Last night my husband went to Target after the kids were in bed. I say this because it's rare. Rare for one of us to leave the house without the other at night. Unless its a meeting or a specifically planned social outing we just don't generally go out. Its the age of the kids and the division of labor post-bed.
If hes late getting back, in my mind the Lifetime movie runs. The one where there's a freak accident. A heart attack. A gunman. I have to live my life alone, raising three kids. As I sorted through the laundry, bending and stooping to clear toys, I tried to figure out our finances. How long could I live here? Would I stay in this house, or another? When could i produce income? Who will I call when the police come to the door? Would be husbands last day be a good one?
As I swept up the popcorn from under the table, I had...not an epiphany...but a realization. An epiphany would have been illuminating and felt enlightening. What I felt was a bit darker. "Ive been a shitty wife". Not truly, but yes, Im not much fun. If you are in the market for a gay, carefree, bon vivant with hobbies and friends and a million cool apps running road races and wine drinking and cheerfully cuddling with you on the couch, you've picked the wrong woman.
I'm awful. An anxious bundle of articulated tics and ideas.Up in my head, out of my mind, I stress as to whether the towels are folded seams out (prettier when you open the cabinet), if the toys are sorted by genre, if the clothes are all clean at once. I can't function well unless everything is compartmentalized and because of it, I spend hours constantly sorting. it's endless. And really, never ending.
I like to think Im lightening up. Going to bed earlier, trying to read vs clean. Trying to connect vs manage. But it stays with me. Taunting me. Breathing down my neck. It is right now. The playroom is writhing in pain because toys are littering the floor. It's Awful.
So there I am, sweeping, organizing, folding, sorting, thinking, and the husband comes home.
phew.
Safe.
I think I need to stop and live differently but I don;t know how.
So I do what I do because in the absence of knowing what else to do, this still works. Well, it doesn't "work" but the result is generally that we have a blank slate to do what we need to do next because Ive already done the business of being organized.
This wasn't the post I started when I sat down.
The post I started was about how I posted pictures to facebook last night of my abysmal cake making then across posted about 5 pictures of cakes and desserts 3 of my friends made that I thought were inspired and gorgeous.
My one friend chirped that she wasn't as good as the other two. Which is stupid because she IS as good, she gets it done in a short amount of time, her stuff is creative and well executed and adorable. But I joked instead it's because she was swilling wine. As I typed the joke I thought "Too far" but then I thought of how at least once a week she makes a booze joke and I figured it would be well received. Yeh. It wasn't. She fired back something like "Enough with the derogatory remarks, I'm sick of them." And that was it.
So I sent her an apology, killed the post (not just the comment) and went to bed. Dreaming bad dreams about upsetting her. Only to find this morning that she is mad, feels I took a potshot at her, posted something for all to see, and in general "Went to far". Point taken. And Im sorry. I generally don't fuck up that way but I did.
And this morning my day is ruined. lll walk around feeling hot, nervous, fragile, upset, and distracted. Im short of breath. Feel weepy. Saddened. I already do.
So I walked upstairs and sat and typed this, ignoring all the other noises in my head that say 'Clean. Make breakfast. Whatever" I also feel a tiny seed of something else. A feeling that is different for me.
I feel like saying this. "Ive loved you for a long time. Long enough to stick around when you have had no time for me. Long enough to wait and see when the phone stopped ringing if it was because of me, or because you were busy. Ive never judged you, thought less of you, lied to you or about you. Ive waited for months jealously to reconnect with you when I see you surrounded by new friends, new activities, new projects. I've tried to talk less, talk differently, or simply not bug you - because Ive tried to guess internally which of my behaviors has turned you away from me hoping valiantly to change so you'll turn back to me. I miss my friend. I may have taken more then Ive given. I may be a narcissistic mess. I may be a lot of things but I'm not spiteful. Im sorry. Yes I am. Sorry I made a joke that wasn't a joke. But to be fair, let me say this which I haven't said. At around 5, or 7, or 10 at least 3 posts out of 10, you are talking about booze. Wine. Having a drink. Mommy time. Whatever. And I know you don't have a problem. But maybe you think people think you do. Because if someone posted that on my board, I'd laugh. Because I don't drink enough at any time to take it seriously. I made a joke that I thought lined up with YOUR jokes. It doesn't erase what I did, it doesn't mean you have to accept my apology. I said I'm sorry though and I mean it. Deeply.
