03-10-04 @ 10:40 am EST

I was writing to someone regarding a personal issue and they said they would be gone a day but would write back after that...and that was over two weeks ago. :( I don't want to write to them and nag, since I was the one who wrote to them first so in a way I must have asked for this. This is one reason I don't approach people first; that makes it clearly my fault when they decide not to write anymore. But I don't understand it. I really wonder if they are ill or busy as I've heard not a word from them since then, and I know they are not a rude person. But asking after them would be rude. So all I can do is sit and wonder. I think a second reason I don't reply to people even when they show interest in me is because now I know it CANNOT always be blamed on my shyness when communication breaks down. This is one instance of many in which I HAVE kept up the communication in a timely fashion, yet the other party has just stopped writing to me for whatever reason. I understand that most of the time I'm the one responsible when I don't ever reply...and maybe I have to just be more patient...but two weeks...what could have happened to them? And I get angry now whenever people tell me I should open up more or respond more promptly, because what is the point? It doesn't matter whether I respond promptly or not, at some point the communication will stop, and I'll be left hanging. It's NOT always my fault. Unless simply by contacting this person in the first place I committed a wrong. I'm getting ready to tell another person I write to semi-regularly (not a site member) that I won't bother them with an older letter I tried to send to them a while back; I can see already the communication is breaking down, or at least it never properly got off the ground. Why disappoint yet another person or bore them off with my whining? I might as well just cut it off before they do.

I'm trying to keep being patient about that first one, but I really have no idea how long I'm supposed to wait before it gets ridiculous. I'd understand if I knew they were busy or sick or something and intended on getting back to me at some point, but there's been no word whatsoever. So I really don't know. All I can think of is what I must have done wrong by contacting them in the first place, or boring them with my e-mails. People tell me they enjoy my long e-mails, but they can't mean it. Nobody likes those crappy things.

Well, the rest of this entry isn't going to get any better, so don't hold your breath.

This morning Ma said, "Grandma (my dad's mom, the "nice" grandma) said yesterday, 'I really wish Rachel would get out and find somebody she really loves! Her face is like wax. It's so perfect and unblemished and beautiful!'"

I gave Ma a look, but didn't bother saying even ONE of the things that went through my mind. The first among them being, Grandma must really not get a good look at my face, because hell YES it is blemished--my chin and nose are always breaking out. And wax? More like sallow wax. I am always so sickly pale--and NOT that pretty, alabaster pale that used to be so "in" among the women. I mean a real, sick, icky pale. With dark rings under my eyes, and blemishes on my nose and chin...eyes that squint too much should I attempt to smile, which is one reason I don't...fat unpleasant cheeks and a weak chin and practically a dewflap...mismatched patchy ugly freckles...and really bad teeth, which are another reason I don't bother smiling.

Second thing I thought? Grandma has certainly never noticed the REST of my body, apparently. Even if she thinks my face is so nice, there's no way in hell she could compliment the rest of me, unless she thinks guys really DO go for women with potbellies and huge thighs and butts and flabby arms and swaybacks and sloping shoulders and square foreheads and everything else.

Third thought? Even if I COULD find someone *I* loved (I don't believe I even know how to love--I've had "crushes," but they never felt real, and never lasted--I think I was just trying to conform to what society THOUGHT a young woman should feel like), that certainly does not mean there's somebody out there who would love ME. And why would they! Grandma must be an idealist. There is no man out there who would ever love me that way. And I can't blame them. Ugh. I wouldn't love me either. It wouldn't be so bad if I had a sweet personality in lieu of good looks, but I can't even claim that; I'm bitter and acidic and full of spite. I have NOTHING going for me that a guy would want. Grandma is a dreamer. If she were my other grandma, I would know for certain she was just wishing I would have some babies; Ma's side of the family seems to think that the only thing women are good for is having more babies. One reason I don't bother with family gatherings anymore. I am the huge disappointment to them, I know it.

And after this followed all sorts of other, equally unpleasant thoughts. Funny how even a compliment or a wistful comment can make me feel awful. I don't blame Grandma for dreaming for me; it's better than what my other grandma would say. But I'm sad that she thinks I have even that remote a chance at life. She seems to think that if I got out of the house, I would find true love or something like that, whatever. I know that's not true. I haven't the heart to tell her this though. Let her keep believing somebody out there could love me; at least she has a happy thought, then.

