. Her.
I debated texting her. Ohhhhh, I wanted to text her and remind her she’s the biggest waste of a sack of skin and to leave my kids alone. But I didn’t. Because it would accomplish nothing. I’ve fought to hard to close that door. She doesn’t deserve a word.
Sadly, my kids need to choose to cut her off themselves. They’re adults. They get to choose. They always run back when she waves the next shiny carrot in front of their face. Just like I did until I’d rather have nothing cool than deal with that. I just wish they’d learn before she damages them anymore too.
Then we have Max. My anxiety was awful all weekend. I was on edge ready to kill someone. And he tells me his drama – Which he partially got himself into, but that was years ago. However, it keeps resurfacing every couple of years. Some crazy girl – says he’s the father of a kid but refuses to send a picture, do a dna test. Nothing. It’s fucking bizarre.
By the end of that adventure I was a sobbing, psychotic mess. It’s not his fault. But it is his fault. He gave me her number to try to search as he wasn’t even sure she was using the real name. (And yes, he put his dick in that. Dumbass.) I can’t find anything on her and I’m good. So I text the number – She responds and is a ball of sunshine. By the end, I got a picture of an adorable little boy because I’m a nice person and can play the games like the best of them. He’s gorgeous. So much white blonde hair and blue eyes – Problem is Max is Brazilian. Literally Brazil resident. So, the picture did nothing to provide proof. Yes, genetics can be crazy – It could be thanks to a great grand father that was white. But when you add in she was only in town for 3 days passing through and then called and bragged to him about her other hook ups on her rv cruise. They broke up from their month of talking and then two months later she randomly called and said she was pregnant. There’s doubts. A DNA test could simply solve it. I kindly advised she deserves child support and to go file with her agency and I’d happily provide the information if she wanted to file – Nope, not doing a dna test. She just likes to call every couple of years to tell him he’ll never see her kid. How awful can a person be. That’s sad. Assuming the kid is real, I feel for him. Max – the dumbass in this situation – doesn’t have any of her info, she lives in another state far away, zero ability to do much at all. Hey court – I want to file for parenting rights and a dna test for a kid whose name I don’t know, with a chick who I’m not sure has given me her real name and I have no idea where they truly live. Yeah, that’s going to work. Don’t worry tho – Crazy girl has send me 100 messages. I didn’t reply to the last forty at all. Text away. At first I was super pissed at him, but by text 40 in a row I realized this girl is not stable. At all. Max changed his number and email to ensure she never plays this game again (And well, she has mine if she ever wants to provide her information or that dna test.)
But with this whole infertility thing. This was the straw that broke the camels back. A possible child. When I can’t get pregnant for the life of me. Nothing like cutting where it hurts. Ugh.
I’m over this whole inability to get pregnant thing. Over it. Today is the 3rd useless cycle of clomid. Yay. I’m not convinced it’ll work. I know it won’t. Yet I shove that emotion altering pill in my mouth. Just 25 more days until our IVF appointment to get the ball rolling on that. Don’t get me wrong – I’d love to save the money but I’m so damn excited to be on the way to something and to quit doing shit that won’t work. Over. It. At least we’ll have a plan, no matter how rocky that is, and not just be grasping. A year from now I sure pray I’m pregnant or have a perfect baby in my arms. It’ll be worth it.
In the meantime, I’m going to go keep working on cleansing my life of the negative and somehow, someway learn to be positive. For real.