May 30, 2010

Hiding: Day 43 -- Resolved

The trip to Arkansas was wonderful. But less than 24 hours later, I'm right back where I started -- debilitated and immobile, curled up in bed with the door shut and locked.

I have a feeling I'm going to hurt again. I don't care. I can't afford to really care about anything. After the trip and his ignorant "blow-up" (Yes, I wrote "blow-up," because that's exactly what it was) and being told AGAIN how miserable he is, my self-confidence and sense of self-worth is shot -- as if it were healthy to begin with.

I just want to go to the doctor, go to the doctor, go to the doctor. PLEASE take me.

I've expressed the urgency over and over again, but for whatever reason --financial or otherwise -- I'm just not being taken seriously.

I'm making the appointment Tuesday, with or without support. I can't stand another day.


So that's it. I've decided. I'm going to do whatever it is I have to do to get meds.  And I'm going to be straight-forward about the homebirth.

And I'm going to see the doctor as soon as he'll see me, with or without someone going with me. This is ridiculous. I know better. I should've done this a long time ago instead of having waited for someone else to decide it was the "right time" or that our circumstances were optimal for it.

I'm insulted it hasn't been insisted upon that I go NOW. My health is apparently not as important as whatever else it is that has prevented me from going.

I'm not waiting anymore.

May 22, 2010

Hiding: Day 37

Since the "episode," I've been feeling utterly drained -- physically and psychologically. I slept almost all day today, and I've been fighting migraines since yesterday, too.

The stress is terrific. I can tolerate nothing. That's why sleep has been the only thing to do, to keep stimulation at a minimum. Self-prescribed bed rest.

I have felt a little more alert today. The morning was a blur on into the afternoon, but I was cognitive in the late afternoon until I slept again. Not in any kind of shape to DO anything, but at least hold up my end of a brief conversation.

And Rocky made me laugh. I don't remember what it was he said, but it was a relief to laugh.

When I woke up this evening, though, I had another fit of rage, because Priss was making herself a bowl of cereal for dinner. I yelled at Bunny and Moe, too, but don't remember why.

What disgusts me is that Priss is the one who came in here to hug me after I'd calmed down. Not to apologize, but because she pitied me and thought a hug might make me feel better. No one hates herself more than I hate myself.

May 20, 2010

Hiding: Day 35 (severe reactive episode)

I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me or try to "talk me down" or describe to me how dire the situation is or try to illustrate the reality for me or threaten to call someone or tell me how much I have to live for or offer anything I need. I don't want to hear how much they need me or how selfish it would be to hurt myself.

I'm aware, I know, and these thoughts and feelings and truths do have weight and they're added burden. Like even bad publicity is good publicity. It's momentum. Even good touch is bad touch because it's contact and stimulation, or instigation to action or impact. Yes, impact. And I can't take any more impact.

What would be all right is neutral observation. Knowing I'm not alone, but I can be left alone to suffer the pain until either it heals itself or I respond to it.

Numb now. After writing some. But still recalling how he told me something I already know, that he's unhappy and can't take me.

Of course you can't. I can't take me. But I'm beyond rehabilitation. Or renovation or reprogramming or repair. You didn't have to tell me the awful truths I already know, that I'm as despicable to you as I am to me. You didn't have to confirm that the only person who can tolerate me, can't really.

Now, the last reason to try to weave into society is gone. At least alone, I'm not faced with imposing on anyone in any way, ever. I can never be hurt by the knowledge I'm hurting anyone else.

I'm perfectly capable of living without expectation. I can make no demands. I can let live.

At this moment, I wish I'd never been born. I disagree: sometimes, it's better to have never lived than to have lived and loved, and been loved.


If I were in the hospital, then there would be nothing to do but be sick and wait to heal. That sounds like the most appealing situation for me. And if Miner hadn't brought up the subject of money or further "complications," I would've already gone to the ER and checked myself in. I would've already put myself in the hands of professionals so they could manage my mental and physical health since I can't do it myself.

It's like living each hour with an excruciating toothache. And no dental insurance. Or no dentist trained to do anything about it.

You know Dad used to pull his own teeth.

Jealousy and "Julie & Julia"

As if I needed anything else to feel awful about, after trouble with Rocky, fighting with Miner, and being the meanest pregnant lady in the world.

I watched Julie & Julia -- two of my favorite actresses: Meryl Streep and Amy Adams. A movie about cooking.

And blogging and writing and getting published.

And I hated it. From beginning to end, I just burned with a bitter mixture of envy and self-loathing, because I have what it takes to do the same, and I don't.


If ever there were a time to write a book about P***** and the o*****, NOW is the time. Pregnant, the D***** H*****, time and time and time on my hands. The iron is hot, but I'm not.

And I hate myself for it, through and through. And I hate that I hate all the other aspiring writers who are making it right now, because I want what they're getting, what they've worked hard for and deserve. What I haven't worked for and don't deserve.