Do you know another stupid childish fantasy I have had? That some rich guy with no interest in a sexual partner or a house servant would marry me and let me move in with him. Then, he would let me do whatever I want all of the day. It's true I would probably want to spend some of his money on CDs or books, but I would never splurge the way many wives would; I would be content to just stay in the house most of the time, writing or reading or doing whatever. And he would just let me. And I would never have to worry about going to bed with him or cleaning up the house like a maid because I wouldn't be expected to. Maybe he would even take me to parks or on walks in the woods. Maybe even after a time we would hold lively conversations. Granted, he would have to be interested in the things I'm interested in for the talk to be "lively"...but at least it would be some kind of companionship. And I would never have to worry about needing support. He would take care of all of that. I would only be expected to do my own thing, so long as it didn't intrude on his space. That is my literal dream of being happy, short of overcoming my shyness and becoming famous and supporting myself, which will never happen. Somebody who could provide for me with no expectations in return. I can't even imagine myself in a regular marriage because the thought of sleeping with somebody terrifies me too much. As if somebody would want to sleep with me anyway, but that's what's expected of most wives. Tehuti--wife. Ugh. I never thought I'd say those two words in the same sentence. Remember, this was just a stupid fantasy of mine.

There is nobody out there who would take in somebody like me and expect nothing in return. That's how I know it's just a fantasy. Still, to me it's more realistic than me finally making my own way in the world and supporting myself. I do not believe this will ever happen. I'm almost thirty, and I have no skills whatsoever. The days are passing by and I'm not learning any, and it's not like I can just talk with my parents and ask them to help me, because they will just suggest applying for a job at a fast-food place. That will not help me make my own way. It would be like trying to learn how to swim by jumping off Niagara Falls. You need further preparation, smaller steps, and my parents do not know what those steps are. Neither do I. There isn't anybody around here who can help me.

This leads into the thing which has been on my mind a lot lately, and has kept me from writing in here much. This is not a new thought; I've been thinking over it for months, so it's not just something I jumped to when I was upset. I mentioned it in here a few months back but I never went into great detail because I knew some readers out there would just roll their eyes and grouse that I'm seeking sympathy when that's not the case. Yet I've refrained from talking about it because I don't want anyone, even the occasional nitpicks who don't like my journal but read it anyway, thinking I'm fishing for sympathy. So I have been sitting here thinking about it to myself for weeks, and not telling anyone. I can't tell my parents, because they will be the first to yell at me that I'm being stupid and to just shut up. But honestly, in this case I am the only one who is thinking ahead. I realize I worry a lot, but is it really unfounded worrying when it's something that IS going to come someday, and I am the only one willing to admit that?

My parents' technique of dealing with unpleasant things is to just wait until they get so bad they must be faced, only out of extreme emergency. Not long ago usage of a space heater blew the fuse in a section of our house so we can use only one light or utility at a time, else they'll all go out. I know this will only get worse as time progresses...but already they have been putting off getting it fixed. We don't have the money anyway, but Ma suggested calling a cousin of hers who's an electrician. To which Dad said, "Wait until the basement is cleaned, because it's a mess down there." And guess who has not been cleaning the basement? The other day Ma actually went to bingo saying, "If I win the jackpot, we ARE going to Georgia!" After going to sleep I had a nightmare that the power in the living room went out. It's clear what my mind was thinking. Wouldn't that jackpot money have been better spent on calling an electrician? When I asked her this afterward, she replied with "Yes." She didn't win it, but why was I the one to think the money would be better spent on something more important? Her comment bothered me so much, I even had a bad dream about it.

That blown fuse was weeks ago and still nothing has been done. I type out here without the light now as the flickering bothers me so much. It's only a matter of time before it goes out for good, and only then will my parents look into fixing it...once it's just about too late. It's that way with me, too. It's too late to help me; I'm twenty-seven. I have no real-world skills whatsoever. There's no fixing me now short of starting from the very beginning, and we can't afford that. So I'm a lost cause.

And that's the entry that I have been refraining from typing in Skew. I've come to the realization that, once my parents are either retired or dead--either way, unable to provide for me as they provide for me now--then I may as well be dead, as well. When they can no longer afford to support me (they can hardly afford it as it is), then there will be nothing left for me. I have gone over all the options and I know this is true.

