I’m trying to make the best out of this whole situation.
I’m living out of my suitcase with two cats and a recently purchased bottle of vodka. I mixed it with more of my magic juices and the next thing you know I have a pretty good cosmopolitan. I never thought I’d be treated like a piece of luggage though. How this dog, who I’m pretty sure feels sorry for me, is treated better.
My cats, in accordance with my sister, are not allowed to leave “my room.” Forgive the reference, but I’m hiding them like Anne Frank, from her and her soft fiance, the nazis. I actually don’t have a room, it’s a small box unattached to everything where you store items that don’t seem fit to the order of the house. It’s an emotional matter and state I refuse to be apart of if I may talk on a serious note.
Despite me being drunk for the majority of my time there is the reassurance of my mother. Regardless of how crazy I am, what medicine they think I should swallow, or how lost I am, she comforts me in the only way that I’m thankful for being back home.
See, my mother is still unemployed. My father was a heavy addict (I’ll explain daddy issues later), we lost our house, we lived in a hotel, and she worked her ass off. Years passed by and I suppose I was just, and still am, an angry little girl. I deal with this anger in my rough sex. Everybody wins.
With my mother still being unemployed, after getting laid off, my sister took over. I love her, don’t get me wrong, but there’s an emotional attachment she has as well that she throws her power into “money.” If you don’t have it, you don’t have a say so in this house. After I left to San Francisco she hated me. She was angry because I left her. In my defense I had to. She had her fiance living there, he was starting to have more of an influence in the house then us; the family that got closer in that hotel and first step of success was this exact house. We drifted. It happens, I suppose. Now I’m back, and she’s angry all over again.
After all the ridicule of me not “finding myself” and other cliché crap that assholes bitch at me for the sole purpose of bitching, I’m taking a step back. At first stepping back scared me and felt like reverse, but sometimes you need to step back to make a high jump. Which is why I’m really staying away from old friends. I was better off with new ones, because I was new, because it all was new. I was a new Jane.
I still don’t know what I’m doing in my life. According to the social security office my birthday is even wrong, ( I fear I may be adopted), which is another task I must complete. It’s such a bitch.
Yet, I’m not finding myself. I’m not looking for anyone to complete me.
I’m taking time inventing myself.
Because regardless what a piece of paper says, or what people will say, your identity to yourself is the only thing that should matter. My journey begins to stop comparing myself to other people.
Don’t spit up because it comes back down.
…and if you swallow, well, then that’s even better.
Who do you want to be?