A Great Song

I heard a song the other night called “This Is My Fight Song.”  How wonderful it would be if all the wounded, depressed, and forgotten people could embrace that song for the new year.
“This is my fight song…take back my life song…prove I’m alright song.”  Those lyrics could be the stimulus for standing up, flexing your muscles and letting out with a mighty roar.
They are such powerful words but I find they are only inspirational to me for the length of time it takes to type them.

I think there comes a time when it becomes obvious that there is no fight left.  There are things that are never going to be reconciled.  When that is a realization, there is a comfort in the surrender.  There is that familiar phrase..”accept the things I cannot change” but who does that really work for?
I have thought about trying to have a chat with my son about acceptance.  I have thought about trying to get him to understand and accept that he is never going to mean anything to Loser…that to Loser, he is always going to be just “a worthless piece of shit.”
My son has no fight in him.  He never has.  He’s still very much a little boy when it comes to needing the nurturing of the parent who was never there for him and never will be.
I think if my son could ever grasp that concept, he might be able to travel down a different road.  Nobody else in his life understands what it’s like to crave somebodys’ love and attention and spend your entire life being denied and disappointed more than I do.
If J***** could just see past the placation that Loser employs (for the sake of his WTC) maybe he could gather enough strength to look at Loser and say to him what Loser loves to say to everybody else…..”FUCK YOU.”
That song will not work for J*****.  How can he take back a life he was never able to live because he was waiting for a daddy to act like he gave a shit?  He can’t.
J***** will never accept the obvious.  He still has hope and he will eventually starve to death on that hope.

There is no fight left in me.  There is no acceptance.  There will always be the gnawing unanswered questions I have struggled for years, trying to understand.  How can all of my children can accept the treatment they have received from Loser and still welcome him into their lives?  How can they ignore the names he has called them?  How can they dismiss the way he treated them?  How can they so readily accept what he did to me?  How can they blame me for leaving after the way he treated me?  How can they be mad at me for not allowing Loser to bring that WTC to my house and think he was going to sleep with her in my bed?
How can they close their eyes to the fact that Loser destroyed our family, found a bar-hopping WTC and cheerfully moved on, while thinking he could still have me in his life?
How can I take back a life that was completely destroyed by lies, deceit, disease and neglect?  I can’t.

“This is my fight song” is a great song.  It’s just not great for me or my son.


Today Is Christmas…But For Me, It’s Just Another Day

Today is Christmas.  It’s the day that I spent almost my entire life anxiously waiting for.  It was always such a magical day for me and I looked forward to it with unbridled eagerness.
In the past, there had been lean ones and there had been bountiful ones.  There had been joyful ones and there had been sorrowful ones.  There had been ones that were gleefully anticipated and there had been ones that were woefully dreaded.  There had been passionate ones and there had been emotionless ones.
Today, though…is just another day.

There will never be another Christmas when I am awakened by my four children standing at the bedroom door, shouting “Merry Christmas.”  There will never be another Christmas when Loser and I will have our first cup of coffee in the set of over-sized Royal Daulton china cups, that were reserved for that holiday only.

This year, I am alone.  It’s not the first Christmas that I have spent alone and I don’t imagine that it will be the last.
Today, though…is just another day.

There will be no stockings filled with chocolate covered marshmallow Santa Clauses and other tooth-rotting, blood-sugar-raising candy.  There will be no family gatherings.  There will be no feast.  There will be no visits from friends.  There will be no visits from children or grandchildren.
Today…is just another day.

There will be no “A Christmas Story” marathon playing on the television.  There will be no hugs and thank-yous’, whether genuine or insincere.  There will be no afterglow while sitting around, ogling the slew of presents.  There will be no decision on who gathers up the rumpled and torn wrapping paper and throws it away.
I will be wearing no new baubles, whether given from guilt or obligation.  There will be no specialty quilts given to anybody.
Today…is just another day.

There will be no disingenuous, hurried goodbye kiss from Loser as he leaves me to go play golf or travel across town to spend the rest of the day with his precious fucking mama and daddy.  There will be no impatient waiting until “It’s A Wonderful Life” comes on later.
I will not proudly display the pillow that I embroidered with the saying “the bell still rings for me” because it no longer rings for me.  I will not be covered up with the Christmas quilt that K**** made.
I will not have crept into the living room after everybody else had gone to sleep, to sit and watch the lights on the tree as if to try to burn it into my memory long enough for it to last until the next year.  I will not have imagined that I could hear the bells on Santas’ sleigh.
Today…is just another day.

