Two weeks ago I was figuring out what spice I wanted to put on the bullet I was about to eat. I wanted out. I had just told my only child that if he didn’t uphold his side of the deal he made with me, I was going to kick him out - I’ve never said it to him before, and I was certain he was going to fuck around and find out how serious I was being. Kicking my child out, possibly never seeing him again or him dying from something happening to him on the streets - I couldn’t bear the thought of it, and it would be my fault. I was a shitty mother and coddled my son. I didn’t allow him to make mistakes; I didn’t allow him to fail or learn from his failures. Oh, there was discipline - he’s been grounded I don’t know how many times in his life - but the second he became a nuisance to his grandfather or step-father, it was always suggested to un-ground him. And to keep the peace (I had balked at the notion of “shock parole” and was met with hostility), I gave in to the demand. I’m not excusing it because at the end of the day, I’m his mother. I failed him - by moving him back into my home; by not following up; by making excuses for him to myself. Lies, really, because I know how lazy he can be - typically doing just enough to get away with not doing a good job, or screwing it up so he doesn’t get asked to do it again (this trait has GOT to be ingrained in male DNA because every male in my life has done this to me). So anything that happens to him once he becomes homeless is on MY head. Because I didn’t raise him right, and because I kept telling lies to avoid doing what I knew I should have done as a mother.

I wanted out. I had a stressful week starting with my vagina puking out my uterus. I sat on the toilet to pee and the red river flowed as it had never flowed before. Which surprised me because my period had finished up a week prior. I thought a miscarriage, but kinda have to have sex for that (I hadn’t gotten laid since before my last period) and there was absolutely no pain involved. It doesn’t really matter what’s wrong with me - it’s not like I can afford to fix it anyway, even with insurance (gotta love the American health care system) and all the doctor will say is “Oh, that’s normal at your age.” I know there’s something wrong with me - cancer or something, because let’s face it, I don’t exactly live the most pure of lifestyles - not gaining weight while increasing my food intake and decreasing my activity level is a clue something ain’t right, I don’t care what my blood tests show. Even if it is cancer, there’s nothing I can do about it - no would I, because I believe in accepting the consequences of your choices. I know cigarettes can cause cancer; my father, mother, maternal grandparents, and numerous aunts and uncles died of cancer. I knew the risks when I made the decision to keep smoking. So I had been living my life as if each day was my last. And was faced with the judgmental opinions of others. I was tired of everyone CONSTANTLY telling me how disappointed they are in me. In addition to the “red river,” my sinuses weren’t draining and putting so much pressure on my jaw, that my ears were hurting. Thursday night I was doing whatever I could to get the pain under control so I could sleep since I had to get up early the next morning to get a car part and take my car to the mechanic to get it fixed.

I wanted out. I thought my boyfriend and I were in a pretty good space as far as our relationship went. Until Friday afternoon when I came home and his pissed mist hit me full force. I asked why he was so angry at me and he said he was having a bad day. Now, I grew up with passive aggressive anger - I’m even guilty of using it myself - and I can tell when someone is angry with me. Especially whenever said person stomps through the house, knowing I’m in there, but walks normal as they go outside. Slamming cabinet doors is an indication as well. I wanted to ask him why he was so angry with me; I wanted to apologize for the mess I had left that morning and explain why I didn’t get to it like I usually do; but his pissed mist was strong. It was the kind that if I had said one little word, I was gonna get a punch in the face (he’s never hit me, but others have in the same scenario so I was erring on the side of personal experience). I agonized over what to do when I saw he had left his .22 pistol on the counter.

I want out. I’m tired of everyone thinking I’m perfect and when I fall short it’s hell.

I want out. I’m tired of having to be the bad guy when someone isn’t even trying very hard.

I want out. I’m tired of having things pop up that I can’t get fixed because healthcare is stupidly expensive.

I want out. I’m tired of my uterus. I don’t even want it anymore, but I can’t do anything about it because of the stupidity that is the religious Reicht.

I want out. I’m tired of giving grace and understanding to people who just take advantage of it. I’m tired of putting trust in people just to have them stab me in the back. I’m tired of being completely honest with people only to just have them use it against me. I’m tired of having a sense of integrity and fairness that gets thrown back into my face as if I spit in theirs.

