Is this about over? I swear, every time I start to be a little more optimistic I get knocked on my ass. I was just thinking about how working two jobs has allowed me to have a tiny little bit of breathing room, that maybe I’m not so completely poor and that maybe I can provide just a tiny bit for my kids.
Then life comes along and says, “Not so fast!” I’m not sure what it is I’ve done to deserve all this hell being heaped upon me. I don’t sleep with married men. I don’t steal. I don’t beat my kids. I’m generally a very kind, giving person. I like to think I have a good sense of humor and am a good friend.
“What happened?” you may be wondering. Let me tell you. First, I open the letter from my attorney (who needs another 3 grand, btw). Jackass has got an expert witness lined up to testify that he’s unable to work because of his supposed PTSD. Great! An expert witness who will tell the judge that poor little sweetie pie can’t work because he’s suffering from the trauma of war.
You wanna know who should have a fucking PTSD diagnosis? Me! I was moved 2000 miles away from my entire life to make him happy only to find out he would never be happy. I put him and his happiness above me and my kids and our happiness only to be shit on repeatedly. I trusted that cousin fucking piece of shit and he turned around and spent an entire summer looking me right in the face and lying.
I’ve gone from being in the top 2-3% of the socioeconomic population to the bottom 5-10%. I’ve lost my home. I was forced to move out of the state. I was forced to move in with my mom or be homeless. I had to get rid of almost all of my possessions. I had to tell my kids we had to move. I had to rip their lives apart again. I’ve gone from being a stay at home mom who lives for her kids and does everything for them, to being a person who works 2 jobs, 55 hours a week, 6 days out of seven, who farms almost everything out for my kids and who dreads having to go to another event when I’m already so damn tired and my days are already so fucking long. I hate my life. I have absolutely no joy in it. I pray every day that I will die early so that I don’t have to do this shit anymore. But you don’t see me getting a fucking expert witness to testify that I’m just way too fucking fragile to work.
You know what I do? I scream and cry and cuss that sonofabitch out all the way to work. And then I pull myself together, dry my tears and go to work. Why? Because unlike Cousinfucker I don’t have a fucking choice! I don’t get to ignore my kids and pretend they don’t have needs because hey, out of sight, out of mind!
I’ve been doing this all along, with no one by my side telling me how wonderful I am and how horrible he was. I get up and I GO every single fucking day. Every morning I wake up at 3:20 in the fucking morning. While the rest of the world sleeps I’m up and getting ready to go to my first job and stock shelves and toss boxes around. It’s not glamourous. It’s not easy. It’s not fun. And it pays for shit.
Then I come home, get ready for my second job, and I go to work and I smile and I joke with customers and I’m all happy and cheerful while my life is spiraling down the drain and I continue to go through this divorce from hell.
That’s what I do. Meanwhile, Cousinfucker finds himself an expert witness to testify that he can’t possibly work.
But that’s not all. Because Cousinfucker refuses to work and pay support I have been forced to work two jobs so that I can pay the bills and feed the kids. My second job doesn’t pay for a boat. It isn’t paying for a luxury vacation or three or four. It doesn’t allow us to go out and go on shopping sprees. No, my second job means I can buy food. If either of my kids needs something for school I can probably buy it. It means I’m not down to $1 by the time pay day rolls around.
My daughter works as well. She works so that she can buy a car because her dad decided he’d rather go fuck his cousin instead of sticking around and helping to raise his kids. She works so that she can buy the clothes that I can no longer buy her. She works so that she can help to pay her car insurance because I’m not sure I can take another $100/month hit. She works so that she can go out with friends, buy make-up, grab something to eat, and just have spending money in general because her father refuses to pay support, which in turn means I can’t do any of those things for her. Or her brother.
Guess what it also means?
