I fucking hate my life.
2004-02-12 10:42 p.m.

You know, it doesn't matter what the fuck I do around here. How hard I try to keep him happy, how many fucking lunches I pack, or breakfasts' I cook at 4AM. It doesn't matter how clean the house is when he gets home, or how hard I worked on something he was supposed to get done weeks ago.

It doesn't matter that I'm sad all the time. Or that I'm lonely, or sick. It doesn't matter how bad I feel over the little shit around here, or how horrible I feel if the house isn't perfect when he gets home.

It doesn't matter if I make his favorite meal for supper, or if all of his work clothes are washed, dried, and put away. It doesn't matter if the kids are all in a good mood, or if I am when he gets home from work.

None of this shit matters. To him. But it does matter to me.

I try my damndest around here to have everything in it's place. To have the food cooked, and house clean, all that shit. I work so hard on doing things for him that I rarely get to have private time to myself, or time to rest. I worry over these little things so much, that I suffer.

Why do I do that? Is it because I think that will make him love me more? Or love me at all? Or make me into someone he can look at and either be proud of, or praise? Well, that rarely happens either.

What if you were in charge of paying the fucking bills every month, but your husband insisted that you write down and make sure to tell him what got paid? That's all good and fine, and very very understandable. But what if when you tell him what all you paid, he just gets pissed off because he wanted to do something else with the money?

What if everytime you tried to speak to him you got your head bit off for no reason? And if there was a reason, he just wouldn't tell you? What if every single fucking time you opened your mouth, you either A. Got ignored or B. Got griped at or C. He just rolls his eyes. What would you do?

I'll tell you what I'm going to do.

He can make his own fucking breakfast. He can pack his own lunch, wash his own clothes and put them away.

He can pay the bills, and manage the checking account. He can call all the people that need to be called for that, as well.

And he can just talk to himself, because every single time he opens his fucking mouth I'm going to A. Ignore him or B. Gripe him out or C. Roll my eyes.

I'm not a fucking maid, I'm not a damn babysitter, I am a person. If he can't treat me with the respect that I dearly deserve, then he will get treated the exact same way. And don't get me wrong, I know I'm soft-hearted, but those of you that know me for who I am, know that I can be a total bitch when I have to be.

What sucks about all this shit, is the kids are stuck in the middle of all the bickering. Joe walked up to me today and asked me what was wrong with daddy. All I could say was "Daddy's just tired."

He isn't mean to them, or hurting them, it's just that they can feel vibes, they know when someone is upset or mad.

He is however, hurting me. So, I'm not going to try so hard anymore to be his perfect little housewife. Dammit I'm me, and if he doesn't like it then he can go to hell for all I care. I didn't marry him so I could be alone all the time, and be ignored when he's home. God knows I didn't marry him for that. But that's all I got. I feel so stupid, ugly and totally fucking unwanted it's rediculous.

I know I'm not ugly, and I know I'm not gorgeous either, but I don't deserve to be treated like shit on his shoes. No matter what personal anxt I'm going through, it doesn't mean he has to make things worse.

Sometimes I swear, I just lay down and dream of being the perfect image. With long blonde hair, and a perfect face and body. I put myself through hell because I guess I'm not good enough for anyone......and I guess I never will be.

Well, no more of that. Leslie has had enough, and I'm telling ya'll this right now! I'm not taking anymore of his stupid, childish, eye-rolling, sympathetic plea bullshit. No more.........

Love,

Leslie

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