Where do we go, now that we’re here?

I took a sick day, not only for recuperative purposes, but also so I could get this stupid bedroom rearranged so I can be on my way to putting up, and using, my organizational system I was given for Christmas. I’m tired of trying to pick clothes for work out of the pile of stuff crammed behind my armoire doors.

You know what is one thought I have never thunk? I have never once thought that my children would be better off without me. Despite the issues I struggle with and my [obvious] failings at being a fully functioning human being at times, I know in my heart that I am the one constant my children must always have in their lives. I am their fiercest ally. I feel this like a fire inside me. I don’t really understand friends of mine who have left their children, including my [old] best friend, who is also the mother of my niece and nephew.

I say this, because I have been having a very rough time, lately. I’ve never really been good at being bossed around. I’m very laid back and very open to compromise but after a certain point, I don’t want to be told what to do anymore, especially if I’ve already given a lot of myself over in order to appease someone else. I’ve been feeling very hostile, and rebellious, lately. The anarchist in my head has been very vocal about how I should just tell everyone to fuck off and do me. In the past, this was a pretty predictable pattern of behavior. Now, I can’t do it. I have children. I have children I love. I cannot indulge my anger and if I can’t currently figure out a way to fix or defuse whatever is making me angry, then I just sit on it. This has the unfortunate kick-back reaction, of making me want to control something and so…..ta-da….half the day passes by without me eating anything. It’s not even on purpose, it’s just what eating anger does to you, it fills you up and leaves little room for things that nourish you.

We’re in this cycle, right now, this lifetime and I, where he is a star pinballing between planets, stretching to schedule my life because he doesn’t know how to stop the spin he’s in. The more my life becomes crunched to hourly activities determined by someone else, the angrier I get and the more time I spend in the bathroom growling obscenities into a towel, because I’ve grown past the need to deliberately inflict hurt upon another through my anger, but I’m not past the point of feeling the need to orate it, in some way.

It doesn’t help that these things he gets angry about, sometimes, about my not being able to keep up with things, important things, sometimes, they actually do happen. It is a problem. The additional problem, though, is that I already feel fucking horrible about whatever it is I’ve forgotten, it makes me even more anxious than I normally am because then I start to wonder what the fuck else I’ve forgotten to do along the way, and then I have dreams of suffocating or drowning or being chased by dinosaurs. Like when the IRS informs you that you didn’t make your 2013 payment but they haven’t seen fit to tell you until 2 years later so that the amount now due is literally double what it initially was. And, yes, it was my responsibility to do that, and in my head I was kicking my brain around in the street screaming “WHAT THE FUCK BRAIN? WHAT THE FUCK? HOW DID YOU FORGET THIS? WHY NOW? WHY DO I HAVE TO DEAL WITH THIS NOW? WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? YOU FUCKING STUPID BROKEN BRAIN!” because, now, of course, in this moment, I am the epitome of every criticism and judgment that has been placed at my feet and on my head, in regards to being a financial fuckup. Every other thing in the world I have done right, is erased in this moment. Erased.

The other day, Irene made a [somewhat] fussy remark re: “god, you’re so thorough” and I am, normally. I am, normally, because of situations, like the one above, wherein my brain totally fucks me. Except now, it not only affects me, it affects my family. It affects my marriage. I am fucking sick of it happening. It makes me want to crawl into my bed and die, figuratively speaking.

I did write a fairly good poem, though, the first in a while.

 

  • S.L.
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