All about my mother

I hate that she's miserable, as I know she is. Only someone who's this deeply unhappy can make someone she supposedly cares for this unhappy. So she's miserable and I'm miserable and I don't know what to fucking do.

I can get over it or get distracted from it, the one thing I can't do is resolve it. Because she lacks the tools to compromise or control her questionable emotions. And I lack the tools to get over my lingering resentments or my fractured emotional mechanism.

Wishing her dead was "wrong", whatever that means. But there's value in examining even the basest of emotions that present themselves. The desire for her to just drop dead is both an act of vengeance and a desire for her to be put out of her misery..and mine, of course. The fact is, when she dies and if I'm around to witness it, I can imagine that I'd be shattered by it. The "what ifs" that plague my life. Why couldn't I have tried harder? Why couldn't I just swallow my anger and my hurt?

Because I don't have the tools, that's why. The same tools I lack to love my mother are the same tools I'll lack to love anyone else. I'm absolutely tormented by this notion.

And I'm tormented by the notion that if I found someone who didn't mind how crazy I can be, that would somehow mean that they're as damaged as I am. That if they couldn't see how emotionally impotent I am, then that would mean that their own emotions are undeveloped or fractured. That I would end up with someone that I'll end up hating.

Every year it's the same fucking deal. If I didn't have the self-awareness to piece this shit together, I'd be happier. And if my chemical fuck-ups didn't give me the bleakest of motherfucking outlooks at regular fucking intervals, I'd have the joy to try and be happy.

Fuck if. I never even get depressed anyway, just enraged. And the only person I take it out on is me. So what harm is it doing? And you know what the next question on that list is: What good is anything I've ever done?