Okay. Fran called, and I tried to tell him and I don't think I succeeded in any way. He turned it all around, said I just want money, money, money from him, that it's my fault that the kids don't know him, that I shouldn't expect him to remember the kids' birthdays when he doesn't even know them.
I hate this. I hate this. He said that the kids have two parents and I should be buying them school clothes and I tried to defend myself, list all the things I constantly buy them, about how in all this time I've gotten less than a year of child support and he started accusing me of just being greedy for money, of training Trinity to just use men for money, teaching her to be so hateful.
Oh fuck it doesn't matter. None of the crap he says matters, right? Then why am I crying? Because it's unfair? Because it's fucked up? Where have I been all these years that I didn't learn that EVERYTHING Is unfair, everything is fucked up, and there's nothing I can do about it?
It doesn't matter. I need to stop. I need to get up, get in the shower, get myself together and, I don't know, I need to drive Trin to her friend's house and stop at the Courthouse and get the name-change papers for Rainy, and I need to somehow get Sierra some more jeans because she's starting highschool and she needs some fucking pants. And I need to fucking STOP this stupid crying, because I don't have fucking time for this and I need to start reading my Am Lit books because my classes start next week and I need to just keep on going.
But losing the fucking child support... What am I going to do? Oh well. Who cares. I'll figure it out. It's that damned car payment that will kill me.
But this needs to stop now. Even if it means losing money. I feel like for years I've still been whoring myself out, taking his calls day after fucking day, being so fucking nice and supportive and warm and crap on the outside, feeling so angry within. Thinking I had to talk to him so that there would be a chance of getting money.
And always, I have the fantasy, of finally having enough money, of finally having my nice house, and nice job, and a kitchen all pretty and clean with no roaches, and I fantasize that Fran is old and alone and he wants me and the kids to take him in and I simply, all calmly, tell him No. And he dies alone and poor and unloved and I know this is mean, I know this is a mean, bad fantasy to have, but when I can't sleep, I like to think about it. I like to think about him somehow having to suffer like we've suffered. Every time I steal something from Wal-mart, toothbrushes, shampoo, pencils, pens those stupid brad things the kids need for their folders, I'm always so scared. I'm so scared that I've become a thief, a criminal, a bad person. And I'm scared that this is a terrible thing for the kids to witness. And I'm scared that I'm going to get caught and lose everything. But I don't stop, because I don't think that I can. Because even though I know it sounds stupid, saving less than five bucks on those stupid three-packs of toothbrushes, it's five bucks that I'm scared to spend, scared because it's a lot of money for me.
I keep putting money away. Hiding it, a little bit here, a little there, because I'm scared to be totally broke. And I went and got this stupid macbook, and I shouldn't have done it because I should have known the child support would end again soon. And Fran was so mean on the phone, making it sound like all this is me, all this is my fault, and that I'm one of those stereotypical ex-wives, just being a bitch about money. And how if I hadn't kicked him out "his" kids wouldn't "be strangers to him," and acting like I'm not buying them clothes and the things they need, and how I'm "setting them against him," and I fucking swear, for all these years, I've tried and tried to tell the kids the good things about him. Told them that his addiction is a disease, and it's this disease that makes him the way he is and it's not his fault, and that deep down he's funny and smart and kind... And now I think I've been lying to them, to myself, because I don't think there is any difference, any differentiating, between Fran and his addiction. I think they are one and I don't think I can say it's not his fault anymore because he's 52 and he's been this way most of his life and at some point, isn't there a choice?
I don't know.
And of course the bottom line is that this IS my fault, because I married an addict and had three kids with him and I should have known better. I'm to blame for this whole thing and I need to just handle it. I need to just get up, get in the shower, and get going.
I hate this. I hate this. He said that the kids have two parents and I should be buying them school clothes and I tried to defend myself, list all the things I constantly buy them, about how in all this time I've gotten less than a year of child support and he started accusing me of just being greedy for money, of training Trinity to just use men for money, teaching her to be so hateful.
Oh fuck it doesn't matter. None of the crap he says matters, right? Then why am I crying? Because it's unfair? Because it's fucked up? Where have I been all these years that I didn't learn that EVERYTHING Is unfair, everything is fucked up, and there's nothing I can do about it?
It doesn't matter. I need to stop. I need to get up, get in the shower, get myself together and, I don't know, I need to drive Trin to her friend's house and stop at the Courthouse and get the name-change papers for Rainy, and I need to somehow get Sierra some more jeans because she's starting highschool and she needs some fucking pants. And I need to fucking STOP this stupid crying, because I don't have fucking time for this and I need to start reading my Am Lit books because my classes start next week and I need to just keep on going.
But losing the fucking child support... What am I going to do? Oh well. Who cares. I'll figure it out. It's that damned car payment that will kill me.
But this needs to stop now. Even if it means losing money. I feel like for years I've still been whoring myself out, taking his calls day after fucking day, being so fucking nice and supportive and warm and crap on the outside, feeling so angry within. Thinking I had to talk to him so that there would be a chance of getting money.
And always, I have the fantasy, of finally having enough money, of finally having my nice house, and nice job, and a kitchen all pretty and clean with no roaches, and I fantasize that Fran is old and alone and he wants me and the kids to take him in and I simply, all calmly, tell him No. And he dies alone and poor and unloved and I know this is mean, I know this is a mean, bad fantasy to have, but when I can't sleep, I like to think about it. I like to think about him somehow having to suffer like we've suffered. Every time I steal something from Wal-mart, toothbrushes, shampoo, pencils, pens those stupid brad things the kids need for their folders, I'm always so scared. I'm so scared that I've become a thief, a criminal, a bad person. And I'm scared that this is a terrible thing for the kids to witness. And I'm scared that I'm going to get caught and lose everything. But I don't stop, because I don't think that I can. Because even though I know it sounds stupid, saving less than five bucks on those stupid three-packs of toothbrushes, it's five bucks that I'm scared to spend, scared because it's a lot of money for me.
I keep putting money away. Hiding it, a little bit here, a little there, because I'm scared to be totally broke. And I went and got this stupid macbook, and I shouldn't have done it because I should have known the child support would end again soon. And Fran was so mean on the phone, making it sound like all this is me, all this is my fault, and that I'm one of those stereotypical ex-wives, just being a bitch about money. And how if I hadn't kicked him out "his" kids wouldn't "be strangers to him," and acting like I'm not buying them clothes and the things they need, and how I'm "setting them against him," and I fucking swear, for all these years, I've tried and tried to tell the kids the good things about him. Told them that his addiction is a disease, and it's this disease that makes him the way he is and it's not his fault, and that deep down he's funny and smart and kind... And now I think I've been lying to them, to myself, because I don't think there is any difference, any differentiating, between Fran and his addiction. I think they are one and I don't think I can say it's not his fault anymore because he's 52 and he's been this way most of his life and at some point, isn't there a choice?
I don't know.
And of course the bottom line is that this IS my fault, because I married an addict and had three kids with him and I should have known better. I'm to blame for this whole thing and I need to just handle it. I need to just get up, get in the shower, and get going.
One of the things an addict is expert in is shifting blame onto other people. Fran's losses are HIS fault, no one else's. His choices are HIS. At heart, he's a selfish bastard who's very likely hiding his inheritance from his own children so he can get high.
You've raised three strong and caring children under the most difficult of circumstances. You should be proud of all you've managed to accomplish. Don't let Fran shift his burden of guilt onto your shoulders. You've carried more than enough for him already