Pity Party in Progress-You may want to skip this post.

I had high hopes for today. The plan was to go to school, attend all 3 classes, do the readings, and participate in life itself. It was a nice plan. So for those of you who have just about had it with reading my pitiful whining, you may want to navigate away from this page. The weekend's hope and reason has since faded away into oblivion.

Coming through the breezeway, I was playing the theme from Rocky in my head. Battered and bruised, I was determined to come back to life. I made it through my first class this morning without shedding a single tear. As I exited the lecture hall, that's when it happened. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a fellow l@w student who is about 6 months pregnant. And, like a grisly accident, I simply could not look away. I found myself staring at her belly. After a few moments of visual torture, I was on the verge of hysterical crying. My carrell is near the stacks, so I buried myself in the nearest hidden corner and sobbed. I did manage to get to my second class, but I still have no idea what we talked about in that lecture. Now, I have to figure out how to make it to 2:30 for the last lecture.

Here it comes, the whining (complete with all the overused phrases of self pity)...

Why me? Why not her? Why does every single thing in my life need to be so fucking hard? Let's review... In the beginning, I had a father with untreated Bipolar I. Under his rule, I was not permitted to wear pants, not allowed to cut my hair, and suffered enough beatings at his hand to make me the most fearful and yet devoted daddy's girl ever known. At 7 years old, my dear father died suddenly of a heart attack. No father for me. At 7 years old, I became a substitute parent for my 2, and later 3, younger sisters. At 7 years old, I assumed more adult roles than should ever be placed upon a child of that age. I cooked dinners, cleaned the house, helped with homework, and protected my sisters from my mother's frequent rages. No childhood for me. At 12 years old, my mother married my step-father. They had a child together...as if I didn't have enough to do. And to add to the fun, my step-father's OCD made my life a living hell. At 17 years old, I went off to college where I thought I could escape from my family. A year later, my mother sent my 15 year old sister to live with me because she couldn't handle her anymore. That lasted just long enough to obliterate my second year of college. At 24, I married a drug addict, because I'm an idiot. At 26, on April 1st no less, he announced he was in love with another woman and wanted a divorce. Around the same time, I was diagnosed with bipolar II. Somewhere in there, I made about 3 weak suicide attempts. I became a cutter, and have the disgusting scars to prove it. At 27, I was forced into bankruptcy by the debt left to me in the divorce and the mounting medical bills. At 32, I endured what I believe to be the first of many miscarriages. A few days later, I discover I contracted chlamydia from the first husband.

Now, in the big world, there are millions of people with a history much more tragic than mine. Even in the blogging world, there are worse tales. But somehow, this doesn't make me feel any better. I am so tired, beaten, bruised from this life. I am not smart enough to finish this horror called l@w school. I only got a Ph.Duh. because my advisor feels sorry for me. I am a sham, a failure, a loser. Because, in all of this badness, I have had good things. I went to college afterall. I remarried to the best husband ever.

But it's the loss that's killing me. No father, no Pooter, no credit, no future. I am really sorry for the pathetic tone of this post, and how ungrateful I sound. I feel frozen in my losses, as if Spring thaw will never come. Did I mention we got 5 inches of snow last night, and it's still falling? I am tired of crying.