What I Wish My Life Was

I wish my life was a success.


I am sitting here in my room at 1:46 a.m. on a Monday morning.  I am picking my face, in my underwear and a tank top.  I am rather warm, but don't want to do anything about it.
I stop typing every so often to wipe blood off my face and onto a t-shirt lying next to me.
The t-shirt is, of course, too small and tight, like many of my shirts.
Like the one I have on.
I was supposed to meet my not-yet-officially-ex boyfriend today to go for a walk and hang out.
When I get to his house, we talk for a second.  I don't think he really wants to go for a walk, but I don't care.  We have fought enough and he has let me down enough for me not to care what he wants.
If he wants it to be over, I am not going to argue.
I want it to be over.
Now all I have to do is tell him.

So here I am, sitting, just finished crying and looking at my bottle of sleeping pills and thinking, I could take a lot of those with vodka and I would probably die.

When I was young, I looked ahead to the time that I would be "old" and thought it would be wonderful.  Oddly enough, I didn't picture myself married.  I just imagined, I think, that I would be older, but still be on a sunny farm somewhere, or perhaps with a family, but not necessarily with a man.  Although when I think about it, if I want to have a family, which I don't think I am yet ready for, I think there should be two parents.

I looked ahead, I thought I would be happy, I thought I would have a home and a family.  Of course, I didn't think it through at all.

When I grew old enough to put all these vague ideas into reality, I took a round-about way of doing it.
I went to France right out of high school, living on donations from friends and family, under the guise of doing religious work.  At the time I believed it.  My family was not impressed with my actions.  That's family for you, always supportive.

After being homeschooled, coddled and spoiled and ignored, I went to France.  No family, no real supervision, no reality.  One bubble to another.

I came back, lived at home again, and went to a community college for 1 year, with things pretty much as they were in hight school.  Church often, no dating, no going out, no drinking.  These things weren't forbidden me; they simply didn't occur to me.  Of course I had crushes on boys, but other than the most innocent excitement of liking someone, I had no sexual desire or even an awareness of the possibility.  I didn't like it when people touched me.  I'm sure that had something to do with it.

Then I transferred to a college with lofty religious principles and a dingy reality.

I became slowly, surely, violently depressed.  My mother came and I saw a medical doctor.  He said, "What is it you want to do?"  I said, "Go home."  So that's what I did.  I dropped out, in disgrace I might add, having "cheated" on my work hours.

I went home and slept for a month.  Then I decided to enroll in classes for the spring at the university in my town.  Going there versus the other college, I was incredulous.  I was also naive.  I worked and took classes, and had credit cards.

Limping along toward graduation, I borrowed more and more student loans, went through bout after bout of racking up debt on credit cards, and continued taking and dropping out of classes, determined to graduate but not sure how it was going to happen.  I changed to a major I liked, not realizing how screwed I would be if that's all I had to show when I graduated.

Since graduation, my life has been nothing.