Too tired to fight

Too tired to fight.


I don't care anymore what they think. It's very freeing actually. I know I don't smell great. My hair is dirty. I'm fat because I eat anything I can find. I never know where my next meal will come from. I live in the moment; or at least in the day. There was a time when it wasn't like this.
When I was young I was pretty. Pretty enough to model. My mother was always after me to take it up as a teenager and even paid for a course. I did it and never felt quite beautiful enough. My thighs were too big. I wasn't tall enough. In fact I was everything I needed to be to do modelling. Maybe not a supermodel but I could have made a living from it if I'd had the confidence. The problem was, while my mother was constantly telling me that I had beautiful legs and was pretty, she would counter that with "why can't you be like your sister, she has lots of friends" and "you're such a party pooper" and on and on. It was a form of abuse. Our family, like so many, was functionally dysfunctional. I grew up and spent my early twenties seeking a way to feel good about myself. Feeling pretty, or even beautiful would do it for a while. Having photographers catch me in just the right light (we are all beautiful in the right light but I didn't know that then), or having a man pursue me gave me a high. Eventually I was pursued and caught by a man who wouldn't give up and for a while it felt okay. I knew I wasn't in love with him. We weren't a match. His family was wealthy and mine were very blue collar (again, not good enough but marrying someone "above" me in order to feel better). Our interests were so very different. He enjoyed tennis and golf. I liked theatre and movies and reading. He put his family first (ahead of me and even eventually our children) and I put mine last, making him my priorrity. My children became my everything. If I drank enough wine it didn't matter. And so together we drank the wine and the liquor that got us through our marriage. At times I couldn't drink, due to pregnancy (I had four babies, one after the other) and nursing. It was then that reality hit. I didn't really like him. I had married for all the wrong reasons. At times I didn't really like me. I would find myself bending over backwards to make everyone happy. I had a smile on my face all the time. I would wake up early to make muffins and have the house spotless before the chaos of the day began. I felt as though I was exhausted but never had the time.
Sex was always an issue. When I was younger I was very nae but a willing accomplice. My mother had taught me to lie back and take it but somehow of course I had a feeling that wasn't enough. I would occasionally experience insight into what good sex could really be but in the back of my head I would hear her voice "nice girls don't ". Women of my age were raised with what is known as the Cinderella complex. Get an education or a fabulous job so that you can get a better husband. Sex was a tool and a weapon.
As the years went by and my children grew it became obvious that the marriage wasn't going to work. We went about doing our own things. I did some volunteering and had some part time, meaningless jobs. He golfed and visited his family on his own and travelled often for work. If he had affairs I never knew. He probably did.
We went away for a family weekend and that proved to be the end of it. I had wanted to try to do more things together, to be a real family. He showed up 24 hours late, having visited his father on the way up and decided to stay overnight. I seethed silently, smiling and pretending but a part of me was dying. We spent the weekend with my family at a cottage and the next day at home he wanted sex. It was the last thing on my mind. That part of me was so shut down due to a lack of warmth and attraction but I would make the attempt to be there for him when I could (usually through too much wine). That day I just couldn't. He showered and when he came out his greying balding hair had been dyed, yellow. Well, blonde I suppose but in reality it was a brassy yellow. Combined with his red face (now in his 40's after years of drinking) and it was not a pretty sight. He then glanced downwards and said "I dyed something else as well!" , meaning his pubic hair. Good god. Somewhere deep inside me the anger welled and I found myself asking "Who did you do that for?". That was the end of our marriage. He turned and grabbed his keys and didn't return for four days. No word. No call. We had four children and this was unacceptable. When he returned I had a letter from my lawyer saying that I wanted a separation. It felt so done.
After that things became very bad. We fought for years over money and stuff. It meant nothing in the end of course. I didn't get any money. I didn't get the house. We owed too much in credit cards and bills. I'd stayed home for years and this was the cost. It was okay. I was grateful to have been able to stay home to raise the kids but the cost to me was great. I had no career to fall back on. It had been 24 years since I'd held a full time job.
The kids had grown and were off doing their own thing, college and work. I had some spousal support and he was ordered to pay me money from his business but it never came. He manipulated things over the years so that I was eventually worn out. I couldn't fight anymore.
The courts decided that spousal support should end. I wasn't working very much at the time. Just a little house cleaning and it was sporadic. My rent was behind a month now and then. There was never enough money. I tried to get a better job but I had no money for school to upgrade my skills and was over 50. Employers want to hire people under 40. It's called ageism. It is rampant and real.
And so one day I received an eviction notice from my landlord. Something in me snapped. I had had enough. I packed a small bag of my things and left everything else behind. It was all just stuff. I took some photos, some toiletries and two changes of clothing. One clean, one dirty and one Sunday best as my mother would say. I would become a minimalist. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Since then I have been moving around. Every now and then I get the chance to clean up and hear about a job that I can do. But without an address it's mostly cash and not much. I lost touch with my children. I didn't want them to be burdened by me, or embarrassed. I was embarrassed for a long time.
I sing to myself to make myself happy. I think gratitude. Every day I count the things that happened which were good. Maybe it was the lady who walked by and dropped off the boots, or the man who bought me a free coffee. Or the conversation I had with a friend I met on the street who is also homeless. Little things.
Today I'm going for a shower. Maybe I'll get that cleaning job that is part time and regular at the community centre. One of the workers at the shelter is trying to get it for me. It could be a good day after all.