Why do we talk or write?

I spend more time with my cat than I do with people. I talk to her as if she's human and understands all the words I use. She rolls her eyes when I use words like time, hours, fat, glutton, or lazy. It's like those words have no meaning to her at all. I laugh in envy, wishing that those words had no meaning to me also.

My life has never been easy despite what some people say or think about me. I've played my violin songs, I've shared some of the glimpses of my hardships, in an attempt to gain empathy or at least the world's understanding of my behaviors and reactions to events. But this morning I feel like no matter what I or anyone communicates (sad or happy stories) people continue to act as if the communication or the living itself is meaningless.

I don't know if I want to cry or feel some sort of anger this morning. It's a frustrated feeling that I'm familiar with --- the rock and the hard spot --- damned if you do, damned if you don't ---- a very stale, numb, and frozen feeling. My cat just kissed me and I hear the owls or doves cooing outside as the sun begins to rise. If it were not for the beauty I sense in life, I don't think I could ever find the strength to keep going day after day.

Flashback. I'm laying naked in the "icebox" room on a hard plastic pissed on cot. No one is there but me. There is a camera protruding from the top corner of the wall at the ceiling. There is a silver toilet, a roll of toilet paper, and a small window that I can't see out of. The floor is ice cold. There are goosebumps all over my icy skin. I think to myself, "This is where I will die" and I feel fine. Days pass. I eat bologna sandwiches and beefy mashed potatoes passed through the door window in styrofoam trays. I begin to lose track of time. I begin making tiny "rocks" out of toilet paper so that I can count the days. Eventually I have about 20 or more little "rocks" and I'm not dead yet. Then some people on the other side of the door, open the door and stare at me. One says to the other, "She's better now." Then they leave and I continue to make paper rocks.

Memories like this happen all the time. Flashbacks to the best moments of my life or the worst. What year is it? 2024? I have to tell myself what year it is so that I can see if there are any significant memories of the past 4 years? Yes, there are, however, sadly more of them are terrible instead of good.

The other day at the karaoke bar some guy sang REM's song "Losing My Religion" and I cringed. I had a flashback to a television show instead of a flashback to my own life. I saw this short petite girl (someone like me) who was trying to explain to a self-proclaimed atheist that God is all that some people get in life. Some people have no true love, or money, or family, or career. All they get is God. How could an atheist ever comprehend that? What's the point of even trying to talk to each other?

It's been so hard for me to carry on. I tell myself I should be used to the hardship by now. It began in 1993, with the death of my grandmother and the loss of my favorite job. I was 22. Then in 1997, I became a mother, but I was on my own, had no husband. Then in 2001, I graduated college, but my mother fell apart. Then in 2005, I gave my son up for adoption. Then in 2010, everything that was making me feel saved and secure was lost, but I met someone who I married the following year. Then in 2017, he was taken away. Then in 2018, I went to jail. Then in 2019 I was homeless. So yeah, what year is it? 2024? What has happened in the past 4 years? Oh yeah, that's right. I got divorced in 2023, but we still live together. Why? Because words don't mean anything. Communication is just something people do like going to the bathroom. Words don't mean anything. How can I say that as a writer? I don't say that as a writer. I say that as faithful witness for God, as a mother who failed, as a felon, as a divorcee, and as a person who has been on both sides of the kill or be killed philosophy. Go ahead, tell me again what matters? Life? Death? Love? Survival? You're all full of sh.......

After spending the past 4 years looking for a regular job or trying to get my own business going, all that was communicated back at me was "Fu*k". That's all the hope or love that the world gave back after I survived the most insane and horrible tragedies that a person could face. "Fu*K" is their advice. It's so disgusting and horrible that I can't even laugh or cry about it.

I woke up this morning. I don't believe I had a choice about that. Oh yeah, I could try to kill myself, I have that choice, right? Wrong. So I carry on. I put on my best outfit. I go somewhere and do something and try to convince myself that whatever I'm doing is important to life or God somehow. I meet demons along the way. I ignore them or tell them to get lost. Then I go to sleep again at night wondering when all this will be over.

Everything that has been said about me is usually true of the person who said it. They call me a loser, because they are losers. They call me ugly or fat, because they are. They call me unwanted, because that's how they feel. They call me a bitch, because they don't have a better word. I used to think that all that hate and rejection was simply some kind of jealousy or some kind of life that needed more love. But I was wrong. People are not cruel because they didn't get love. They are cruel simply because they can be, and the more I try to talk to them, the more I see how cruel they are.