Because I don’t believe in love anymore, or dating, or even trying to find love. Or God, or words, or hope, or reading, or romance, or putting on makeup to feel pretty, or showering, or wearing cute clothes, or sex, or drinking to numb the pain and prolong the inevitable.
Because I don’t believe in happy endings, or good defeating evil in the end, or that telling the truth matters, or that people actually care about others.
Because I don’t believe in life, or being forced to suffer emotional anguish for 42 years then to be ripped of the only thing from those 42 years that mattered enough to keep you going.
Because I don’t believe in innocence, or music killing the pain, or cooking, or eating.
Because I don’t believe in writing, or talking, or watching movies.
Because I don’t believe in buying your dad’s house to feel love that is no longer there and probably never existed really anyway, or believe in the beauty of nostalgia, or laughter, or even the memories of laughter.
Because I don’t even believe in my memories anymore. They have been raped, pillaged, and destroyed by the same mother fuckers who shit on the first ones I had. Because their lies trump my truths, and because their abuse doesn’t count any more today than it ever did.
Because I don’t believe in reaching out, or the fleeting hope that a stupid astrological forecast might even bring some hope or good news.
Because I don’t believe in mothers, or children, or protecting those who can’t protect themselves.
Because I don’t believe in art soothing a broken soul, or art for beauty, or beauty at all.
Because I don’t believe in anything.
Because I feel more stupid than ever that it took me 45 fucking years to face how stupid believing in anything ever was while living with the life I was given, which has done nothing but repeatedly prove that hoping for better is a fantasy as silly as unicorns and Santa Claus.
Because I don’t believe in rebuilding hope from the rubble again…a-mother-fucking-again.
Because I don’t even have the pictures or letters or memories of once-upon-a-time believing I was loved.
Because I don’t have the precious artwork and baby photos of me as a momma with my children…the artwork I could never bear to throw away…because anything made with even the possibility of loving me was fucking precious, even if it was a scribble of pen on scrap paper…
Because even those were taken from me…taken from me because I did not protect myself from the monsters who took all of this from me before I rebuilt, and rebuilt, and rebuilt again.
Because every love I carried for 9 months in my body to protect, hug, hold hands, feed, bathe, and love for always was taken too.
Because every evidence of that love even maybe being real at some point is gone. Gone for our “own good” along with the home we created with it, taken from us with lies and deceit for our “own good”.
Because my every love and every hope for love and every fucking memory of love I had saved for my whole fucking life was taken from me “for my own good”, by a monster who’s never had a fucking thing taken from him his entire life. A selfish fucking monster who has to have EVERYTHING for his mother fucking self…ALL of it. Even the tiny threads of hope that I had, the tiny momentary precious memories I had amassed, the love I thought I would really have at last from my children, the love I thought God gave me for my own with my children. Because the fucking monsters had to have that too.