Tired

Today, I could barely keep my eyes open. I slept most of the day. I didn’t want to face life. Four times today my 11 year old son came up, looked at me and then his face fell. He looked so broken- “NO! You’re sad AGAIN mommy!”

The home movies playing in my head. They’re there when I’m awake. They’re there when I’m asleep. I can’t escape them.

I used to be much stronger. I had this shit locked down. I was a gifted actress. No one could see thru my facade. Somehow- I’ve lost my muchness.

Advertisements

You don’t actually die of a broken heart

I never wanted to have that conversation. Never wanted to answer the “who is my father?” question. I never knew how to answer it. Do I lie? Tell you he wanted you, loved you- but wasn’t ready to be a dad? Or do I tell you the truth? That ugly truth…

17 years I’ve dreaded him asking. He’s have made small requests, but was always easily redirected. I knew the time would come. Today, I wasn’t ready. I just blurted out the whole ugly story and broke into tears. He started blankly back at me.

And now I am kicking myself. How dare you tell the child they were forcibly conceived? How dare you put the image of rape in the mind of your son? You dumb bitch! What the fuck were you thinking?

And now I can’t help but want to crawl into a hole. My heart is broken. The memories crashing on me like the waves of lake Superior. The vivid pictures like a bad lifetime movie starring Jen the idiot. The trusting fool that had her rapist’s child.

My heart hurts. I can’t even look at my son. I am so overwhelmed. I know my broken heart won’t kill me, but I’m pretty much begging for it because i can’t breathe.

Welcome to 2018. Day 2 let’s talk about mom’s Law and Order SVU storyline.

Story of my life

Parenting is hard. Parenting through mental illness is even harder. The days you think you’re doing good are the days your anxious children, that you inadvertently created, are waiting for the other shoe to drop. The stress filled days of repeating yourself 150 times to watch your mouth, clean up your mess, do your chores or whatever else it may be become explosions of temper and rage that no one understands. Not even you. When trying your best to be kind and social is on par with standing barefoot in shattered glass, so you want to stay home to avoid the embarrassment for you and your children becomes staying in bed. Those days when everyone called you lazy, said you just don’t clean the house because you’re lazy and careless. The kids do the cleaning because they are your “slaves and maids”. . It’s not knowing how to navigate your child’s rough moments in life because you can’t navigate your own, so you either go all in at 100mph or you stay in bed at 0. It’s crazy unexplained posts on social media. It’s a lot of late nights not sleeping just crying because you’re almost positive you’re screwing up everything and everyone around you with no real way knowing because more often than not you’re sitting alone in the dark wondering if you’re even alive or if you died in a car wreck and you just haven’t figured it out yet. It’s mountains of secrets because that’s what you’ve been taught your whole life…. keep the secrets. People only use what they know to hurt and embarrass you. It’s wanting a different relationship with your kid than you have with your mom but not knowing how to get there without causing more damage. It’s seeing them suffer and knowing now the warning signs but being scared to address it because you not only have to keep the secrets, you also don’t want your kids thinking you think they are crazy because you already know they think you are. It’s medication rollercoasters, doctors upon doctors. It’s stigma and shame. It’s things you would never imagine. And everything you have feared. It’s a beautiful nightmare. You love your kids with everything in you, while hating yourself for not being what they need.

Lost in my dark thoughts

Despite thinking about killing myself on average at least once per day, I’m still here. If that sounds weird, remember that ‘thinking about’ covers a multitude of things. According to my therapist.. suicidal thinking runs a spectrum from ideation to inclination to intention. I’d be so fucking lying if I said that I haven’t spent most days at the shittier end of that spectrum. The nicer days of my suicidal thinking is relatively mild. 

My day usually boils down to my brain filling itself with these vivid images of me cutting myself repeatedly or driving in front of semi trucks. Those images aren’t exactly fun, but usually I don’t want to act on them. Usually. 

What should I do with suicidal thoughts… Right now, I just try to ignore them and wait them out. Is It right? 

FUCK NO. Believe me, that’s a miserable way to live. I’ve done it every day for 20 years

But here’s my guilty confession… fantasising about killing myself actually does feel good. I find it feels amazing. It also feels extremely fucking shitty of course. 

The idea of jumping off a building and splatering my brains all over the pavement come with an awesome endorphin high. Sometimes just the thoughts of planning it get me thru a particularly bad night. What would be my jump outfit.  How will I time it perfectly? Who’ll find me? What would they bury me in?  Would anyone actually give a flying fuck? 