There will be no hand-holding with Loser tonight as we quiz each other about the pleasure our gifts brought to each other.  There will be no conjecture about whether the children liked their gifts and got everything they wanted.

This year, there will be no empty “Merry Christmas” text or phone call from Loser.  There will be no texts or calls from my children.  There will be no refusal to visit or bring children to my house “because I didn’t bother to decorate.”
Today…is just another day.

There will be no need to worry about putting large boxes that housed giant flat-screen televisions on the curb for fear somebody will break into the house.  There will be no spending days and days, disassembling huge trees and carefully packing up treasured ornaments all by myself as I had always had to do before.  There will be no need to feel nostalgic when putting away pictures of grandchildrens’ first encounter with Santa Clause.  There will be no searching for delinquent strands of tinsel that have flown away and found what they think is a safe hiding place.
Today…is just another day.

There will be no left-over Christmas cookies or fruitcake or pot roast.  There will be no frantic hunt for all of those wonderful after Christmas sales.  There will be no “seasonal depression” that always afflicted me for the first few weeks after Christmas.

Today is Christmas…but for me, it’s just another day.


What I Would Do If I Knew I Was Dying

If I knew I was dying, I would make sure that my affairs were in order.  I would do that mainly for K****, who was so outraged when I left because she would have to “travel” to “go through my things.”  I would also do it for Loser, who is beside himself with fear that HIS MONEY will be “flying around out there in cyber-space” if something happens to me. (When he said that, he was probably thinking about how many trips he could take his WTC on or how much jewelry he could buy for her with that money.)
I might sell some things.  I might donate some things.  I would toy with the idea of spending every penny I have.
I wouldn’t plan a funeral.  I don’t want one.  I wouldn’t plan a wake or a party.  I don’t want either one of those.
I would never ask anybody to try to come up with elaborate, falsified descriptions of “what a wonderful person” I was and try to sell it to a group of uninterested, non-caring people.
I wouldn’t seek out people who I believed that I had wronged.  If I have wronged anybody, it was unintentional.  A few of my children may think I have wronged them by “falling into a ditch.”  That is not an apology inciting action.
I would absolutely be tempted to exact revenge on those who have wronged me in the past.  Whether it would actually come to fruition, I don’t know.  I do know that I would never forgive them.
I would want to reach out to Loser, right after Hell freezes over and Lucifer once again, becomes an angel.
I would never allow people back into my life who had abused and betrayed me.
I would not reach out to estranged members of my family.  Family members who care, don’t taunt you when they are suddenly part of the family that is no longer yours.  Family members who only contact you when they are desperate for money do not care about you.  They only care about themselves but they would come crawling out from under the woodwork and suddenly develop “compassion and caring” if they thought there was something in it for them.
I would absolutely become a wannabe philanthropist but I would do it anonymously.  I care nothing about having a plaque bearing my name.
I would not opt for invasive, cell-killing treatment.  I wouldn’t waste my money on drugs that would provide only temporary relief.
I wouldn’t give up my vices even though I have very few.  I might be tempted to smoke a pot joint.  That had always been on my “bucket list.”  If it was still illegal, I probably wouldn’t.
I’ve never been interested enough in recreational drugs to even give them a second thought, much less a try.
The endless conversations in my head have never ceased and I doubt they ever will, so the answer to that question is a definite yes.
I would never beg anybody to “remember me.”  Unimportant people are easily forgotten.  I would never ask anybody to keep a promise.  Promises are made to be broken.
I’m not sure I could define the term “live like you were dying” so the answer would be arbitrary until the definition was clear.
I would absolutely resent dying because I do feel like I have never really lived.
If there was any conceivable way to do, go and see things that have always been a dream, I would try, even if I had to hire somebody to go with me.
I probably wouldn’t test my car although I know for a fact that it will flat spit and git it.”
I would not feel compelled whatsoever to go to church.  I don’t know if I would confess all of my sins.  I’m not sure I could even remember all of them.
I would never curse God although sometimes, I think He has cursed me.
I believe there is not a snowballs’ chance in Hell that I will ever see the pearly gates of Heaven.  I believe Hell looms large and the only comfort I have is hoping that I will see certain people there.
Who knows about the stages of death?  I went (and am still going through) the stages of grief.  The order is all fucked up, so I imagine the stages of death would be too.
It would be lovely to know that when I go to the great beyond, I would be taking an eternal love that not only did I know but that I FELT.  I won’t have to worry about that.
I’m not a suicide person.  I would never die in a hospital if I had the choice.  I would never choose to die in a facility.  I wouldn’t want to die in my home or anybody elses’.
I used to think that when I died, I wanted to die in the arms of somebody who really loved me.  That’s not going to happen, so there will be no holding my hand at the end.
I would want to and I plan to die alone.  Death is sorrowful…why share it?  Life and happiness should be shared.
I would opt for cremation.  Set me on fire and then put me out.  I would like for my ashes to be spread on top of my grandma and grandpas’ graves but I can’t fathom anybody being willing to make the trip to do that so I would just say, throw me out with the garbage.
Nobody will have any of my ashes.  Nobody will be carrying me around in their cars’ trunk.
I have no desire to be “planted” anywhere.  I want no marker.  There is zero possibility that Losers’ name would be ANYWHERE near mine and I would curse anybody who dared to do it.
Having no grave or marker, it would be impossible for anybody to come visit and bring the obligatory flowers and no….it wouldn’t matter if they did…I’d be dead.  I would have preferred a visit and flowers when I was alive.
The first question asked will be the last answered.

