As is.

It is so difficult to understand...once you have a penis...you really don't GET just how difficult it is being a married African woman...the man expects to be waited on hand and foot...this is of course regardless of whether you work or not. Or not. It never really matters. Never matters what the hell you do. I am out of a job. That is not to say that my work experience is not fantastic. It's stellar. But somehow, as a woman, no one sees that. You know? As a woman, it doesn't really matter what impact I make on the world there's nothing as important as being a wife and mother. Nothing. Does anyone understand that I am angry??? Very angry. I have NEVER been a woman to expect being taken care of by anyone. No one. I believe I have enough degrees, strength, intelligence and tenacity to do that on my own. But who gives a flying fuck really? Who? Not the Mister obviously. I was going to work AND taking care of the home. But now I receive £200 a month as a fucking handout. A fucking handout. I wish I didn't have the mind I have. I wish I didn't have the attitude I have towards life. I wish I wasn't, for want of a better term "manly" in my thinking. I wish I was more the dainty damsel in distress type. This way I would know how to scheme. I would know how to get what I need from a man. I wish someone had taught me. I have folks at home that need help. I am the first child of my parents. I am their only female child. And I have responsibilities. Where we come from? We take care of our responsibilities. And I'm too broke to do so.

I am so angry. And then it occurred to me today. Before all this shit. I realised something. I suffer deeply from depression. And to be honest, I thought that...I thought the reason why I suffer from it is because I have been sexually molested for the most part of my life...my father...my uncles...that's what I thought you know? But I was so wrong. I might have been raped by a hundred men and yet...not be depressed. Not be so down that all I really want to do is leap of a ledge. Seriously. Even if I didn't have the most beautiful, wonderful son on the face of the earth (how ironic is it that I birthed a man child?) I would really still feel like taking all the pills I have in the world. And no one would fucking understand. Ever. You feel like you're in a glass box and you're grimacing in pain but everyone looking on assumes you're smiling with glee. Yeah. The life of the party luv innit? Yeah blood. And yet all you really want to do is slit your wrists. And my childhood might have been idyllic. Fun and games. A real Brady Bunch type scenario. There would still be the dark. Always threatening. You smile for two days straight and wonder what's going on. You can NOT get up and leave the house. You just can't. Just. Can. Not.

The Mister was suggesting we have a routine where we go out every second Sunday. I notice this guy likes the whole picket fence thing. The whole Daddy goes to work, mommy does her thing at home and kiddy goes to school and is kept nice and shiny like a fucking tuppence by mommy. Of course. They say ignorance is bliss. He doesn't feel like slitting his writs EVER. Of COURSE he's been spared. Routine? You're fucking kidding. You're crawling through a dank dark cave and someone's showing you, smilingly "look, there's a light at the end of the tunnel!" And you know it's a fucking train. But you see the light and happiness in the Mister's fucking eyes. And you haven't the heart to fucking break it to him. The enemy is not fucking outside and you canNOT "protect" your fucking family unit from it. The enemy is within. People need to grow up. Seriously.