I try so hard and I screw up so much.
It wouldn’t matter if I didn’t care and I screwed up.
But I hate it that I do care and I do try and I still screw up.
And then I feel so crushed that I screwed up only because I tried and I cared. And if I hadn’t cared and hadn’t tried in the first place, then I wouldn’t have screwed up.
Sometimes I wish I didn’t care. I wish I didn’t try.
Why is it like that?
Why do I try and then fall on my face so much?
At Toastmasters this week, someone said, “Fail with gusto.” Well, maybe that’s me. Because I sure do fail a lot.
And then I have this stupid belief from childhood that no one will like me, including God, unless I’m good enough, unless I’m perfect. So, of course, I keep trying and trying and failing and failing.
I can’t go on like this. I’ve gotten so close to being suicidal recently. I think it is probably hormonal; I’m at that age.
But I can’t keep on living like this, hating myself, wanting to be okay, wanting to be enough, wanting to be loved.
And yet I haven’t found a way to love myself yet, so maybe it isn’t surprising that nobody else loves me. (I know that sounds really whiny.)
Sometimes I think I’ve made a little progress in loving myself. I keep trying (and failing???).
Sometimes I think maybe there really, truly, seriously is something wrong with me, that it is not just echos of childhood trauma, that it is not just living with a passive aggressive man for twenty seven years, that maybe it really is me, that I am just a screwed up mess and that there really is something wrong with me.
I keep telling myself that it is only a few more days, ten to be exact, until I go see Fred the counselor, and he will be able to help me. And if he can’t help me, well, then I am going to go get drugs. Because if I don’t, I may end up killing myself. And I don’t want to do that to my daughters.
I may be only a shell, an empty, worthless shell, but I can’t put it on my daughters that their mommie killed herself.
I pray so hard and so often that God deliver me, but I don’t think He hears me. After all, I’m not good enough. I try to tell myself that it is just not time yet, that He is working out something for me, but I get so afraid that maybe it’s not true, that He really doesn’t care.
Maybe part of this is perimenopause and it is “just” hormonal and it will go away at some point. I really need it to go away. Now.
I don’t want to kill myself. I want to be better. I want to be sane and not a worthless shell. I want my life to be meaningful. But it’s not right now.