No.  I wouldn’t tell anybody.  I would sever all ties with everybody.  I cannot and would not tolerate perfunctory shows of imitation affection and worthless epitaphs.  I have no need for gratuitous words to be etched into a piece of marble and placed in what is supposed to be a “final resting place.”

The only thing that needs to even be said is…once I was here.


What Would You Do If You Knew You Were Dying?

What would you do if you knew you were dying?  It’s a sensitive and uncomfortable question.  It’s a question that most people wouldn’t want to think about.
Would you tell anybody?
Would you would want to get your affairs in order or would you just leave it to whoever you designated to take on the immense task?
Would you sell everything you had?  Would you call Goodwill and have them come pick up everything you owned?  Would you leave your money and assets to your next-of-kin or would you spend every penny you had and let the check to the undertaker bounce?
Would you plan a funeral?  Would you plan a wake or a big party?  Would you want to comb over every detail or would you want somebody else to do it for you?  Would you want people to come speak on your behalf and tell anecdotal stories?  Would you want a massive outpouring of tears and sadness or would you want dancing and drinking and camaraderie?
Would you want to make restitution to people you felt that you had wronged in the past?  Would you ask for their forgiveness?
Would you want one last stab at retribution toward the people who had wronged you in the past or would you try to forgive them?
Would you reach out to estranged relatives who were no longer in your life for one reason or another?  Would you want to reach out to a former lover or wife or husband and tell them goodbye?  Would you allow people back into your life who wouldn’t give you the time of day before?
Would you become a wannabe philanthropist?  Would you want your name to be on a plaque somewhere to confirm your charitable contribution?
Would you opt for aggressive treatment that included poisonous chemicals invading your body that would leave you hairless and so weak you could hardly walk?  Would you spend money on unreasonably expensive drugs that could possibly prolong the inevitable or would you zestfully chase life for as long as it lasted?
Would you give up all of your vices or would you continue to indulge with the thought that it really didn’t matter anymore?  Would you take up new ones with the same thought?
Would you have endless conversations in your head for the millionth time, rehashing all the “what ifs and if onlys?”
Would you be mad at the people who weren’t dying?  Would you beg them not to forget you, knowing that eventually they would?  Would you ask them to make promises that you knew they would never keep?
Like the Tim McGraw song, would you want to “live like you were dying?”
Would you resent dying if you felt like you had never really lived?
Would you do things that you had always wanted to do but had never done before?  Would you try to see things you had always wanted to see but never could?  Would you want to go places you always wanted to go but never had the chance?
Would you want to be daring and see just how fast your car could really go?
Would you feel an overwhelming need to go to church to beg for the salvation of your immortal soul?  Would you confess all of your sins in hopes of being forgiven?  Would you be consumed with anger?  Would you want to curse God and ask him why?
Would you be confident that you were going to go to Heaven or would you be afraid that you were going to go to Hell?
Would you truly go through the five stages of death?  Do you think they’d come in order?
Would it be easier to die if you knew you were and had been truly loved?

