Failing at Life

Now that my friend Theresa told me she reads my blog, I feel as though I have a reason to write. Once in a while, I receive an email from someone who tells me he or she likes it, but really I can't write this for people to read because that would be really ridiculous. Like my painting for the masses; what a joke! I know most people would read this or see my paintings and think both are crap--and that's the "experts". Regular people see my realistic artwork and believe that proves I'm an artist. It doesn't. Gallery people and art snobs can't see the value in my paintings because the former, although they won't admit it, are just sales people. And the latter, because my work doesn't fit into their world. Maybe they're right but I wouldn't know.
I realized maybe yesterday I was grieving, and that's why I don't feel like doing anything. I was complaining to one of my therapists today about it and realized I'm grieving my failure to live up to my family's and my expectations. I married someone unacceptable; don't really have much talent--I'm grateful for what I have though. I am not well-educated; and didn't achieve anything working that I didn't fall or sneak into through lupus. I'm not especially healthy; I'm an emotional wreck and it looks as though that will be for the rest of my life. I still bite my nails because I'm anxious. I overeat and I'm fat and I'm probably never going to exercise. That means I'll hurt and regret not exercising and have more to reproach myself for. The Warshaws didn't fool around; my cousin Jerry was okay because he was brilliant. Of course, they drove him crazy and now he's a wealthy hermit in rags. I was supposed to be Jerry in drag, winning prizes, turning heads, and earning truckloads of respect and admiration. Needless to say, I didn't make it and I never could. (I did consider that at least I'm not evil and don't have to face having sent people to their unnecessary deaths like W and his cohorts.)
I'm sitting up here typing and hearing items falling downstairs from one of the cats. I just heard a window open or close and thank goodness they can't do that. (It's next door.) Animals, plants and books are good for us depressed folks. Some movies too. And having lots of drugs handy--my house is a pharmacy loaded with discarded medications and others I "might" need sometime. Especially if I give some thought to W and where the world might be going. Or just me and how I feel inside.