Not proud

I'm not proud of how I'm feeling right now. Not at all. But I can't help it. I'm feeling angry and hurt and, most of all, damn fucking jealous - and I'm not a jealous person by nature.

I'm jealous because D had a fucking birthday party - a real party, with guests and food and drink and music and staying-up-late (3 am!). HE had a real fucking birthday party, whilst I had nothing, just a slice of fruit tart mid-afternoon with the girls and my ex. Hardly what you'd call a party.

I know it's pathetic to be so jealous, but I am. I know it's pathetic to be jealous of a birthday party now that I'm not a kid any more, but I am.

I know I could have organised a party for myself just as easily but that I was too lazy to be bothered.

I'm jealous that he has a goddamn social life, a social life that includes parties. I'm jealous that he has the time on his hands to prepare such things.

And I hate myself for being like this.

When things get bad, I retreat into myself, spending my time in bed or at the computer, and certainly never talking to actual, real people. I become a hermit. So it's hardly surprising that my birthday was a non-event. D has always been a social creature, seeking out friends and events (it's a wonder we managed 14 years together given how different we are...), phoning friends just for the hell of it. Me, not at all. I never phone someone without a reason (and even when I have a reason, I generally put it off till the last possible minute, such is my loathing of the phone), I avoid talking to people when I'm out, I always kind of dread invitations (and this probably plays a part in why I don't get many).

But it hurts, it really hurts.

The people I would most like to spend my birthday with are all in a different country - I really do believe that if I lived nearer to J, M and H we would do things, be in touch, speak. But they're not here, and my friends here just aren't the same.

I'm jealous of D's social success and angry at myself for being so apathetic, so ridiculous and such a goddamn loser.

The girls came home this evening, after more than 24 hours away, happy and pleased with their fun weekend. They walked through the door, took off their shoes and immediately sat on the sofa to watch TV. Such a stark contrast hit me really hard: going with D means fun and seeing people and doing things and going places, being with me means getting yelled at, having to do chores and being so bored the only way out is to watch TV.

I think that the crux of the matter is that I feel like I'm losing them. D and I are in a sort of "good-cop-bad-cop" routine, but I'm always the bad cop. By refusing shared custody, I seem to have dug myself into a hole of mammoth proportions, where I'm always the shouting, yelling, complaining one and he's always the fun one. I still believe shared custody would be a mistake for the girls, but I do now concede that it might have been good for me (though I'm not sure: D is pathologically incapable of being organised so I'm not sure how he would have managed with all the little details I take care of).

My feelings of jealousy and self-pity disgust me this evening, and no amount of Ben & Jerry's will make me feel better (though I plan to give it a try). I hate myself for being such a failure at every goddamn level - no wonder my Dad has little respect for me! Everyone at school thought I had a brilliant future ahead of me, and yet, here I am, 42 years old and an abject failure in every aspect of my life.

Sorry for the moaning and ranting.  Tomorrow can only be a better day (though it's due to rain apparently).

The other side

We are not rich people. I work like a slave and earn an OK amount of money, but really, nothing to write home about (I suspect my father would be very disappointed to see the state of my bank accounts). But we're OK. Our flat will (one day, I hope) be nice and tidy and presentable, we have a car, our daughters go to a private school (though here in France that's not really very expensive) and we've had several trips this year (London in February, Arles in April, Italy in August, D to England for work and me to Lisbon for work in October). We have a good life, and I'm pretty much satisfied with it (though healthier bank accounts would be nice, and not having to spend 6,000 Euros in January to get the roof fixed would help, too).
But today, we were invited to go and spend the afternoon with a schoolfriend of C's, 15 minutes out of Montpellier.
Well.
We are talking serious money.
Serious, serious money.
The house, people, you should have seen the house! And garden! And swimming pool! And furnishings! And the two big cars! And the amount of toys in A's room! And the souvenirs from all the wildly exotic places they've visited.
Wow.
Really, another world.
No, I'm not jealous (well, maybe just a little bit), because the style of the house and stuff really isn't my choice (quibbling, quibbling. Utterly pathetic.). But I am jealous of their security - I always feel like D and I are living on the edge - almost always overdrawn, no savings to speak of, living pretty much (comfortable) hand to (comfortable) mouth. It must be nice to have real money in the bank, to have a house worth 1.5 million Euros (7.5 times the value of ours!), to know you can do things without having to calculate whether or not you can afford it.
And I know we'll never have that security.
And I would so love to be able to give my lovely daughters the security they deserve.
It's on afternoons like this that I really do feel like some kind of serious failure.
Everyone always told me I had such potential (at school, at university), and I feel pretty sure that I haven't lived up to it at all.
Where did it all go wrong?
Or am I over-exaggerating?
Perhaps - because my little girls are bright, beautiful, kind, generous, fun-loving, intelligent and healthy. They have great potential, and I will do all I can to help them fulfill it.