Would you consider taking your own life?
Would you want to die in a hospital?  Would you want to die in an end-stage care facility hooked up to machines and needing your diaper changed?  Would you want to die at home?  Would you want somebody to be holding your hand at the very moment you took your last breath and your life slipped away?
Would you want to die alone?

Would you want to be cremated?  If so, where would you want your ashes to be spread?  Would you want certain people to have some of them?  Would you want somebody to carry your ashes around in their cars’ trunk?
Would you want to be buried?  If so, where?  Would you want a marker to show that “once you were here?”  Would you want past wives or husbands’ names on that marker?  Would you want somebody to come visit your grave on your birthday or the anniversary of your death?  Would it matter if you knew they never would?

What are your answers?  I’ll give my answers in another post.


Is It A Wonderful Life?

It’s A Wonderful Life was always my favorite Christmas movie.  I loved the concept.  I loved that George Bailey was such a selfless, good-hearted man.  I loved that Mary realized her childhood dream of marrying the boy she had loved for so many years.  I adored Clarence and always wished that he would visit me.

I decided to be introspective and imagine what it would be like if I “had never been born.”

Here’s the way I see it.

My mama and daddy would have only had four children.  My little brother would have lived.  My mama might have had a happier life.  She and my daddy might have been the perfect couple.  Mama wouldn’t have been stricken with such immeasurable grief that it changed her life.
There wouldn’t have been so much strife and sorrow in their lives.  My mama might have been the best mama who ever lived.  My daddy might have been the best daddy who ever lived.
Circumstances might have dictated that one “if” could have occurred that kept my other brother from being at the school on that particular day and that particular time and he might have escaped his sentence of life-long seizures.
My family might have been loving and giving.

If I hadn’t been born, I would have never been beaten or abused or called names.  A few paintings would have never been painted and a few pictures would have never been drawn.  A little Robin would have died long before my little sister strangled it.  A little mouse would have stayed frozen to death.
Doctors and emergency rooms would have made a little less money because I wouldn’t have broken my leg so many times.  Nobody at my school would have had perfect attendance.  Somebody else would have won all the spelling bees.
The little old lady at the mall might have fallen down the escalator because I wouldn’t have been there to carry her packages.  My grandma and grandpa would have saved the money it cost to buy a gallon of milk and a green pepper for my birthday.

I would have never met Loser.  I would have never had to endure his mistreatment and abusive manner.  I would have never been chastised for not going to college and not being a “court-holding queen.”  I wouldn’t have been ignored for almost forty-one years.  I wouldn’t have an incurable sexually transmitted disease, given to me by the one person I trusted above all others.
If I hadn’t been born and met Loser, he might have gone to Europe and bummed around until he gained enough emotional maturity to actually have a relationship that revolved around somebody besides himself.  He might have met somebody who was his equal and if they had children, he might have been proud of them.  He might not have destroyed so many lives.

I would have not met his atrocious mama.  I would have never had to endure her drunken rampages and awful criticisms.  I would not be filled with hatred toward her.

If I had never been born, I would have never had my children and what a loss that would be.
But, maybe they would have been born to another mama who wasn’t so damaged that she couldn’t even tell them she loved them.  Maybe they would have been born to another daddy who actually valued them not only as human beings but as his precious, lineage carrying offspring.

If I had never been born, I wouldn’t be beaten down and broken.  I could have avoided a sad life but in reality, I was born and I was put here for some reason.  What that reason was or is, remains to be seen.
I am just an ordinary person.  I have never done anything remarkable.  Nobody will remember me for any life-changing invention.  My name will not appear in any books or on any artwork.  My name is on a few quilts but they are not on display in any museum or public venue.  I’ve never changed anybodys’ life.

If I had never been born, so what?

