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 Thinks it’s a pity party… constantly hurt, hurting, withdrawn, can’t talk to Donald.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.