Have another family member take me in? Even IF others could support me, which is unlikely, they would certainly not WANT to take me in. They do not see me as so afraid of dealing with people that I stay in the house all day; they see me as shiftless and lazy. I dread the mere thought of my mom's mom taking me in. I'm willing to bet most relatives would yell at me daily to get out and get a job, not knowing how much I WANT to do that, if I only knew how and could get over my terror! They don't realize I don't even know how to fill out somebody's order form for a burger, nor how to use a cash register, nor how to do taxes, nor even how to say, "Hello, may I take your order?" or anything else like that without bursting into tears. They do not believe that there are people who are so afraid that they can't just do these things. They think that's just laziness. I know I'm lazy, but if that were my ONLY vice, do you think I'd be agonizing over this subject so much? Lazy people don't CARE. I care a LOT. I just can't think of what I can do about it.

Perhaps my brother and sister-in-law could take me in. I feel Eric and Shannon might understand what I'm going through, better than the rest of them at least. But they have a baby of their own and could never afford to support me. And I cannot stand the thought of burdening them. I could not accept that, even if they would take me in. I could not live with them or leech off of them.

I have no friends I could move in with, even if I wanted to put them up to that. Which I would not. I wouldn't want to put ANYBODY up to that.

The next-to-last option? Being homeless. Living on the street. Which might as well be a death sentence for me...I would not even have the courage to panhandle, ask somebody else for money. (As if Cheboygan is big enough for the homeless anyway; I've never seen one homeless person here in my life.) I would be dead just like that. Even my parents know it; they've said so themselves. "If you moved out on your own, you would be dead." And it's true. I would be.

And so...when my parents retire, or die, or for whatever reason can no longer support me...which I'm guessing will be within ten years or so...the only thing I've been able to think of is that I will have to kill myself. I'm not being melodramatic here, so those few nitpicks who read Skew for the sheer pleasure of bitching about me, please go away. Like I said this is not something I came up with off the top of my head; it's literally been months I've been thinking about it. Even when I don't want to think about it, I've ended up sitting in my room trying to relax to music and a jigsaw puzzle and...the thought of it upsets me so much that I end up crying and can't enjoy the music or puzzle at all. This happened for two or three days running, recently. It's only because I've managed to distract myself that I haven't broken down more often.

I have always been anti-suicide, as anti-suicide as you can get. I am against assisted suicide of the Kervorkian variety (I understand pulling the plug, but actively helping somebody kill themselves?--do not agree with it). I have always seen suicide as the coward's way out. I even KNOW that if I were to kill myself, it would adversely affect SOMEBODY, as much as I don't want to believe that somebody cares for me that much; I know that it would have an effect. I don't even know HOW to kill myself successfully, and I do not want to bother with pro-suicide websites.

My dad has some guns but I don't know where they are nor how to load or use them, and I would not ever touch them anyway; too violent, defacing; I wouldn't want somebody to have to clean me up. Hanging? A hideous way to kill yourself--especially if you're scared of heights and don't know how to tie a noose! Throwing myself down the stairs, no guarantee of success...the same with running in front of a car...we'd probably just end up with huge hospital bills. And with a car I would probably injure the other person involved. I could not do that. Overdosing? I have sleeping pills, but that would be slow and awful. I wouldn't even know how many to take. And I would NEVER use aspirin. I have no clue how I would gas myself to death, plus that would kill the cat. I'm too averse to water to bother with drowning, even if a big enough body of water was within a reasonable distance. I could not do any of those things.

The only method that seems as if it would stand even a remote chance of working, one I MIGHT actually be able to do, is slitting my wrists. And I am so afraid of seeing skin slice open and blood leak out...I can't even watch it on TV. Even NEEDLES make me pass out. But...that's the only thing left that I MIGHT be able to do. Fill the tub with hot water, lie down in it, and...just do it. When nobody is around, which is all day with me. I don't know how long it takes, but I'd have plenty of time if I really wanted to die. I'm alone here from about nine AM to four or five PM...I would be long gone by the time somebody got home. If I were able to cut it right, that is. I have shaving razors around, but I'd have to detach one, and I'd have to actually resolve myself to do it.