My Grandma And Grandpa

My grandma and grandpa were my daddys’ mama and daddy.  Mama never called them anything but Mr. and Mrs. S******* so that’s what I called them until the day they died.  My daddy called his mama “mama” and he called his daddy “papa.”  My grandpa called my grandma “son.”
They both had the patience of Job.  I never saw them get mad…even when my uncle got drunk, fell down and my grandpa and I had to pick him up and try to get him in the bed.
My grandma was one of the best cooks around and could “whomp” up a meal fit for a king…out of nothing.  Our main “meat” was fat-back (or salt pork as it is called in the North.)  To this day, I still love fat-back.
She would tell me it was time for dinner, which was my cue to go out in the yard and dig up Irish potatoes.  That’s when I developed my love of raw potatoes.  I would eat the potatoes, skins, dirt and all.
My grandpa loved the same white gravy that Loser did.  It was so thick, that a spoonful would “stay put” if it was turned upside down.
My grandmas’ coffee was, as my grandpa said, “strong enough to grow hair on your chest.”
My grandma had “Southernisms.”  She would say “el, I wished I’m a die.”  That meant she was flabbergasted.  She would say that I was looking “peurt” which meant spry.  I do believe that she was one of the sweetest women who ever lived.  The only one who could even compare was Losers’ Grandma H*** (his daddys’ mama.)
My grandma would stand and look out the window for what seemed like hours.  Mama used to make fun of her for doing that but later in her life, she did the same thing.  I asked my grandma what she was seeing and she said “I’m just looking.”
My grandma surprised me once when she said that she would like to go to Hollywood.  I was teasing her about wanting to see a good-looking movie star or something but she said “I’d like to see Disneyland.”
I lived in “Mickey Mouse” world for many years but I never went to see any of the attractions.  I wish now that I had so my grandma could have seen it through my eyes.
I don’t know much about her childhood except that she was sent away to live with relatives when she was about five.  I know she had brothers and one of them was accidentally shot and killed when he was sixteen.  I know she barely remembered her daddy.  She had a picture of him that hung on the wall.  I heard her tell my grandpa one time that she dreamed about her daddy that night.
She only went to the seventh grade and I was completely surprised when I got a letter from her.  I don’t think it occurred to me that she could read or write.
I know nothing about my grandpas’ childhood, other than he was raised by his mamas’ second husband and he was apparently a good step-daddy.  My grandpas’ daddy died when he was twenty-three.  Rumor has it that he was arguably one of the most handsome men to ever come out of Madison County.  He stood six feet six inches tall.
He died from typhoid fever.  Rumor also has it that my grandpas’ mama was a beautiful woman and never really got over “the love of her life.”  Neither my grandma or grandpa ever talked about their young lives.
My grandpa talked a little about some things.  He was too young for World War I and he was too old for World War II.  He grew up dirt poor and remained poor his entire life.
He told me that after he and my grandma got married and had my daddy, he was desperate to find a job but there were none to be found.  He was walking home after an exhausting, unfruitful day of searching for work and spotted a man putting a new roof on his feed and seed building.  My grandpa asked him if he needed any help and the man said no.  My grandpa said he started out standing on the ground, talking…then he was halfway up the ladder…talking…then he was on the roof…talking…and before long, he was helping the man put on his roof.  He worked for ten hours and the man paid him a nickel.  My grandpa worked all week, for twenty-five cents and ten nails.
He taught me that if you dip a nail in oil, you can “almost drive it into concrete” and if a screw is loose, all you have to do is take the screw out, put a toothpick in the hole and it will tighten right up.
My grandpa had a little book that he kept right beside the sofa.  Every time he read or heard something interesting, he would write it down.  What I wouldn’t give for that little book.  He was writing in it one day and when he was finished, he asked me if I knew what a sideburn was.  I told him I did and he asked me if I knew where the term came from.  He said that it was from a man named Robert Burnside who had the lamb chop thing going on.  I remembered that and actually won a trivia contest once because that was a question.
My grandma, having a bad back, wore a “girdle-type” back brace for as long as I could remember.  She had a favorite chair…a turquoise recliner.  She was sitting in it one day and my grandpa walked by and gently touched her on the cheek.  She blushed like a new bride.  I will never forget that tender moment they shared.
Years later, when I introduced them to my second daughter and told them her name, my grandma said “el…that’s B**s’ name.”  I was so glad they got to know her name before they died.
When my grandpa died, I think my grandma grieved herself to death.  I wasn’t told that they had died because (as I said) my daddy said “I was afraid you would try to come to their funeral.”  I guess he didn’t want to piss mama off…just like Loser kept all of us away from his daddys’ funeral so it wouldn’t piss off his precious mama.
My daddy went over to their house (which they left to my drunk uncle, who promptly sold it for booze) and picked up her old washboard from the yard.  Until the day she died, she washed all of their clothes by hand and used that washboard.  B gave it to me and it is among my most treasured belongings.
Somehow, he got her wedding rings.  I didn’t even know she had any.  She had at some point, told B that she wanted her granddaughter to have them.  He gave them to my little sister, who probably wouldn’t have recognized my grandma and grandpa if she had passed them on the street.  I asked him if he really thought she wanted D**** to have them.  He said “mama said she wanted her granddaughter to have them.”  I wonder who the Hell he thought I was?
I quickly got in touch with my little sister (who had said if she ever passed me on the street, she would spit in my face) and offered a trade.  I didn’t care if she spit on me…I wanted those rings.
I gave her a ruby and diamond ring, necklace, bracelet and earrings to match.  I would have given her my entire jewelry box.
A few years ago, I gave those rings to my middle daughter.  Even though she no longer speaks to me, I hope she will treasure them.
I didn’t know where my grandma and grandpa were buried.  I called the records department one day and they told me the name of the cemetery.  A friend of mine and I found it.  My drunk uncle was buried right beside them and I resented it.  I only glanced at it long enough to see his worthless name on the tombstone.
They were two wonderful people who loved me and tried to make me feel like I mattered.
I knelt on their graves and talked to them for a few minutes.  I told them that I was too damaged to know or appreciate how much they cared about me.  I was too damaged and broken to let them know how much they meant to me and I wanted them to know it now.
I hope I will see them again someday.