The little seed of a feeling I have though is anger. I'm angry that you think I'd take a potshot at you. Did I suddenly change? Have I become someone snide? Snippy? Passive aggressive? Did I turn a corner and become the judge and jury of others lives? Anyone who has ever known me knows my fatal fucking flaw. Its driven me my whole life. "If somethings wrong, it must be my fault"
So heads up for myself. If my husband dies in a fiery car crash in the rain today, I will regret not living our current life better. I'll regret wasting time on this post, but most of all, I'll regret how deeply sad I am over something that may not be entirely my fault.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Friday, April 20, 2012
From now on, you're only someone that I used to know...
Dear Bootsy,
Hi there. You don’t know me by name but we met this morning. I had just gotten out of my vintage Honda CRV and was making my way down a short path when you pulled up. I noticed you right away, as you walked towards me, with your straight legged jeans, your Jcrew top, nested under your puffy white North Face vest. Your Red Sox cap pulled low, your Hunter Wellies knee high. For all the world you needed a riding crop.
I saw you hustling your son, may be 3, in front of you with his Gap shirt, his miniature Sox hat, his Keene mocs and his tiny denims too. You were late. Not dramatically, in fact, just under 4 minutes. Late for the organic farming lecture and the wee walk around the farm. I saw you walking towards me as I stood on the path, buckling my sling at my hip. I was in an illfitting pair of leggings, not meant to be worn as pants, with a pink sleeveless tank top, not flattering to my heavier figure. Ive slept in this outfit, although I didn’t last night. Just before you came, I took off my “Past Season UnderArmor Waffle Hoodie in Charcoal” I think you would have liked it. I remember you so clearly, not because you were so pretty, but because as you cut between my and my three children on a path surrounded on both sides by more path, you looked at me, up and down, scornfully. And when I looked directly back at you and said “Hello” brightly and loudly, you walked by.
As I turned to swing my son up, I saw your retreating back. You looked great. Stylish, glossy, neither too thin nor heavy by any standard, even the harshest. I didn’t see you take your sons hand, but I did see you with him, and you made your way to the table. I was shortly behind you. My three not dressed as well. One shoe off, no sunblock, bare headed. My littlest in a dirty tshirt, the neckband stained with a bit of chocolate granola. My daughter made her way through the mommy bodies and found a seat at the picnic table, my sons stayed in my arms. Both did. At just under 30lbs each. 60pounds of tiny wriggly smelly yelly boys. One sought my keys, the other my sling, and for a minute as I cradled my sons head I had the fleeting thought that I remember this shape, from when he was lodged under my right rib. My ribcage still misshapen because of it. I kissed him. Another dad was watching. A gorgeous lumberjack of an organic hipster dad with his equally naturally stunning wife. I hoped they saw how much I loved him. Not for my own vanity but because someone somewhere should know how much. You were somewhere in front on me. Not angry, but not warm. Just taking up the tiny bit of space in the universe that you inhabit. At some point the brief lecture ended. Our guide suggested we walk, and as the last in the circle, I was the first to start up the hill. I knew from behind I was bisected in two, muffin top, arms jowly, two heads cresting above my shoulder, my daughter running ahead. I knew I looked bad, unattractive, unkempt. Not natural as in organic like the farm, just slatternly natural.
It was hot. The sun was shining and although I fretted about sunblock I was glad – glad I took off the hoodie, glad to be cool, glad my maryjane loafers had ventilation. It was hard, carrying 60 pounds across a rutted field at 9;10 am in the hot spring sun, trying to find a foothold through straw and weeds, keeping an eye of my daughter, keeping my pace, knowing that two dozen mothers were behind me. I slung my son up – over once, twice and back again, each time clearing my other sons head. Trying to entertain both and I trudged. Grateful I didn’t bring a stroller, wishing for a back carrier, happy to give them the experience, and thrilled beyond measure that even heavy, even carrying 60lbs, even in the hot hot sun, I made it there first. Not winded. You were about 9 people behind me. Later I was almost directly next to you. You ignored me. Not even a ghost smile or a nod. You may have seen my daughter, standing but for one next to the teacher. Peering into her hands, looking over the fence, not leaning. Absorbing the lessons. On chickens, on gullets, on beaks. Maybe you saw her enter the chicken ring, with over 60 chickens milling about. Walking slowly as directed and gently cradling the eggs during her turn. Or maybe you didn’t see me because you were fanning yourself. Hot. Looking at your cell, talking to your friend. You son was crying. Whining actually. He was hot. Thirsty. Something. Likely you had water for him although I left mine in the car. My daughter bareheaded run back and back again for more feed, then sitting on the ground in chicken shit to cuddle her tiny brother. Her brother who is frantic indoors yet insanely serene outside. My nature child who balances out in the wind.
