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There is no way to sincerely convey the sentiment, I hope you laugh when I’m gone. 

No matter how that’s worded, it comes across as snarky or manipulative…or hateful. 

Yet, what else could ever be said to someone who is your heart who’s made it clear that your very existence makes them miserable and hurt?

If my existence pains you, I very much want to go. 

If my being insults you, I’ve no desire to be.

If everything I gave you was disgusting and wrong, I can’t imagine wanting to continue.

If it’s because I drank alcohol sometimes, but not drinking alcohol anymore (ever) isn’t enough…

If it’s because I had sex sometimes, but not having sex anymore( ever ) isn’t enough…

If it’s that my self esteem was too low, but standing up for myself is “mean and disgusting”…

Then, it really isn’t any of those things, is it?  

It’s just that I exist at all. 

I understand that. I grew up with exactly that. It’s what made me into all that I am that disgusts you. I was never going to get it right no matter what I did or didn’t do. And lookie here, now I’m in that same no-win situation with the people who are a part of my flesh and my personify my every attempt to prove I was worthy. 

And, I feel the persecution would continue if I committed suicide as well. I can almost hear  the disgusted tones as accusations like “selfish” or “pathetic” or maybe “thank god she’s finally gone”.

My very existence insults everybody who was intended to love me in spite of my faults; those whom were supposed to remind me of my beautiful song when I’d forgotten it for  myself. 

So I hurt you by merely existing and I’ll also risk hurting you if I commit suicide. 

After all my fights to be worthy, after all my struggles to survive in hopes someday even I might be loved if only I loved well enough or properly or only in the exact ways wanted, I’ve come full circle to exactly where I started as a child, hated, rejected, abandoned, neglected, attacked, and forgotten. 

Left for dead… while very much still breathing. 

After you were born, I was so grateful I hadn’t died like I’d begged God for all those years… only to be reminded again that I’m worthless and disgusting still and especially to my own children, who now insist my every attempt and effort to love them was abuse and horrifying. 

The only other effort I put my heart into was protecting children from abuse. I told myself that other than being a momma and demonstrating love to children, that the only other purpose for my abuse was to live and protect other children from suffering a similar fate. I was even commended on several occasions for my work and dedication to advocating for abused children. 

But you took that with you when you dumped me in the garbage too. You took my heart, you distorted my only happy memories, you twisted my truth, you magnified my scars and threw them in the spotlight, you hung my fears and most private inner struggles,  naked and vulnerable in right out in town square, and because you needed to feel blameless in it all, you eliminated my ability to continue helping abused children on your way out. 

I’m sorry I didn’t commit suicide as a child. I’m desperately sorry I didn’t commit suicide after my youngest was born. 

Had I any notion whatsoever that my love and devotion was so utterly disgusting, I would have . 

In spite of a fairly high IQ, in spite of an excessive degree of self awareness and chronic screaming inner criticism, I truly had no clue that the one thing I felt I did well and was put on earth to do, I had no clue it was so horribly disgustingly wrong.

But then again, how does anyone ever fully accept and understand that although they didn’t ask to be born or be forced to live while being utterly worthless in this world? 

I held the hands and hearts of children who’s mother had prostituted them out for crack cocaine… I consoled a child who’s mother stapled a scrape in his arm shut with an office stapler, I squeezed the fingers of a child having a Pap smear done because her mother had allowed her boyfriend to give her chlamydia via sexual intercourse… I listened to a little girl cry hysterically because her mother had left weeks earlier and  just never came back…. and NONE- not a single ONE – of these children ever said they’re mother was “disgusting” or asked me how their mother could “live with herself”.

Not a single one.

But you ensured I’d never help one of those abused and devastated children ever again.

Because me? ME?? I’m disgusting for drinking after my children were in bed, I shouldn’t be able to “live with myself” because I had sex in my bedroom with my boyfriend after I’d tucked my kids in bed, read stories, listened to problems, said prayers, and kisses them on their heads. 

I am a filthy disgusting nasty person… an even worse momma… and I don’t deserve to live. Or love. Or be a momma. Or help abused children. 

If someone ripped out my tongue and stabbed my eyes out,you’d say I was drunk for not speaking well, you’d say I was pathetic if I peed my pants in fear, and you’d say I must have done something to deserve it. 

This is my legacy.  And It’s disgusting. 

So I do hope you will laugh when I’m gone. Please at the very least don’t  let my life AND my death both be disgusting and awful.. after all, I can literally only do one or the other.  The one was so awfully wrong, I should be granted 100% odds then that its opposite will bring you all the joy you deserve which nothing about me could ever give you. 

Please let me get at least one thing right in this futile, worthless, disgusting “life” of mine?