Unsung.

My Mom and I were listening to Linda Ronstadt earlier. Mom was talking about her beautiful voice, and how she can't sing anymore because has Parkinson's Disease. I can dig it. It's like a writer getting neuropathy, no?

I haven't made my mark. I haven't left my footprint yet. If I can barely get out of bed each day, how the hell will I ever get published? How will I ever do anything that really matters? There is no reason to be here. Still be here. Talk about a serious waste of space and resources. I can't even fucking open a bottle by myself.

There are three people who I'm fairly sure still love me; my daughter, my Mom, and maybe my boyfriend. The whole boyfriend thing has to be some cruel joke. I mean, why? Why would he love me? I can't do anything. I can't go anywhere. I think the joke is that he is being dangled in front of me, reminding me of what I am missing out on. I have moments when I am so sure he loves me and it's a wonderful feeling, but doubt is always looming. I can't feel good about anything. It's not allowed.

I want to be right with God, but I know not wanting to be of this world is not right. And I would never make it happen, so I don't get why I am constantly entertaining the idea. I need to accept that some people are put here to suffer, and I am one of those people. I need to stop trying to figure out the hows and the whys because I will never know. It is not for me to know or question.