As we walked away I heard someone, maybe you, wondering how much longer, where next, that it was hot. I felt it too. It was hot. My belly was sweating with my on riding close, my feet dusty. I walked behind everyone this time, to give my sweet boys some time to calm down. Somewhere my daughter ran ahead. I trusted she’d follow the teacher, I trusted that Id see her come back, I trusted she wouldn’t miss me. You would never have left your son but I did, striking out on the little path back to the car for water, for snacks. And about 10 minutes later there you all were. My daughter somewhere in the middle of you all, gazing ahead looking for me, and I looking for her. As she ran to me she chirped about the birds, the pigs, the sheep. I chirped about water, her feet, was she hungry. She chattered on, excited, bold, proud. I swept her up into the car, the boys screaming delightedly to see her. Five more minutes we spent, tailgating in the back, with spare clothes and a yardsale stroller jamming the space. With not enough snacks to satisfy but enough to share, then into the back of the car littered with books, a puppet, 4 pairs of shoes, everyone in various stages of yelling, of fighting, of chortling. As we drove out behind the dust flying off the tires of the legions of Honda Pilots and upscale SUVs, we in our 2001 beater were happy, dirty, windblown and hungry, the radio turned too loud to the Barenaked Ladies “Snacktime”.
I knew on some level Id have to pay the piper at home. 3 tubs, vacuum the car. I know that the bags would have to be unpacked and repacked. I knew that in just a few hours the boys would need more – a water table, a park playdate, fresh diced fruit some entertainment to pull us all though until late afternoon and cooler weather. I knew I had to feed my daughter. To look up camps, to call the contractor. I knew the my first world problems would still be at home, and that for all that a 9am farm tour seemed wonderful, 1 pm was going to hit hard.
I knew all those things and I knew that if you noticed me at all, you’d have remembered a fat woman that was a mess. What I'll remember is just how great a mother I am.
Im not sure where you were though.
I had forgotten about you.
Hi there. You don’t know me by name but we met this morning. I had just gotten out of my vintage Honda CRV and was making my way down a short path when you pulled up. I noticed you right away, as you walked towards me, with your straight legged jeans, your Jcrew top, nested under your puffy white North Face vest. Your Red Sox cap pulled low, your Hunter Wellies knee high. For all the world you needed a riding crop.
I saw you hustling your son, may be 3, in front of you with his Gap shirt, his miniature Sox hat, his Keene mocs and his tiny denims too. You were late. Not dramatically, in fact, just under 4 minutes. Late for the organic farming lecture and the wee walk around the farm. I saw you walking towards me as I stood on the path, buckling my sling at my hip. I was in an illfitting pair of leggings, not meant to be worn as pants, with a pink sleeveless tank top, not flattering to my heavier figure. Ive slept in this outfit, although I didn’t last night. Just before you came, I took off my “Past Season UnderArmor Waffle Hoodie in Charcoal” I think you would have liked it. I remember you so clearly, not because you were so pretty, but because as you cut between my and my three children on a path surrounded on both sides by more path, you looked at me, up and down, scornfully. And when I looked directly back at you and said “Hello” brightly and loudly, you walked by.
As I turned to swing my son up, I saw your retreating back. You looked great. Stylish, glossy, neither too thin nor heavy by any standard, even the harshest. I didn’t see you take your sons hand, but I did see you with him, and you made your way to the table. I was shortly behind you. My three not dressed as well. One shoe off, no sunblock, bare headed. My littlest in a dirty tshirt, the neckband stained with a bit of chocolate granola. My daughter made her way through the mommy bodies and found a seat at the picnic table, my sons stayed in my arms. Both did. At just under 30lbs each. 60pounds of tiny wriggly smelly yelly boys. One sought my keys, the other my sling, and for a minute as I cradled my sons head I had the fleeting thought that I remember this shape, from when he was lodged under my right rib. My ribcage still misshapen because of it. I kissed him. Another dad was watching. A gorgeous lumberjack of an organic hipster dad with his equally naturally stunning wife. I hoped they saw how much I loved him. Not for my own vanity but because someone somewhere should know how much. You were somewhere in front on me. Not angry, but not warm. Just taking up the tiny bit of space in the universe that you inhabit. At some point the brief lecture ended. Our guide suggested we walk, and as the last in the circle, I was the first to start up the hill. I knew from behind I was bisected in two, muffin top, arms jowly, two heads cresting above my shoulder, my daughter running ahead. I knew I looked bad, unattractive, unkempt. Not natural as in organic like the farm, just slatternly natural.
