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November 21, 2016 at 8:33 pm #120878NateParticipant
Thank you Anita I will mull some thibgs over and get back to you tomorrow.
November 21, 2016 at 8:08 pm #120876NateParticipantThe only strong parental relationship I have is with my mother. My father was an alcoholic abuser, now an absentee. Friendships I had at home in retrospect were quite fake.
Of course I know it is not actually “work-til-you-die”. This is how it feels however. I have no professional education nor do I have the time to secure a degree. So for a low-income welfare-dependent life such as the one I lead there is not much hope of change within the next 5 years. I say five years because my daughter would be in school by then so I would maybe have time to pursue a degree.
The meds and therapy were for treating supposed depression. My mother insisted that my sadness at becoming a father (and by extension a quasi-husband to her emotionally abusive mother) had to be rooted in clinical depression. Sure enough, I was diagnosed with that.
I don’t mind taking care of my little girl. But cleaning up spit-up, changing dirty diapers, and waking up to an infant’s wailing is not an adventure. It is basically Purgatory. I never wanted kids but I feel guilty even saying that.
Is it wrong to not want kids even after my unplanned baby has arrived?
I sometimes think that if I was with a different person that it might be more tolerable. But every time I try to break it off it turns into tears and my begrudging continuance of our toxic relationship.
I need to be there for this girl but her and her mother are a package deal. (Her mother has assured me she will move back to her home state, file for child support and sole custody rather than let me be with someone else.)
November 21, 2016 at 7:27 pm #120872NateParticipantIt was not as much running away from home as it was running away from society. I firmly believe people are not meant to work until they die. Unfortunately in today’s world that is what is expected.
I enjoyed living on the fringe, in the underground society of American vagrants. It was the first place I felt truly accepted. Like I belonged. It might have been a rough life but it was an adventurous one.
Now I fear I may never love life like I did then. I have tried. Tried the meds, therapy, etc.
But I don’t think I am ill. As far as I can tell the only thing that makes me sick is the chains society straps onto everyone as a price for being a part of it.
At least on the fringe freedom was a given, being homefree was celebrated, and relationships were straightforward and real. People either cared or they didn’t, no pretending. And if someone didn’t like you you would know instead of tge yuppie tendency to hide it.
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