- Name: Sandra
- Surname: Jervey Ross
- About Me: I am a divorced mother of three grown daughters, two of whom have not spoken to me in years. I am disabled at 100% according to the SSA for Adult ADD and PTSD as my primary disabling diagnoses, with fibromyalgia and chronic pain from a 1996 accident as secondary factors which while part of my limiting factors, are eclipsed by the emotional upheaval, lack of concentration, and fogged mind that I live with daily. I was once a successful, independent woman, working as a freelance legal assistant and mothering my firstborn daughter successfully on my own. I had a career that paid in the high $30s low $40s in 1987, was paying my rent and my bills, and had a car that ran even though it wasn't new and wasn't flashy. My home was a rental built in 1947 and while small and worn, was clean and comfy enough for my baby, myself and our dogs, Puddles and Mocha. We were happy. I was happy. I was okay. I was not the broken excuse for a human being that I am today. I credit the complete destruction of my life and the loss of my faith and any hope to the marriage I was trapped into by a narcissistic sociopath, who hated me almost as much as his mother, but when he was done with me he got to show just how much he detested my very existence. His mother - well, he still has some use for her, if nothing more than to be sure he has her approval and the love she so conditionally distributes. Luckily for her, his mother will never know these things, and even if told and showed proof, she would turn her head away, nose ever-so-slightly in the air, and sniff the air furthest from the unpleasantness that is my need to bust right out with things and "get real" when as we all know polite society does not publicly air their dirty laundry. Which of course her laundry isn't. It would be slightly soiled if anything, Never dirty. Not even my ex's skidmarked boxers (which, when you think about it, is pretty strange, isn't it? I wouldn't know, not having to stuff as much into my pants, with or without another pair underneath....). No, my exmotherinlaw is a piece of perfectly poised work, she is. In her world, everything is always "just delightful" or "wonderful" or the like. But there I go......saying too much about the wrong things and not enough about the right. Oh, well - this is more for my own therapeutic purposes than for the persons I hope, but don't really believe, will read them. I write these pages to stay alive, or remind myself that I should never give up hope, though honestly - I did long ago. I stay because one day my girls might love me again. And because maybe it would cause them some kind of hurt (as well as relief, no doubt) if I were to disappear permanently from their lives in the suicide I know I haev earned the right to commit more than most others who get that easy way out. I can't even take that option as a beacon of light at the end of the tunnel, a promise of relief and peace one day. It might hurt my girls. I like to tell myself that, and to ignore the bit of my mind that says, in my ex husband's voice, "you know it would be so much easier for them if they could just be done with you completely."