It was hot. The sun was shining and although I fretted about sunblock I was glad – glad I took off the hoodie, glad to be cool, glad my maryjane loafers had ventilation. It was hard, carrying 60 pounds across a rutted field at 9;10 am in the hot spring sun, trying to find a foothold through straw and weeds, keeping an eye of my daughter, keeping my pace, knowing that two dozen mothers were behind me. I slung my son up – over once, twice and back again, each time clearing my other sons head. Trying to entertain both and I trudged. Grateful I didn’t bring a stroller, wishing for a back carrier, happy to give them the experience, and thrilled beyond measure that even heavy, even carrying 60lbs, even in the hot hot sun, I made it there first. Not winded. You were about 9 people behind me. Later I was almost directly next to you. You ignored me. Not even a ghost smile or a nod. You may have seen my daughter, standing but for one next to the teacher. Peering into her hands, looking over the fence, not leaning. Absorbing the lessons. On chickens, on gullets, on beaks. Maybe you saw her enter the chicken ring, with over 60 chickens milling about. Walking slowly as directed and gently cradling the eggs during her turn. Or maybe you didn’t see me because you were fanning yourself. Hot. Looking at your cell, talking to your friend. You son was crying. Whining actually. He was hot. Thirsty. Something. Likely you had water for him although I left mine in the car. My daughter bareheaded run back and back again for more feed, then sitting on the ground in chicken shit to cuddle her tiny brother. Her brother who is frantic indoors yet insanely serene outside. My nature child who balances out in the wind.
As we walked away I heard someone, maybe you, wondering how much longer, where next, that it was hot. I felt it too. It was hot. My belly was sweating with my on riding close, my feet dusty. I walked behind everyone this time, to give my sweet boys some time to calm down. Somewhere my daughter ran ahead. I trusted she’d follow the teacher, I trusted that Id see her come back, I trusted she wouldn’t miss me. You would never have left your son but I did, striking out on the little path back to the car for water, for snacks. And about 10 minutes later there you all were. My daughter somewhere in the middle of you all, gazing ahead looking for me, and I looking for her. As she ran to me she chirped about the birds, the pigs, the sheep. I chirped about water, her feet, was she hungry. She chattered on, excited, bold, proud. I swept her up into the car, the boys screaming delightedly to see her. Five more minutes we spent, tailgating in the back, with spare clothes and a yardsale stroller jamming the space. With not enough snacks to satisfy but enough to share, then into the back of the car littered with books, a puppet, 4 pairs of shoes, everyone in various stages of yelling, of fighting, of chortling. As we drove out behind the dust flying off the tires of the legions of Honda Pilots and upscale SUVs, we in our 2001 beater were happy, dirty, windblown and hungry, the radio turned too loud to the Barenaked Ladies “Snacktime”.
I knew on some level Id have to pay the piper at home. 3 tubs, vacuum the car. I know that the bags would have to be unpacked and repacked. I knew that in just a few hours the boys would need more – a water table, a park playdate, fresh diced fruit some entertainment to pull us all though until late afternoon and cooler weather. I knew I had to feed my daughter. To look up camps, to call the contractor. I knew the my first world problems would still be at home, and that for all that a 9am farm tour seemed wonderful, 1 pm was going to hit hard.
I knew all those things and I knew that if you noticed me at all, you’d have remembered a fat woman that was a mess. What I'll remember is just how great a mother I am.
Im not sure where you were though.
I had forgotten about you.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
And the Sign Says Long Haired Freaky Girls Need Not Apply
I was in the laundry room, combing out the girls hair. She was aggravated, wanting to get back to the Umizoomis, despite her having more tv time then ever and despite the caution that tv time was up. Her hair is short. Not for a man, or a boy, but for a young lady of 4 almost 5, short. I'm thinking of her jawline, her neck. Her face, luminous, eyes big, lashes long, athletic and impish. I come to a small snarl, surprisingly, and think "We need to get it cut."
I meet woman whose daughters hair touches their shoulder blades. Touches the midpoint of their back. One was proud, inordinately so, of never having cut her daughters hair. Surrounded we all are, but for a few, of tiny Sofia Vergaras, of wee Jacqueline Smiths (google it), of long, beribboned, bebowed, beclipped haired girls.
But not quite.
Because that’s not exactly accurate.
“She pulls them out”
“OMG look at her, she looks like Wednesdays Child”
“Her hair's a rats nest.”
"She cries when I comb it”
“It's all in her face.”
“I cant stand it.”
Oh, but it’s llloooooonnnnnngggggggggggggggggggggggg.
So why don’t you cut it?
“I cant do THAT”
But if its long, unmanageable, she doesn’t let you wash it, it gets in her face, her eyes…
"I can’t”
Why, again?
“She wont let me.”
Cut it anyway.
"But then she can't wear it up."