Which is the hardest part of all--actually WANTING to do it. Which I do not want to do. I'd rather do almost anything else. But by now I don't know of anything else. When they can't support me anymore, there's no avenue left. I can't burden anybody. I'm too ashamed to ask for help which is not even there. I can't even bring this matter up with my parents, let them know that I am seriously considering killing myself, because I know it will just start a big argument--they will tell me to shut up and stop being so stupid. I know this for sure. Every time I try to discuss a future issue with them, no matter how inevitable it is, they insist I am worrying about something needlessly, and they do not want to talk about it until that moment comes. When this moment comes, it'll be too late. So I can't talk to them, I have nobody else to talk to, and I have not even posted this entry in Skew yet because I've been too afraid of pissing off any of you out there reading this. But I had to lay it out somewhere. I'm sorry you saw it, if you read it.

I also apologize for that hideous run-down of suicide methods above, though I'm only clearing up what's been in my head the past few months. I haven't anywhere else to say it all without pissing everybody off; I'm sure this entry will irritate SOMEBODY.

I wish so much I could talk to my parents about this and try to come to some sort of resolution that would NOT involve me trying to kill myself. I want us to be able to sit down and discuss my future without it turning into a screaming match. But that would never work. They will suggest me leaping off Niagara Falls in an attempt to learn how to swim, and when I of course tell them this will not work, they will get angry and insist I am just thwarting all their suggestions. What I need is help, before I can support myself. But you need MONEY for help, and we don't have that. It's just a neverending cycle. I'm angry that my parents insist that all I have to do is leap off those Falls and I'll swim just fine on my own, but they're right on one point. We don't have the money to get me help. So without that, I will never get better. And there's no other option for me, besides what I described above.

And that scares me more than anything. I don't want to kill myself. I could live perfectly fine, even if not as happily as I could be living, without ever publishing a thing or being famous or loved or even successful. If I could just support myself, make the money needed to take that burden off of my parents, then I would be fine enough. Not happy, but fine. I could live with never achieving my life's dream, if I just did not have to worry about what the next day or bill will bring, if I did not have to drag down everyone around me. If I didn't have to feel guilty every single day about burdening the people I live with, I would be fine enough.

Part of me finds it very sad that I have given up all hope of a happy, fulfilled life and by now can only hope for a life where I don't have to worry from day to day about where the money will come from--I would be fine enough with just surviving, rather than LIVING--but that's how it is. It's been twenty-seven years; I don't see it changing, short of a windfall or a miracle, neither of which I'm counting on will ever come.

Even if one did, it would probably go toward a trip to Georgia or something. I have actually felt resentment over the fact that my mom spends her money on cigarettes when she could just as well spend it on getting me help. It's HER money; what right do I have to resent what she does with it when I am just as wasteful? Well, part of me just wishes she cared about me enough to want to help me...but who knows anymore...as if her money would be enough anyway. That's how I justify myself buying a CD at the store; $15 won't ever get me the help I need, even if it does add up.

I cry at the thought of filling up the tub and detaching a blade from one of the razors and actually trying to draw that thing across my wrists...and just sitting back and waiting for the end to come...I would never feel lonelier in my life. Even more, I hate the thought of my parents eventually finding me and blaming themselves, when it was my fault all along for once. I hate the fear of not knowing what would happen to me afterwards, for I DO believe in some sort of afterlife, and I've heard that killing yourself is an unforgiveable sin...

So yes, I've been considering the consequences. But it's the only path that there seems to be short of a miracle. I don't believe in miracles for people like myself. So I don't have any backup plan.

So I've just had to sit and think about this every day and keep it all from my parents, and even from Skew until now, and wait for that day to come on my own. Part of me is even railing at me to live each day to the most, to finish up all my writing so I leave nothing incomplete, but the rest of me doesn't care enough about that by now. When I'm gone, what I left behind won't matter. And I don't know how to live each day to its fullest, so I just do the same things I do every day. Wake up, wash my hair, watch TV, go online, write a little, read a little, listen to some music, eat some food, go to bed. That's all the meaning my life has anymore.

(In the slight chance that anyone reading this is worried I'm about to kill myself, please don't worry. I'm not. This is the future I'm talking about, which is still some years off. God, I HATE the thought of how this entry will piss somebody off...)

Well, I hate ending the entry like that, but short of repeating all I've already said, I have little else to add. Sorry again that it was such a bad entry. I was honestly going to ask anyone who likes reading this journal to suggest something they'd like me to write about in here, as I'm honestly out of ideas, but by now I'm afraid of what any of you would say. So I guess I'll be going until and if I ever think of something else to type in here.

Tar for now...