Is this the last time you are going to feel like this?
Do you think you will feel better by the weekend?
Holy fuck.
How do I answer those kinds of questions?
I keep telling myself that this is hard on him. I know it is.
I know it is. Because I've lived in a house with a ranting suicidal maniac. But I'm not like that.
I'm just quiet. Writing here these past few days is the most I have ever talked about feeling this bad. But I have yet to scream and yell; throw things or make threats.
At my mother's worst, she showed up on the door step of my apartment and slit her wrists. She lived that time but it was fucked up to say the least. It also made suicide real to me.
A person. Distress. Blade. Blood. Tears. Anguish. In a way it began to desensitize me.
My sister. I saw that through to completion. It's hard to look at someone so beautiful with half their skull gone to relieve pressure without euthanizing a piece of your soul.
Yesterday I went to the apartment where my mother slit her wrists. I went to the door step without knowing what I was supposed to be looking for. I stared for a minute and then I left.
I then drove to my sister's old townhouse. Where she ended her own life. I looked out the window of my car searching for a hint of lingering. I didn't see her. The porch had pretty pots full of pansies. Someone who lives there is happy enough to care about flowers. I pretended the flowers were for my sister instead.
I stopped short of going by my parent's house where my mother ultimately succeeded. That was probably a good idea. Lots of other bad things happened there too.
It is probably morbid to do these things. I'm probably not supposed to even think about them. And I bet writing this in black and white is even worse. But I wanted to see what it felt like. As if they had a disease that was catching. And I want to know what makes me immune.
So to answer his first question; is this the last time I'm going to feel like this?
Yes, has a certain finality to it. And probably not the answer he really wants even if he doesn't realize it.
No. Well, I don't want this to be the answer because I hate feeling like this.
I don't know is really the only answer I can give.
I try to do the right things; I go to therapy, I see a shrink, I take my meds {mostly}, I write, and I would like to think that I am getting better at actually verbalizing what is in my head.
So I don't know if all the right things add up to erasing suicidal thoughts forever. My other thought is that I think far more people think about suicide than will admit to considering it as an out. It's taboo right along with admitting to struggling with a mental illness. But I can't be the only one.
I sincerely hope to push past this. It's an exhausting way to live. I just said that word again... hope.
And to answer his second question, sure. Which falls under the category of if you ask a stupid question, you'll get a stupid answer.
I keep telling myself that this is hard for him.
Showing posts with label husband. Show all posts
Showing posts with label husband. Show all posts
Friday, February 10, 2012
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Air
I think about suicide every day.
That's what I told my husband last night. It's probably not the best way to qualify how I'm feeling right now but I needed him to understand that these struggles and thoughts are not out of the blue.
He did a stint in a mental hospital 10 years ago because he hit a bottom and had a plan and the materials to carry it out. He called his mother and off he went to the hospital. He stayed there 7 days, got on meds, had some therapy and straightened his thinking out. He did outpatient therapy for three months afterwards and discontinued his meds 6 months after that. And then he was all better.
So that's where he is coming from and he doesn't understand how I can feel like this all of a sudden when I'm on medication and already in therapy. I tried explaining things to him and he still didn't get it.
Finally I was over trying to make him feel better because I hardly think this is the best time to have to explain my feelings. They just are and they suck. So that's when I blurted out what I think about every day. He was shocked. So I described it like this:
His depression was like a brown paper bag. Sure, it gets a little dark sitting at the bottom of the bag but it's not stifling to exist in there either. He eventually wanted a way out and he figured it out with some help. He got out and the bag left in the wind.
My depression on a good day is like living in a straight jacket. I might be tied up but I can still walk and function in a limited way. And because I've lived like this for so long, I've grown accustomed to it and I can even free a hand or an arm on a good day. No, it's not pleasant to live like this so yes, I have thoughts of what it would be like to be free. That seems pretty normal to me.
But when this hits it is like being thrown in a trunk and buried. Still with the straight jacket on. It's dark. I can't move and the air begins to wane. I twist and fight but then I feel panicked and then I really can't breathe. So I get still and almost peaceful. That's where I am right now. That's also when I know that I need help.
That help doesn't include explaining the why's that support my feelings because those got buried along with the fucking trunk. I'm still trapped and need that last bit of air to free myself. Maybe then I can figure all this out.
Because it's a lot easier to breathe in just a straight jacket.
That's what I told my husband last night. It's probably not the best way to qualify how I'm feeling right now but I needed him to understand that these struggles and thoughts are not out of the blue.
He did a stint in a mental hospital 10 years ago because he hit a bottom and had a plan and the materials to carry it out. He called his mother and off he went to the hospital. He stayed there 7 days, got on meds, had some therapy and straightened his thinking out. He did outpatient therapy for three months afterwards and discontinued his meds 6 months after that. And then he was all better.
So that's where he is coming from and he doesn't understand how I can feel like this all of a sudden when I'm on medication and already in therapy. I tried explaining things to him and he still didn't get it.