But didn't you say she never ...
Hey I saw you on Facebook the other day.
That was an interesting link about colored legos and gender bias in toy advertising.
Hey, I saw that your daughter is playing soccer.
Hockey.
Football.
“Pink, I hate the color pink, I'm not putting her in PINK”
Look at you, raging against the pink machine. I saw you guys at the park. Your daughter in her retro Chuck Taylors with her skinny jeans and hipster tshirt, peace medallion hanging. Skateboarder chic. You are REBELLING against the mom in the magazines. Not YOUR girl. You are ASSERTING your ass. You are not going to buckle to girly girl pressure.
"My daughter can be anything.
My daughter will be equal.
My daughter will not be defined by society.
I want her to be strong.
I want her to be happy.
I want her to think for herself.
I want her to find love, male or female.
I want her to be beautiful on the INSIDE.
She doesn't have to be thin, wear labels, cave to advertisers image of what she SHOULD be"
Me too! I want ALL those things too!
"I want her to withstand and overcome societal pressure to be beautiful,
to kow tow to a man,
to be an object."
Me too. Of course. My god, we are SO alike.
"My daughter is a person, not just a sum of her parts."
YES. YES, I agree!!!
"It's so pretty."
Is it? Is it really? because right now it's in greasy strands, whipping in the wind, tangled, bunched, her hand constantly touching it, pushing it, smoothing it back, it's in her mouth, her eyes, looking limp, looking ragged.
I want her hair to be long.
Okay.
"and besides, her Dad wont let me cut it."
Heads up. Quite literally.
I meet woman whose daughters hair touches their shoulder blades. Touches the midpoint of their back. One was proud, inordinately so, of never having cut her daughters hair. Surrounded we all are, but for a few, of tiny Sofia Vergaras, of wee Jacqueline Smiths (google it), of long, beribboned, bebowed, beclipped haired girls.
But not quite.
Because that’s not exactly accurate.
“She pulls them out”
“OMG look at her, she looks like Wednesdays Child”
“Her hair's a rats nest.”
"She cries when I comb it”
“It's all in her face.”
“I cant stand it.”
Oh, but it’s llloooooonnnnnngggggggggggggggggggggggg.
So why don’t you cut it?
“I cant do THAT”
But if its long, unmanageable, she doesn’t let you wash it, it gets in her face, her eyes…
"I can’t”
Why, again?
“She wont let me.”
Cut it anyway.
"But then she can't wear it up."
But didn't you say she never ...
Hey I saw you on Facebook the other day.
That was an interesting link about colored legos and gender bias in toy advertising.
Hey, I saw that your daughter is playing soccer.
Hockey.
Football.
“Pink, I hate the color pink, I'm not putting her in PINK”
Look at you, raging against the pink machine. I saw you guys at the park. Your daughter in her retro Chuck Taylors with her skinny jeans and hipster tshirt, peace medallion hanging. Skateboarder chic. You are REBELLING against the mom in the magazines. Not YOUR girl. You are ASSERTING your ass. You are not going to buckle to girly girl pressure.
"My daughter can be anything.
My daughter will be equal.
My daughter will not be defined by society.
I want her to be strong.
I want her to be happy.
I want her to think for herself.
I want her to find love, male or female.
I want her to be beautiful on the INSIDE.
She doesn't have to be thin, wear labels, cave to advertisers image of what she SHOULD be"
Me too! I want ALL those things too!
"I want her to withstand and overcome societal pressure to be beautiful,
to kow tow to a man,
to be an object."
Me too. Of course. My god, we are SO alike.
"My daughter is a person, not just a sum of her parts."
YES. YES, I agree!!!
"It's so pretty."
Is it? Is it really? because right now it's in greasy strands, whipping in the wind, tangled, bunched, her hand constantly touching it, pushing it, smoothing it back, it's in her mouth, her eyes, looking limp, looking ragged.
I want her hair to be long.
Okay.
"and besides, her Dad wont let me cut it."
Heads up. Quite literally.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
cont...
The upside is I scored 2 chairs at Salvation Army for $6 - so a new "thrift" project.
I emptied a tote of crab to donate.
I had a spectacular homemade lunch AND did not cave to donut/coffee pressure.
I had a nice text convo with a new friend.
And
I might see if we can get a swingset so I can have many many playdates in the future.
Atthe end of the day, it's fine. Its just the beginning of another day.
I emptied a tote of crab to donate.
I had a spectacular homemade lunch AND did not cave to donut/coffee pressure.
I had a nice text convo with a new friend.
And
I might see if we can get a swingset so I can have many many playdates in the future.
Atthe end of the day, it's fine. Its just the beginning of another day.
