Some days, I hope beyond all hope that I am actually all
that He says I am.
I hope that I am the evil
bitch He thinks me to be.
I hope that I am actually
some sort of vigilante out to destroy him, victimize him, and end all things
rosy and pretty in life for him.
Cause that would mean that I am the problem. That would mean that one day three little people—my
three little elves—wouldn’t actually have to wake up to the reality that He
does not actually care a rat’s ass about them.
They would never have to have their little hearts ripped out in knowing these painful things about
him.
And as much as I crave validation. I think I could be ok with just being the
problem. I could be ok with just being the fucked up mother who failed them.
And that would be the end of it. I could spare them all of this, by being the bitchy, bitch who never dealt with her stuff. As in mom, needs therapy. Mom needs to work out her shit. Mom needs
help. And all of this narcissism shit could just go away.
Fucked up things you hope for...