I want out.

I picked his gun up as he slammed the door going back outside. I cried as I heard his diesel start up and pull away as I walked up the stairs into his attic. I could barely breathe from sobbing so much as I put the gun barrel towards my mouth. I have no alternative. I can’t live with myself if I have to forcibly remove my son from my house. I can’t live with “Him” if he refuses to talk to me and tell me why he’s so angry with me. I can’t live if I can’t even make enough money to survive. I can’t live in a world where I can’t be myself without judgment from the people I care about. The only option left for me is death.

“Please God. Please. I can’t hear you anymore. Please, tell me what to do. I can’t keep going on like this. He hates me, I can’t kick my son out, no one will hire me. Please! Tell me what to do!” I took a deep breath and angled the pistol so the bullet would kill me instantly and not leave me brain-dead with half my skull missing). I squeezed the trigger.

I guess here is where y’all that that was when God decided to talk to me. I could never remember which way the safety worked on the pistol, no matter how many times “Him” showed me. I lowered the gun, sobbing still, but with resolve. The headache I had been feeling all week had subsided. The bitch that was locked away finally escaped her cage. I stood up, dried my tears and walked back downstairs and tossed the gun on the island. I knew I was at a crossroad. And something I had told my tenant when he kept bringing in “free” junk that he never did anything with popped into my head. The bitch whispered,

“If it will not serve you in your current goals or future plans, let it go. It does you no good hanging onto it.”

It was something I had said when I had gotten rid of things from my house last month during a garage sale. None of that stuff would serve me in the next chapter of my life - why do I want to keep it? But, does God really want me to treat people like that? I ignored the advice - mainly because it was from the bitch and she’s the most vile, hateful thing on the planet. I gave my word to my son he had the month of September to straighten up or get out. I told “Him” if he couldn’t understand why the house was messy that day when he got home, I’d have my stuff out by the following Tuesday. “Him” never showed he understood, nor ever talked to me about it. I missed my word with “Him” by two days - if his ass wouldn’t have come home early both days, I would have had everything out.

That’s not true - I wanted him to say something so we could talk about it. Not so we could salvage the relationship, but so we could at the very least remain neighborly.

That mindset backfired horribly.

After this last week with the break-up with “Him,” moving back to my house, dealing with what hadn’t gotten done that should have gotten done A LONG time ago when my son moved back home, to having a hormonal temper tantrum last night because I couldn’t get comfortable to sleep, to treating my son and another tenant like shit because of it after waking up this morning to find my stuff thrown on my lawn (stuff that “Him” wouldn’t let me take out of the house), to me losing my wallet and accusing “Him” of stealing it; to me agonizing over whether to apologize to “Him” for the accusation (I found my wallet) I realized something. Yes, the bitch may be out, but something she rarely cared about is something I now hold dear - integrity. If I make a mistake, I own up to the mistake; I don’t make excuses or blame someone else. Not gonna lie, it took me 10 minutes to text “Him” that I found my wallet and I apologized for accusing him of stealing it - it would have been easier to just ignore it all instead of swallowing my pride and owning up to a fact that “Him” knows very well. I would lose my head if it weren’t attached.

SO…the crossroad I’m at right now is this: Do I want to learn to control the bitch and only bring her out when necessary, or let her run rampant leaving destruction in her wake? How do I want to spend my life as a PERSON? Do I want to be the Walmart bitch for whatever time I have left? That route won’t afford me much longer to live, to be honest - way too stressful always watching your back, thinking everyone is going to fuck you over. Or do I want to be the doormat that I’ve been for most everyone for the last six years? That route didn’t do my dad much good with my youngest sister.

Is it possible to combine the two?

The fact that I felt better when I apologized to “Him” for accusing him of something he didn’t do and when I apologized to my son and tenant for taking my anger at a situation out on them (which is something the bitch would NEVER do - she apologizes to no one), I think I’m going to try combining the two.

I hope this is the last personal development crossroad I come to. This shit is getting exhausting.