This isn’t something I would typically say out loud. It’s not nice. It is scary but sadly, it’s so incredibly comforting. Knowing when life gets overwhelming, I can remind myself I’ve got an out. 

Lost in the dark

Hope seems like a lie to me, an invitation for disappointment.

 People always say have faith. Have hope.  Blah blah it’ll all work out. God never gives you more than you can handle. Fuck that. I think we’re ants and God is an asshole stepping on some of us and burning the rest of us with a magnifying glass for shits and giggles. 

I read a post recently on speakingofsuicide.com that said when you’re feeling overwhelmed and that you can’t go on, suicidal or self harming that you should use the “Three Day Rule”. Wait, three days- that most suicidal thoughts will subside or lessen in intensity in three days. I suppose I can see the logic behind that.  It does make sense. But I’ve waited 20 years. Still want to. 

 I used to listen to certain songs or call certain people when I felt that way. My way of reaching out for help in the dark. 

Life for you, has been less than kind
So take a number, stand in line
We’ve all been sorry, we’ve all been hurt
But how we survive, is what makes us who we are…

This time I’m pushing them away. Staying alone in the dark. Doing all the things that make my anxiety and depression more intense.  Self sabatoge is a powerful thing. 

So many years I spent being treated poorly.  So many people in my life tearing me down. Telling me in ugly.  Stupid. Crazy. Worthless. Different people. Different locations. None of them related or even aware of each other. The only common factor- Me. Perhaps they were right. 

Friday I sat in my therapist’s office and told her of my self loathing. My constant panic. My desire to sleep forever; but that I had no intentions to speed the process along yet. My nightmares that are still there when I’m awake.  My hatred of just being. She suggested I admit myself. I declined. 

Yesterday, I went to work… I was in tears after a typical interaction with a customer. My heart was racing.  My mind dark. I took all of my belongings off my desk and brought them home.  Still don’t know why. 

Today, I laid on the sofa watching my favorite movie trilogy. I haven’t actually paid attention to a single one of the films. I just want to sleep.  My body hurts.  My heart keeps racing. I just want to sleep. 

I hate how much I hate myself. 

Maybe my therapist was right. 

Hiding in plain sight

Today, I am hiding. Physically and emotionally. I’m hiding. I have had one of ‘those’ days. Who am I kidding?! I’ve had one of those last few weeks. I know when my anxiety and depression grab hold, it generally results in me in bed in my PJ’s with my dogs feeling like shit and hating myself.  So far, the fact that too much depends on me getting out of bed is resulting in me putting one foot sluggishly in front of the other and just continuing to swim. I feel very angry at myself and the world around me. I am self sabotaging to make myself feel worse. I am going on certain Facebook pages that I know will have pictures posted that will only make me more hurt or more angry.  I think somewhere I realize that this despondent feeling is only temporary but that knowledge isn’t helping me feel better. I promised my brother that I would talk (or write) when I got this way so I didn’t end up a statistic of my mental health. So here I am. It’s ugly, it’s raw but I’m doing it. So fuck you, Gary are you happy?! I’m not silently slinking off into a corner to give in to my own dark thoughts. I’m still here.

I keep thinking of the words of a Nine Inch Nails song from my youth…

I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that’s real

The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything

At the moment, death is not an option. So at this point, I need to find a way to live.

Spinning Plates

Ever see that person who spins plates on spikes? They can magically seem to run to and fro keeping each plate turning at just the right speed to stay on the spike.  That’s how I look at being a wife and mother. I need to magically run from spike to spike keeping the plates spinning. If even one falls it’ll knock them all off kilter or even make them all fall and break.  I can’t break or drop a single one. But I’m tired. The plates keep slipping. 

My family needs strength, stability and consistency. I do my best to provide that. I am strong for everyone but me. I just want to sleep.  I just want to give in to the nothing.  The void.  But I can’t.  They depend on me. The boys, my husband –  they depend on me.  These plates won’t spin themselves. Houses don’t clean themselves. Dinners need to be cooked.  Bills still need to get paid.

It is harder each day to leave the house. To be around people. To smile. I wonder each and every day if people can see the empty shell that I actually am or if my facade is still intact. Fake it til you make it, Jen.  Just keep swimming.  Keep fucking swimming. I’m tired of swimming. 

I’m lost in the dark and someone moved the fucking light switch.