I'm not dead.

This is just how it is.. I'm stressed.

I'm scared. I'm nervous. I'm sad. I'm trying so fucking hard to not fall into that big black hole where everything is dark and dreary.

And NO BODY seems to get it. I'm on the verge of snapping. I chopped my bangs yesterday. I took my time and I did it good, but, everyone who is anyone knows that me cutting any piece of my hair is a sign of a break down.

No, I didn't have a nervous breakdown.. but cutting my hair is up there right next to it. I ALWAYS cut my hair when I'm on the edge of depression. It's the first sign and the first step. It's impulsive and spontaneous and there is never an explanation other than 'I just felt like it.'

The night before last I was laying in my bed, getting ready to go to sleep earlier than usual. An old OLD friend text-ed me and said 'hey, I'm in Vegas. Can you meet me somewhere?'

I was excited and met her right around the corner. Little did I know, she was just going to bitch and moan about her boyfriend... who she spontaneously drove down here with. She literally whined and complained about life, and shot down everything I said in response to it. Then she drops the 'he might ditch me here' bomb on me. I immediately started searching for an excuse to get rid of her, and after six long, horrible, hours with her.. I finally found one.

I went home and immediately crashed.

The next day I woke up to Scott calling me. He called me to let me know he was going to Afghanistan in May.

I hung up on him.. and I cried. I cried and cried and cried. I just sat in my bed and sobbed... for a long time. I ignored his phone calls and his texts and just sat there and bawled like a little baby.

No one gets it.

I got up to go to the bathroom. No one had done dishes. No one has done any dishes in over a week, except me. I had no idea that part of the stipulation of me moving in here was to be the fucking maid.

So I left them. I left them the night before because I knew my mom and Charley were off the next day, and could handle doing the few dishes that were in the sink.

Nope.

I wake up and my mom, as she's leaving, says 'if you go anywhere, make sure you clean up that kitchen before you do.'

Sure, mom.

I did. She found another thing to complain about in regards to my dish doing skills.

Yet she can't find the breath in her to thank me for slaving my ass over a hot stove and oven to cook her and her husband dinner every night, and then slaving my ass over a hot sink washing ALL of their dirty fucking dishes.

Anyways. I called her to ask where they were. They were at Costco, and would be home in about 45 minutes. I had to get out.

I got Walter dressed and we went to my dad's. That was okay.

While I was over there I got a phone call from another old friend. She is a military wife, too. I've known her since I was 2. I consider her an old friend for a reason.

Anyways.. she calls to bitch to me about military wives, and how dramatic and scandalous they are. She goes on telling me about how her friend just got back from Iraq and how his girl has been cheating on him, and how she was 'forced' to be involved and how wrong this person is and 'don't you agree?'.

I went off. I got a call on the other line. It's Anthony. THANK GOD.

I hang up and talk to him. He is stranded with some gay guy. I go pick him up. We go to his house for a while so Walter can visit his 'brown' uncles.

Everyone is on hardcore drugs over there. His older brother is kissing my ass so that he can make sure I ask my dad to get him a job working with him on his Landscape team, and also running around fixing everything like the crazy tweaker he is. His other brother is mooching cigarettes off of me because I guess I owed it to him because he entertains Walter while I'm over there. Anthony's mom is passed out, like a dead person, because she took like eight different types of pills.

And me and Anthony go into the bathroom and get high, with the window wide open because I don't want Walter near that shit.

As soon as we're done the guilt immediately sets in. I just feel like shit. I'm trying to quit and be clean and sober, but it's just not something that comes with who I am. I'm this piece of shit, drug doing, party animal person. I'm not this great mom that everyone thinks I am. I'm not this wonderful wife that everyone sees. I'm not all this shit.

I'm not loving or nurturing. I don't give a shit about most things.

Then I go to my cousin's house. I go over there for show. It's just something you do. You go visit your family even if you don't like them, at least once in a while. She's drugged out, and the house is empty. I guess my blood cousin (her husband) moved in with his mom, and had the kids for the weekend. She's just fucking retarded, and the moment I stepped in the door I wanted out.

Walter got tired, so I left.

I come home, thinking I'm going to be in trouble for not being home sooner, and nobody is here. They are gone. Drinking.

Fucking drinking. I tell Scott, and he freaks out. He wants me to leave. I'm not fucking leaving. Walter is asleep, and I'm going to sleep.

I spend the rest of the night on pins and needles waiting to hear something shatter and then have Walter start screaming. I was waiting for the fighting, for my mom to knock on the door in tears 'help, he's getting violent.'

I was waiting. All... night... long.

I fell asleep. I don't know what happened, but Walter woke up screaming in the middle of the night. I got up and made him a bottle. The night was still. The house reeked of alcohol. They were asleep.

This morning I wake up and my mom is hiding in her room. All... day... long.

Charley is an asshole now. He's this. He's that. She's not living with him anymore.

I'm sure he hit her.

I don't care, though. Not anymore. I don't give a shit about anything anymore. What's the point?

I love my son. I love him so much that it hurts.

I love my husband, and he's going to war. Nobody understands why I feel the way I feel. But you get married, and have a husband that you love more than you can explain.. and have him tell you 'I'm going to Afghanistan in May.'

Four months.

Four fucking months.

So fuck everyone who thinks I suck. Fuck everyone who doesn't get it. And fuck everyone who has no compassion and expects me to kiss their ass through their problems. This time, I'M the one with the problems. If you don't want to be there for me, then I guess you weren't that great of a friend in the first place.