WHAT TO SAY

I haven't written because things are so damn awful that i simply don't know what to write. i wish i could write something like a novel or something useful but if i ever go to write it just pours out of me, the frustration, the aching redundant depression; the bitterness i guess. the loss of my sister still sits like bricks in my head my heart and my stomach. the struggle of just getting through the day becomes purely irritating and teeth tinglingly horrible. motherhood is like a thorn in my side. i hate to write it, but the fact of having children becomes painful. how can i say this? am i unnatural;. i love them but i am so low that i can only bear to keep them fed, watered, clothed and warm and loved- this is good, but right now i can barely do more. the future looms ahead of me like a long night that will never end- with no alcohol to take away the shadows that claw oppressively at me. every night i dream of death and rats; of decaying homes and faces of garish white and pain. i dream of drunkenness and lurid scenes of Hogarth decadence and depravity. i dream of danger, of fire and of confined spaces.
 it is like a circle of viciousness. i suppose i am still depressed. life is so depressing. it must be my genes cos other people seem cheerful and productive while i have a black pit that moves within me and inhabits different parts of my body and my psyche on different days. i still feel like a character in a zola novel being controlled by omniscient hands of a cruel fate. it all started long ago when i was just a thought in another's mind. that small seed seems to have been grown then swept asunder and now i feel like an anomaly that does not belong anywhere with children that slip through my fingers like something oily. and I have no idea how to make it all solid and tangible and meaningful.

i find being the parent of a fourteen year old boy so so hard. it almost hurts.
i don't really know what else to articulate on that. it just hurts.
it is like the poem when s/he is good ..is ver very good, but when he is bad he is horrid.

any way there is some small satisfaction in telling it down. even if just some random Russians are not even reading it. all the other blogs on these stinking blog pages are fully functioning normal people who just don't even scratch below the surface. they are just grinning faces and high productivity. i guess they are psychologically sound and grew up right. they are not broken and clipped and dumbfounded by stuff they are shiny happy people; go getters who know how to get what they want- a good husband...a good job... a good business- they have worked hard for it . i feel like a grey maggot from the little mermaid whose song has been stolen by the evil undersea witch. i feel like a black hole- like my dada told me i was when i was young- sucking up all the brightness and turning it to coal and ash. i feel like nothing.