50/50

di·chot·o·my

 [dahy-kot-uh-mee] 

noun, plural di·chot·o·mies.

1.

division into two parts, kinds, etc.; subdivision into halves or pairs.

2.

division into two mutually exclusive, opposed, or contradictory groups.

I was talking to my mother in law two days ago and telling her how I have these two things always going on in me. This dichotomy of sorts. I rarely have a peace about anything. If I want something, desire something or think something, there is always an opposite waiting to happen. I can't ever desire something, have it and be glad/happy/at rest about it. It is always thing like, "I'd like this, okay have it, I want it, I'd like it...no, you're disgusting, you can't have this, you don't deserve this, that is disgusting, gross, etc..." I can have a resolution about something but it isn't really resolute. I may make a decision about something, but there is always a question, doubt or issue.

This is something that has always been inside of me, as long as I can remember anyway. The earliest I can recall, is about food. I would be hungry and think/know I needed to eat but think, "okay, what do I eat? I don't know. Ugh, I don't want to eat. I don't care if I am hungry. But, I am hungry...I have no idea what to eat, okay, don't eat...if you eat you'll get fat, just don't eat." This crazy dialogue in my head about eating... it'd be so frustrating that I just wouldn't eat.

Even if I desire something, I talk myself out of it. I tell myself how much I don't deserve it, how much it is gross for/to me, etc. So, I asked my husband to throw me a 30th birthday party. It is in less than 40 days, and apparently, he's been planning since my 29th birthday. I have done and said everything to communicate to him that I don't deserve this party, that time, money and etc. would be better spent elsewhere... when in reality, I really want to be loved, celebrated, etc...But, I don't think that I deserve ANYTHING good or positive...even when I want or desire it... so I have this crazy push and pull inside of myself...yes, I want to be loved, appreciated and celebrated (so incredibly bad) and at the same time, I don't think I should have it, deserve it, I am too awful to be celebrated, etc...

**Unfinished. Written Thursday, September 13, 2012, posted, Friday, September 14, 2012

Smile.微笑み. Sonrisa. Sorridere. ابتسام. Glimlach. Sourire.

Technically, a smile is a facial expression characterized by the corners of the mouth turning upward.  Accompanying this expression is normally a feeling of pleasure. Would it still be a smile if there was no emotion tied to it? People smirk all the time and it's still considered to be a smile, just a scornful one (there is still an emotion, scorn). Perhaps it has nothing to do with emotion at all. If we take it at face value, or simply a physical action, then a smile is nothing but a movement of the mouth or lips. That said, even a fake smile has an emotion tied to it. Maybe the emotion is fear, or anger, or disconnection. No one is ever void of emotion. Even if we are "blank" or "blah" we are still feeling something, even if it is the absence of something. To say I feel nothing, is to feeling something. Or is it?

I could spiral into a rant about this if I allowed myself, but I don't feel like it. Hah, feel. I don't even feel like writing anything today. I wanted to just skip writing a post. It feels like too much energy, effort, like something more than I want or have to give right now. Feel, feel, feel.

Moving on.

I cried so much last night. I dreaded going to sleep. I felt this strange fear. It was a fear I felt when I was little, growing up. I felt it when I had to go to bed and knew my parents would only be up a little while longer, in the living room, watching TV. I could see the light from my bedroom door when they were still up. After the light went off (I think that's when it happened) and I knew I was alone, this fear enveloped me. I don't remember feeling it after my parents divorced, after my Mom, brother and I moved from the house I pretty much grew up in. I think I was 12 or so. I felt this same, strange, overwhelming fear after I had my daughter, seven years ago. I remember waking up in the middle of the night to breastfeed her and Donald was still asleep. I was terrified of her falling back asleep and me being the only one awake. The strange thing was, is that Donald was right beside me(asleep, but still right there) and she was in the same room. I wasn't alone, yet this massive, dark thing engulfed me.

This is what I felt last night. No one was asleep. Donald, Lainee and Miles and Granny were still awake. I had this horrible apprehension about going to sleep. It was after 7 p.m. and I knew it was getting close to "bed time". I was dreading the next day (today). I didn't want to go to work, I didn't want to have to go to sleep and wake up to this day. It had nothing to do with wanting to die, just this ensuing sense of dismay. I had to take an Ambien to go to sleep. That was even scary because I knew I was making myself go to sleep. So strange this fear. I seriously cannot convey it with words. I don't understand when or why I feel it.