It means between the two of us we now make too much for me or my kids to qualify for Medicaid. Yes, I got that lovely bit of news as well. The program that I was once embarrassed to need I am now crying over. No doubt due to the fact that I will now need to get a third job to pay for the medical insurance I will have to purchase through work. It’s $185 every two weeks and it’s a high deductible plan. I have to pay out $2600/person before it kicks in a dime. Isn’t that wonderful? Or I take the tax penalty come next April. Awesome! And with my luck if I don’t carry insurance on them then some catastrophe will hit one of them. Then again, I’m broke anyway so who cares if I have to declare bankruptcy because of medical bills?
If I quit my second job then my kids don’t eat and there are no tiny extras, like Easter baskets or money for school sports. Or, my retired mother has to shoulder even more of the burden of the three of us. If I don’t quit my second job then I need to get a third job. I guess I’ll find something where I can work Saturday and Sunday. I’ll work 14 hour days on Saturday and Sunday will be my light day where I only work 8 1/2 hours. I’ll get two of those a week and those will be my official “days off”. Doesn’t that sound fair? I work three jobs and Cousinfucker works none. I never show up for anything for my kids. I’m never around for my kids. All so that I can support them. Because Cousinfucker won’t pay child or spousal support. And because he’s very busy playing Daddy of the Year to the whore’s four kids.
I’ve been going through old entries, mainly because I deleted a bunch of pictures and realized when I did that I lost my images on the posts. Duh! But as I was reading I realized I kept saying that maybe in six months things would look better. Maybe in a year things would look better. Maybe I was wrong and I would get an amazing job and my kids would do wonderfully here. Maybe this and maybe that. But you know what? None of it is any better. Picasso and Rock Star both are doing well but I’m not. I work two shit jobs for shit pay and that’s cost us our free health care. Their father is doing everything he can to get out of having to pay. I have no new and better life. I have, like, three friends here and I rarely go out with any of them. They all have lives of their own and very little time for me. I have no life outside of work. I’m too fucking tired to do much of anything after I’ve spent 13 hours at work. I have days where I fall asleep sitting up in a chair around 7:30 because I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. I feel horrible even admitting this but I dread the days I have to go to something for either of the kids because it means that I no longer get my 2 hours of down time. And then I feel bad if I don’t go; I feel bad that I don’t want to go. Because I have always wanted to go and support them. I have a life that I am desperately hoping ends sooner rather than later. I try and I try and I try some more. I work my ass off. I desert my kids. I try to be positive and I try to look on the good side of things and it comes around and kicks my ass. Every. Goddamn. Fucking. Single. Time!
You know what’s funny? No one believes me! I mention I hope I die of a massive heart attack and people think I’m joking. Someone once said to me, “I hear you work a second job.” I told her that, yes, I do indeed work a second job. I work from 4-7 am most days before I come into Job #2. She told me she didn’t know how I did it and how I managed and I replied, “Well, I cry every day.” Her response? “You’re so funny!” No, seriously, I cry pretty much every day. No one believes me. They think I’m hysterical. The funny kind, not the crazy kind. And lest anyone gets all worried I’m not suicidal. I wouldn’t kill myself but I’m not looking forward to staying alive most days either.
I really don’t think I can do this anymore. I’m so over all of this shit. I’m so tired of getting knocked down. I’m so tired of feeling just a tiny bit of hope only to have it slapped down hard. So many days I just want to tell him, “Fine! Take it all! I’ll take all the debt. I’ll pay you support. You keep your 401k. You keep your pension. I’ll pay you back for every goddamn thing you think I owe you and you pay me back nothing because everything you took was absolutely positively yours and yours alone. Hell, I’ll pay you half for my goddamn car so that I can still drive it even though you haven’t made a single payment on it in almost 2 years and have never paid the fucking property tax on it!” It still wouldn’t be enough for him. I hate him. I hope he dies. I hope it’s painful. I hope someone videotapes it and sends it to me so that I can watch it every night as a sweet bedtime story as I fall asleep. It might be a nice change from ID TV.
P.S. I know I said earlier I was generally a kind and loving person. I am. Unless I hate you. Then I hope you die. Painfully.