No One is Coming to Save Me

No One is Coming to Save Me

February 11, 2021

The thing is: I usually write in a journal, in a notebook. Quite often spiral bound and as cheap as you can get but every now and then, for my birthday or Christmas, someone will buy me a beautiful, proper journal. I always feel like I should elevate my writing when I have one of those – make it “art” somehow…

But it always comes out a lot like this. Right here. Right bloody here, you see?

Drop Dead Date

I’ve been thinking about a career since this job will end within 18 months. I actually heard that yesterday. We have a deadline now. A “drop dead” date. This has been hanging over me since I started here in 2016 so it is no surprise, of course, but it got me thinking scared, all the same.

How easy it is for me to put off thinking about things that are troublesome, unpleasant, or nasty in some way. How easy it is for me to put on a Jane Austen movie and pretend that the world is polite with well-defined rules and that Mr. Darcy is coming for me.

As IF!

How easy it is for me to pretend that I’ll find another job, as good as this one, or that I’ll stumble onto a job that is fulfilling – at my age! Or that I’ll start my own company, become a success.


When all I want to do is sit cross-legged on my couch and think. And write. And read. And watch Jane Austen movies.

Starting over yet again

I get pissed off when I think about having to start over – AGAIN. How many times, since 2014 when my marriage ended, have I had to start again? New relationships and then, getting fired in a downsize exactly a year later, in 2015…yeah. Starting over and over and over….

I should have gone into the nut-house when I had a chance. No one would believe me now, after all these years of seeming normality. I really am still sad, though. And still going to lose my job, soon enough. Again.

One month for every year

I remember the first guy I dated after my split telling me that for every year you were with your ex, you needed a month to recover. I freaked out that it would take me 32 months to recover.

It will be 7 years in April. That’s 84 months. And I am nowhere near recovered. I kind of suspect that I will not recover now. That this sadness is welded on now. I hide it as much as I can – especially from the kids – which is probably why I need so much time alone. It’s exhausting pretending to be fine. I can do it for a little longer than I used to – for a whole weekend at my parents or for a visit from my daughter – but after a few days, it kind of bleeds out of me and all over anyone that happens to be around. Ugly, messy…embarrassing.

This is where I live. In here. With you. Only you know how much I am suffering still. Only you.

So it doesn’t look like anyone is coming to save me after all. Not by handing me a job or by making me forget my sadness. No, I’ll have to save myself, I guess.


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