All This Wastin Inside
Somewhat apropos I hear the lyrics of Outside in my head today.
"I'm on the outside
I'm looking in
I can see through you
See your true colors
'Cause inside you're ugly
Ugly like me
I can see through you
See to the real you..."
or even
"All the times that I cried
All this wastin
It's all inside
And I feel all this pain
Stuffed it down
It's back again
And I lie here in bed
All alone
I can’t mend but I feel
Tomorrow will be okay"
I saw my friend Sharon a week or so ago, who handed me a bag from her nurse practitioner with samples of Lexipro. maybe 10 day’s worth? She put a million parentheses around it, as if I were going to be insulted and she was positively Chinese waiter in her obsequiousness. 'Really" I assured her "I’m NOT insulted. Truly"
I have been - and said it often - anxious since forever. Anxious and - not depressed - but of a depressed nature that I work daily to overcome. And it’s difficult. I feel periods of happiness, many in each day, many minutes of hours, in life Id say I am happy slash satisfied. But joy or release or even relaxation are foreign to me.
When I was younger I could sleep away depression. If something was getting to me, something had me anxious, two days in bed, some bad tv and a few jumping jacks and Id be good to go. Now it’s much harder. Because there is no sleeping in, and no reprieve from tasks, from chores, from ideas or challenges to do the next thing. As I write this I feel breath in my throat. Minutia. Trash bags filling my driveway of stripped wallpaper, of a months worth of recycling. Broken barrels where squirrels gnawed through for snacks. One small area consuming me, taunting me, needing to be organized and cleaned - then on to another then another. I can feel each thing calling for attention and taking even the time to write takes away from the next thing to do.
Logically, I’m insane. Its trash. Its paper. It can wait.
Illogically I’m consumed with penance projects. If you do THIS then this reward will come. If you do that, then THIS will happen. I furiously try to create order and harmony with limited time and tools.
"just LIVE your life" My god, a nickel for every time and I could BUY a new life.
That aside, today is crushing. Its 10am and instead of feeling like the day unfolds in front of me, I feel the countdown timer screaming "FINISH SOMETHING" "Do SOMETHING" "Finalize Something".
I’m irrationally mad at my husband - feeling so much that so very much of all this stress is the result of this move, or living in the house that needs work with him abdicating all responsibility. His solution to throw money at things assumes that we both have money - which we do not - and that there is a team of designers waiting to solve for us. He thinks you can call any fence guy, and a landscape designer from HGTV appears. So everything we do, everything we need, is left to me. Every trash bag chewed through - mine to clean. Every sock not sorted, every paper not filed, every call to return, every minute of every day is full of tasks that have somehow become mine. Yes, it's life for sure. And I’m lucky to be able to complain about my first world problems. Nonetheless I’m depressed constantly because the never ending relentless weight of it consumes me.
I put the Lexipro in a cabinet. do I think it would help? yes. But there’s something in me that feels like I can be fixed some other way. That if only I solve for x, create for y. If only I get things put away, sorted, cleaned, repaired, planned, landscaped, finished - then I will feel peace. That if only I work harder. And harder still. Maybe skip sleeping? Maybe skip reading? watching a show? But wait. I have skipped those things. And I’ve skipped friendships, and the gym, and hobbies, and exercise. I somehow created a situation where I put my fist IN the bucket of water and the water overflows to clean up, and I take my fist OUT of the bucket and the water simply flows into the hole.
Lexipro would make me not care. Id have the same life, I just wouldn’t give a fuck.
I'm not sure that that’s the answer I want. That feels like masking vs fixing.
But at my age, if its not fixed now, will I ever be fixed?
And am I meant to be?
If you broke your leg, you'd use a crutch. Yes.
If you had an infection, you'd take an antibiotic. Yes.
So if you cant regulate your emotions, why not take something to smooth them out? I do not know.
Because it feels like quitting I think. Because if I dont drive myself to do this, it will grow into more tasks, more projects, more minutia. By staying up daily, managing the tide, arent i keeping it from flooding? Or am I looking to stem the flood with packets of brightly colored craft sand.
And I look to my left, and to my right, and I find myself resenting, hating, annoyed by, annoyed with everyone around me. because Im angry all the time.
Because Im not sure how I twisted myself into this person that I am today.
Every decision I try to make I feel angry making. Im not sure I can trust any of my feelings because they all are existing under the umbrelaa of being angry. So did this person betray me? Blow me off? Insult me? Who knows. Am I terrible for not calling? Not seeing? Not responding? Who knows. All the rules of etiqueete seem to have changed, the rules of friendship seem simply to be "Stay false" and the rules of marriage and mothering seem to be "Stay strong".