Who Said “Love Never Dies?”

“Love never dies.”  I’ve heard that phrase before and I heard it again just the other day.  Maybe you think love never dies but I can tell you for a fact, it does.
Maybe it met its demise because it didn’t exist to begin with.  Maybe it died from lack of nourishment.  Love needs to be cultivated.  It needs to be returned.  Like any other living thing, it needs attention and affection.
Love does indeed die.  Love can in fact, be killed.

I think about how many times Loser treated me like a common whore.  The first time was when he tried to buy my forgiveness with flowers, gifts and promises of trips.  My forgiveness wasn’t for sale.  He thought money and what money could buy was an apology.  My “love” for him was sick.
What I wanted was an earnest conversation.  I wanted him to tell me that he understood what he had done to me and how much he had hurt me.  I wanted him to tell me that he would never do it again.  I wanted him to stop taking me out to dinner and then, inside an hour start talking to me like I was garbage because I interrupted him while he was on his computer.
I think he finally understood that I couldn’t be bought so he decided to put those efforts into somebody who obviously could be bought.  My “love” for him was getting even sicker.
The second time he treated me like a common whore was when he thought he was going to be able to keep his WTC, then sneak around and “play husband” to me on the side…and get to keep all of his money.  He was going to have the best of all possible worlds.  My “love” for him was almost comatose and was starting to die.

Loser was the man I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with.  Loser was the man I waited for years and years to show me just a tad of affection and attention.  Loser was the father of my children.
I spent almost my entire marriage, hoping that someday…after he “reached the top” there would be time for me.  I thought he would then have time to treat me the way he should have treated me all along.
He finally made it to the “top” but didn’t treat his employees or employers any better than he treated me, so he was fired.  I guess in a way I fired him, too.  People can only take so much before they tell you to “go fuck yourself.”
My “love” for him was having agonal breathing.
When the divorce was in full swing and he wrote what he did about me in his affidavit, my “love” for him died a violent death and morphed into an intense hatred.  Even the “I still love you and I always have” message in his last text did nothing to assuage that hatred.  I think it made me hate him even more.

I have hated before and still do.  I hate Losers’ fucking mama.  I hate Loser to the point that I literally cringe when I think about him.  I think about his reaction of insouciance to the pictures and notes I have been getting, reminding me that “he belongs to her now…and how she’s looking forward to spending time with MY children.”
He looks at it as an ego boost.  It shows how much this WTC “loves him.”  Jealousy is attractive to him.

I understand and agree with the old adage “the opposite of love is indifference” but there are exceptions.  How can you be indifferent toward somebody who used you and treated you like you only had value to give them an avenue to do whatever and go wherever they wanted, free from any and all encumbrances?  How can you be indifferent toward somebody who literally destroyed forty-one years of your life?  How can you be indifferent to a man who intentionally passed on an incurable disease to you and doesn’t care because his WTC (according to him) already has it, so…no problem for him…or her…and no need for guilt?

Any love my mama had for me died after I killed my little brother and she never let me forget it.  I’ve heard that there’s nothing stronger than a mothers’ love but it’s not true.  Any love I had for her eventually died, too.  I don’t even know at what point.  I just know that it did.

Love does indeed die, for many reasons and there is nothing deader than a dead love.

Love that has been killed leaves a wound and a horrific scar that is a constant reminder of the misnomer…”love never dies.”