Tick, tock

4:42pm. Thursday evening. Contemplative but calm mood. Maybe even melancholy. I had the day off from work and right now I'm all alone in the house. The monitor is nearly blinding me, as the pale gray light outside darkens moment by moment. I can barely see anything else in the room. The clock behind the computer counts off the seconds. Funny how fast fall really goes by.

My cat seems to be doing better, although she is much different these days. Her personality seems to have changed. My mother, screaming at me to do something as always, was urging me to get ready so we could pick up the cat from the vet's. I put on a pair of windpants (quite wrinkled, but not the type you iron- they smooth themselves out with time) and a t-shirt. The shirt was clean, but it wasn't ironed. Oh save me Lord from my most egregious of sins! I was then called, by way of yelling of course, a "freak ass" several times by my mother, who apparently loathed my choice of clothing. I put a light jacket on to shut her up, but I refused to change. Why does my own mother hate me? She has called me everything you can imagine, said she's hated me, that she wished she never had children, a bitch, a fucking _________ (fill in with a word of your choice) etc, etc... and then she denies it later. I can't talk to her and my efforts to avoid her are minimally successful at best. The only thing she managed to instill in me completely is a crushing sense of shame. Sometimes, she makes me wish I was aborted.

I don't think anyone even gets this. I don't think most will understand even if I told them. They may understand somewhat, but they won't ever understand more, or understand the true gravity of the situation, if not for their lack of willingness to understand (for whatever reason), then for my lack of explaining things precisely. I think it's easier to just keep to myself, rather than share and have it taken more lightly than it should be. Most of the time people aren't willing to go that far in listening- not with anything that I would consider important to talk about at least. So much of me I want to share, and so much I know will be misunderstood. I am so lonely. I want to be held and I want to feel love, but the clock just ticks away the remaining millions of seconds like a metronome. This is, at any rate, the modest opus of my life.