Im tired. Sad. Discouraged.
I have a LARGE box of boy shoes. Larger then a jumbo box of diapers or a storage tote for ice skates. As large as an amazon delivered shopvac. And within, all the pairs are jumbled. And almost every day i leave the house without putting shoes on my kids because I cant find the match. So today, my task is to go to the $1 store and buy cheap ziplock bags, gallon sized. I will SORT those m*therf*cking shoes one by each and label each bag with the sizes and know, for f*cks sake, just WHERE the goddamn shoes are in the morning. Its going to take me 2 hours. I dont see anyone else living this way. Im crazy I think. and sad about it. So I'll hide it and go out today and charm the doctors assistant, or make the dentist laugh, or smile through the phone at my inlaws all the while sad that I am me and that the tide of possessions and products and tiny chores floods me.
"I'm on the outside
I'm looking in
I can see through you
See your true colors
'Cause inside you're ugly
Ugly like me
I can see through you
See to the real you..."
or even
"All the times that I cried
All this wastin
It's all inside
And I feel all this pain
Stuffed it down
It's back again
And I lie here in bed
All alone
I can’t mend but I feel
Tomorrow will be okay"
I saw my friend Sharon a week or so ago, who handed me a bag from her nurse practitioner with samples of Lexipro. maybe 10 day’s worth? She put a million parentheses around it, as if I were going to be insulted and she was positively Chinese waiter in her obsequiousness. 'Really" I assured her "I’m NOT insulted. Truly"
I have been - and said it often - anxious since forever. Anxious and - not depressed - but of a depressed nature that I work daily to overcome. And it’s difficult. I feel periods of happiness, many in each day, many minutes of hours, in life Id say I am happy slash satisfied. But joy or release or even relaxation are foreign to me.
When I was younger I could sleep away depression. If something was getting to me, something had me anxious, two days in bed, some bad tv and a few jumping jacks and Id be good to go. Now it’s much harder. Because there is no sleeping in, and no reprieve from tasks, from chores, from ideas or challenges to do the next thing. As I write this I feel breath in my throat. Minutia. Trash bags filling my driveway of stripped wallpaper, of a months worth of recycling. Broken barrels where squirrels gnawed through for snacks. One small area consuming me, taunting me, needing to be organized and cleaned - then on to another then another. I can feel each thing calling for attention and taking even the time to write takes away from the next thing to do.
Logically, I’m insane. Its trash. Its paper. It can wait.
Illogically I’m consumed with penance projects. If you do THIS then this reward will come. If you do that, then THIS will happen. I furiously try to create order and harmony with limited time and tools.
"just LIVE your life" My god, a nickel for every time and I could BUY a new life.
That aside, today is crushing. Its 10am and instead of feeling like the day unfolds in front of me, I feel the countdown timer screaming "FINISH SOMETHING" "Do SOMETHING" "Finalize Something".
I’m irrationally mad at my husband - feeling so much that so very much of all this stress is the result of this move, or living in the house that needs work with him abdicating all responsibility. His solution to throw money at things assumes that we both have money - which we do not - and that there is a team of designers waiting to solve for us. He thinks you can call any fence guy, and a landscape designer from HGTV appears. So everything we do, everything we need, is left to me. Every trash bag chewed through - mine to clean. Every sock not sorted, every paper not filed, every call to return, every minute of every day is full of tasks that have somehow become mine. Yes, it's life for sure. And I’m lucky to be able to complain about my first world problems. Nonetheless I’m depressed constantly because the never ending relentless weight of it consumes me.
I put the Lexipro in a cabinet. do I think it would help? yes. But there’s something in me that feels like I can be fixed some other way. That if only I solve for x, create for y. If only I get things put away, sorted, cleaned, repaired, planned, landscaped, finished - then I will feel peace. That if only I work harder. And harder still. Maybe skip sleeping? Maybe skip reading? watching a show? But wait. I have skipped those things. And I’ve skipped friendships, and the gym, and hobbies, and exercise. I somehow created a situation where I put my fist IN the bucket of water and the water overflows to clean up, and I take my fist OUT of the bucket and the water simply flows into the hole.
Lexipro would make me not care. Id have the same life, I just wouldn’t give a fuck.
I'm not sure that that’s the answer I want. That feels like masking vs fixing.
But at my age, if its not fixed now, will I ever be fixed?
And am I meant to be?
If you broke your leg, you'd use a crutch. Yes.
If you had an infection, you'd take an antibiotic. Yes.
So if you cant regulate your emotions, why not take something to smooth them out? I do not know.