How long would it take me? If I started again right now? How long would it be before the book was done? Three chapters, even, to send in? Could I do it?

May 19, 2010

The Wayward Son

Feels like I'm engorged on rage, bitterness, sadness, anxiety, frustration and pain. Almost like I never quit smoking, never stopped putting toxins inside my body. These feelings are just as damaging. I feel like the baby must be suffocating in my turmoil.

A blow-up with Rocky over the 12:00 computer time limit left me in tears, unable to contain myself or tolerate any more of it. I count it a miracle he happened to come to tell me goodnight just then. Of course he was moved, and surprised and ashamed to see the impact of his actions, but instead of inspiring some self-evaluation of his choices, he internalized and began a discussion of how hopeless he feels.

I told him I can't take any more. He'll have to decide whether he wants to abide as a member of this family or not, but I won't fight him anymore.  It breaks my heart to think I must give up after all these years of trying, but I just don't have the personal resources anymore to strive against him.

The last alternative I have other than sending him to his dad's is counseling. I'll be calling first thing in the morning, and Heaven help him, because that's all I've got left.

And if it does come to letting him go, I'll be bitter about it. It doesn't seem fair that I would have raised him through the most trying periods of his growth to have him share the joy and strength of his maturity with his dad. Just doesn't seem fair or right.

But God will put him where he needs to be, if only I were calm and humbled enough to pray and ask Him to do that. I'm so covered in bitterness and unforgiveness right now, I doubt He'd hear my prayers.

May 17, 2010

"Mommie Dearest"

I know I'm especially crazy tonight. It began when I told Rocky he had one hour left on the computer (this was at 11:30 PM) and he immediately copped an attitude. Escalated from there.

And when the girls were still getting up for every excuse in the book at the same hour.

So I unplugged Rocky's Internet. He stayed up, playing the piano, so I cut his power. But he stayed up anyway, so I made them ALL get up and clean the house completely. It reminded me of the axe scene in Mommie Dearest. And the whole time, though I knew I had rational reasons for instituting such a consequence, I couldn't stand on a single one of them because my head felt too fragmented.

So we cleaned until after 2, and the kids -- as I suspected -- got to where they were begging to go to sleep. And before I dismissed them to do so, I reiterated WHY we'd been up cleaning in the middle of the night, and we'd do it again if we ever face the same problem again.

So now they're ALL crashed, but I'm still awake with some obscure 70s earworm boring through my brain and thinking -- inexplicably -- about the Jonestown suicide recordings, and Jim Jones's perverse, unsettling, drug-dragging lisp.  "Muthderth, muthderth, thon't do thith. Go, but go with thignity. Thon't do thith."

And I've been thinking of my friends who miss me, wondering if they truly DO understand I'm not healthy right now. If they respect that fact, or if they're secretly judging me amongst themselves for being flaky and nuts rather than legitimately, respectably unstable.

What an oxymoron, that I am so very disordered, yet in a certain slant of light, clarity is razor sharp. It's viewing a perfectly clear reflection in the mirror, of a perfectly frightening harpy.

May 12, 2010

"Garboesque Machinations"

I've lost count how many days I've been inside, but it's over a month, I think. Still not long enough.

I managed to do the laundry, cook, keep the kitchen clean, and take the family on a field trip while Miner was home. Now that he's gone again, I want to settle back into this seat in the bed and grow here.

It's 4:53 AM. I'm exhausted, sleepy, but I can't get comfortable to save my life. Still got stupid Hannah Montana earworms burrowing in my brain, and plenty of self-critical demons yakking in my head, too.  Added to them is my sister's voice chastising me for my "Garboesque machinations."

I told her I'm sorry. I don't have it in me. Can't medicate or communicate. But I'm alive.

Who knows if that will suffice.

Did a paper cutting today that was supposed to function as an "I'm alive but not participating" message. I don't think anyone "got it." I'm sorry for that, but I won't clarify. Can't. That's the reason for the visual. I'm hoarding my voice because -- maybe -- I'm afraid it will run out. Or maybe afraid it won't sound right, and then I'll know for sure something else is living in my mind besides me.

May 3, 2010

Hiding: Day 18

The longer I stay tucked away, the safer I feel, and the more reluctant I am to come out. There have been several social "run-ins" (which--to everyone else's standards--aren't really "run-ins" at all, but simply run-of-the-mill social situations that require not much more than normal communication) that have strained me to my limits, but rather than put forth the effort to meet others halfway, I simply withdraw, fail to respond, and refuse to concern myself with anything beyond my self-erected barrier.

I realize this is avoidant and unhealthy. I recognize selfishness may play a large part in this. I know I may be hurting people, that I may lose friends on account of my own turmoil, but I reason...I may just not be strong enough to maintain. I simply may not possess the personal resources.

Bottom line: I cannot be active. I cannot contribute. I can observe the walls of my little world and slip notes about it under the door, but beyond that...I cannot participate.

Can I live life this way? For how long?