I obviously went to sleep. I woke up this morning as late as possible, even later than pushing it. I showered but didn't wash my hair and rushed the kids through getting dressed, breakfast and out the door to school. I was up and down all day, fighting back tears and emotion. Teaching kids a few hours a day keeps my mind occupied but I still have to put shit away.

I don't want to write anymore. Oh, I ate today. I hadn't eaten since dinner Friday night. I have felt so ill and not hungry. Of course, when you don't eat, it just perpetuates the cycle of not eating. My body is so messed up. I started my period 13 days late. No, I am not pregnant. I don't know what is going on.

I hate this emotional, physical roller coaster, but still, sometimes, I (put on a) smile.

:-)

This one is for Joni

She said I should write a book. I said, "About what?" She said, "Write about anything, just write." "Funny," I said, "I have thought for a long time about writing about my life and experiences, but wondered who would care or what would it matter?" So, I went home, and wrote... I wrote about a paragraph. It was about a lot of awful, hurtful things I said to my husband in the throes of my depression. That was April 22, 2012, and this is what I wrote:

"I said crazy mean out there things. Shooting myself in head. Dying. Car accident. Checking into hotel. Going to grocery store, never coming home. Donald frustrated, talking harshly, I know he loves me but it isn’t registering… I don’t think he gets me. Thinks it’s a pity party… constantly hurt, hurting, withdrawn, can’t talk to Donald. I tell him things, he gives explanations, not validation, he’s extremely patient with me, anyone else might just leave, or beat me, Idk. That said, he’s unkind, I can justify it for him though. I am sick of women coming into our relationship in one form or another, a classmate from HS he hugs while working, a girl he speaks into about her son at a parenting seminar, etc… it won’t go away. I hate it. I have been going insane the last few weeks. I don’t know why I am writing, except Joni mentioned it today… this is all I’ve got… not really, but if I really let myself go I’d be up for days, weeks, writing…" 

I haven't really written since.

Today is September 9, 2012.

I've tried to blog before. I think I "started" this blog back in 2009. I may have written one post, if that. You see, I used to write constantly. That was more than ten years ago. I was in high school. What I wrote was mostly poetry. It was dark. It was morbid. It was my way of releasing all of the despair I felt, or maybe it was just a record of my suffering. Whatever it was, it concerned my mother to the point of taking me to see a psychologist. When you're fifteen, you don't really have a choice when your mom says you have to go. One psychologist I remember, was this older man, had to have been in his 50s. I can remember him asking me if my mom needed to check me while I bathed. I had been cutting myself. I recall telling him no, I didn't need my mom to check on me while I was bathing to see if I was still self-mutilating. I still did it even after those few appointments, off and on for a few years. To some, it makes no sense. To others, perfect.

**Side note: There's this thing about physical pain when you're experiencing an overload of emotional trauma. It's described well by a fellow blogger as she talks to her therapist:

"What is it about banging your hand against the wall that relieves you," she asked?
"I don't know," I said. But I guess I do understand it. The very real physical pain stops the very surreal mental anguish. It's easy. It's immediate. It's unhealthy. But it works."

When you can transfer your mental/emotional suffering into something else, something more concrete/outside of yourself, it some how minimizes/deadens the pain.

Moving on to more recent things, like today. This is one of many things that hit me today. I wasn't worth anything all day. I was shut down, numb, crying, angry, etc.

I've heard a lot of girls lament turning 30. I've never been one of them. In fact, I've found it lame & ridiculous. I've even welcomed it. However, today, for the 1st time ever, I find myself crying, tears flowing in an uncontrollable stream down my cheeks...I'm angry and sad and devastated that I'll be 30 in 40 days and I'm still this thing, this misunderstood, life-sucking burden.

They say that it's "normal" to have passing thoughts of suicide or the like thereof. The difference between me and this "normal," is that I wonder if my children would be better off without having to suffer with all that I am, me being their mother for the rest of their lives, or would they be better off without me, having to work through the pain of not having a mother (like me)...the latter seems like a better option at times.