Because it feels like quitting I think. Because if I dont drive myself to do this, it will grow into more tasks, more projects, more minutia. By staying up daily, managing the tide, arent i keeping it from flooding? Or am I looking to stem the flood with packets of brightly colored craft sand.
And I look to my left, and to my right, and I find myself resenting, hating, annoyed by, annoyed with everyone around me. because Im angry all the time.
Because Im not sure how I twisted myself into this person that I am today.
Every decision I try to make I feel angry making. Im not sure I can trust any of my feelings because they all are existing under the umbrelaa of being angry. So did this person betray me? Blow me off? Insult me? Who knows. Am I terrible for not calling? Not seeing? Not responding? Who knows. All the rules of etiqueete seem to have changed, the rules of friendship seem simply to be "Stay false" and the rules of marriage and mothering seem to be "Stay strong".
Im tired. Sad. Discouraged.
I have a LARGE box of boy shoes. Larger then a jumbo box of diapers or a storage tote for ice skates. As large as an amazon delivered shopvac. And within, all the pairs are jumbled. And almost every day i leave the house without putting shoes on my kids because I cant find the match. So today, my task is to go to the $1 store and buy cheap ziplock bags, gallon sized. I will SORT those m*therf*cking shoes one by each and label each bag with the sizes and know, for f*cks sake, just WHERE the goddamn shoes are in the morning. Its going to take me 2 hours. I dont see anyone else living this way. Im crazy I think. and sad about it. So I'll hide it and go out today and charm the doctors assistant, or make the dentist laugh, or smile through the phone at my inlaws all the while sad that I am me and that the tide of possessions and products and tiny chores floods me.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
meow
The actors: myself, childcare provider, Young Teddy, a small cat named Simba.
The scene: Foyer, Providers home.
Opening: Cat sniffing boys bag, pawing Teddys sweatshirt.
me: "Oh so cute. We are getting a cat soon..."
Provider: "Oh so nice. Teddy really loves the cat."
Me: bewildered. "Huh, that's so funny, it's usually James that wants to snuggle...."
*hears sound*
Turns to look at Teddy. Holding Simba UP by her wee head, tiny kitty skull clamped between two hands, dangling wee Simba onto Momma's lap. Twisting Simba into the worst possible kitten abusing WWF move ever.
Me: "Or maybe, you know, later...maybe we'll think about it, um, later"
I apologized to Simba but Teddy didn't seem all that remorseful.
The scene: Foyer, Providers home.
Opening: Cat sniffing boys bag, pawing Teddys sweatshirt.
me: "Oh so cute. We are getting a cat soon..."
Provider: "Oh so nice. Teddy really loves the cat."
Me: bewildered. "Huh, that's so funny, it's usually James that wants to snuggle...."
*hears sound*
Turns to look at Teddy. Holding Simba UP by her wee head, tiny kitty skull clamped between two hands, dangling wee Simba onto Momma's lap. Twisting Simba into the worst possible kitten abusing WWF move ever.
Me: "Or maybe, you know, later...maybe we'll think about it, um, later"
I apologized to Simba but Teddy didn't seem all that remorseful.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Lovin' my Hater
Two times within the last 3 weeks I have seen a woman at a playspace that I wholly and completely have never met in any other context. She is seemingly friendly, attractive and competent. I see her initiate conversations and quasi interact with strangers within the same space. Both times she stared daggers at me, then aloofly looked away when I looked back. While she was seated, my son toddled up and touched her leg and she ignored him. Coldly. I have stood within a few feet from her and never has she commented, halfsmiled, or otherwise. In short? She really cant stand me. Hates me.
Woooooooot!!!!
Im delighted!!!!
You know, mothering as a SAH is like interviewing every day. You have to talk to people, network, create playdates, build social interactions. All so often I get to know people and I annoy the bejesus out of them.
Or I say something offensive at a party. Or I'm too loud, too opinionated, too something or not something enough. It's heartbreaking when you are navigating territories you have no idea where the landmines are and you cant correct the impression.
Today, I found it wonderfully refreshing to be simply be hated on sight.
For once someone can't stand me that I haven't given good reason to.
Woooooooot!!!!
Im delighted!!!!
You know, mothering as a SAH is like interviewing every day. You have to talk to people, network, create playdates, build social interactions. All so often I get to know people and I annoy the bejesus out of them.
Or I say something offensive at a party. Or I'm too loud, too opinionated, too something or not something enough. It's heartbreaking when you are navigating territories you have no idea where the landmines are and you cant correct the impression.
Today, I found it wonderfully refreshing to be simply be hated on sight.
For once someone can't stand me that I haven't given good reason to.
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