Finally I was over trying to make him feel better because I hardly think this is the best time to have to explain my feelings. They just are and they suck. So that's when I blurted out what I think about every day. He was shocked. So I described it like this:
His depression was like a brown paper bag. Sure, it gets a little dark sitting at the bottom of the bag but it's not stifling to exist in there either. He eventually wanted a way out and he figured it out with some help. He got out and the bag left in the wind.
My depression on a good day is like living in a straight jacket. I might be tied up but I can still walk and function in a limited way. And because I've lived like this for so long, I've grown accustomed to it and I can even free a hand or an arm on a good day. No, it's not pleasant to live like this so yes, I have thoughts of what it would be like to be free. That seems pretty normal to me.
But when this hits it is like being thrown in a trunk and buried. Still with the straight jacket on. It's dark. I can't move and the air begins to wane. I twist and fight but then I feel panicked and then I really can't breathe. So I get still and almost peaceful. That's where I am right now. That's also when I know that I need help.
That help doesn't include explaining the why's that support my feelings because those got buried along with the fucking trunk. I'm still trapped and need that last bit of air to free myself. Maybe then I can figure all this out.
Because it's a lot easier to breathe in just a straight jacket.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Normal
My husband asked yesterday if I ever thought I would be normal in regards to certain things. I told him that I didn't know what normal looks like but that my goal is to be healthy. He looked at me weird but he does that a lot when I actually get out of my head and talk.
Those certain things that he's referring to are my incredible sexual hang ups. I came home from therapy the other night with a list of things that he cannot do and the reasons why. He was told all of those things by my counselor before we got married so that we were hopefully on the same page.
Problem was, when he did any one of those things that bothered me, I never said anything to him.
My counselor originally wrote the list as I talked about what things bothered me. But I decided to I hand write it again so that he knew that it was coming from me. I gave it to him and initially he looked surprised and confused. Then he said that he needed some time and I was positive that he was really mad at me.
Turns out that he was mad at himself for hurting me. He thought those rules were my therapist's rules and not my own. I confirmed that thinking when I never said anything when he did something that hurt me.
I won't get into the details of the list because it was awful to talk about and write. But I think that what upset me the most was the fact that I had no good answers for why I let him do things that hurt, bother or upset me. All I knew was that I was the same person with him that I have been in the past with all the other men and I felt so ashamed for that.
My EX-husband, among other things, had a rape fantasy. So guess what he did every few months? I still have a hard time walking into my own dark house even though it's not the same one he and I lived in together. And forget about hiding around a corner to scare me. That's a cardinal sin in our home and everyone knows it.
My father... my best bet was to look like I enjoyed it. If I showed pain it only made it worse. Same for his friends. But then there were the times where I couldn't muster anything close to a look of pleasure because kids aren't made to do those kinds of things. Those were the worst times.
My husband isn't anything close to being like the other men. If I told them not to do something because it hurt me, they did that thing even more. My husband isn't like that and I don't understand why I would think that of of him. But I do.
I also think that says more about my own condition than his state or that of our marriage.
Now I'm not going to lie. I'm scared to death now that he knows the things that can hurt me and bother me the most. I trust him but then I don't because really, I don't fully trust anyone. I feel extremely vulnerable. I don't know the things that could bring him to a mental stand-still or break him down yet he knows some of my deepest and exacting issues.
It's hard enough growing up the way I did. But then I grow up and once again find myself in a disadvantaged position in my own marriage with the man that I love. I hate that.
I guess the good thing is that he hasn't gone anywhere in 6 years. And he's still here even after me bringing home a list of do's and don'ts. So even though I don't know what normal is; I guess this might be our own normal. He still doesn't understand my differentiation between normal and healthy and that's probably because healthy is normal to him. I guess that makes sense for someone who isn't as fucked up as I am.
I feel childish in this thinking but it's what I want. I don't care about normal but I want to be healthy. Normal can mean so many different things but healthy seems like a much more concise goal. I just read my last few sentences and I realized that I just said something that I want. I don't ever do that so I'm hoping that is a step in the right direction of healthy.
Those certain things that he's referring to are my incredible sexual hang ups. I came home from therapy the other night with a list of things that he cannot do and the reasons why. He was told all of those things by my counselor before we got married so that we were hopefully on the same page.
Problem was, when he did any one of those things that bothered me, I never said anything to him.
My counselor originally wrote the list as I talked about what things bothered me. But I decided to I hand write it again so that he knew that it was coming from me. I gave it to him and initially he looked surprised and confused. Then he said that he needed some time and I was positive that he was really mad at me.
Turns out that he was mad at himself for hurting me. He thought those rules were my therapist's rules and not my own. I confirmed that thinking when I never said anything when he did something that hurt me.
I won't get into the details of the list because it was awful to talk about and write. But I think that what upset me the most was the fact that I had no good answers for why I let him do things that hurt, bother or upset me. All I knew was that I was the same person with him that I have been in the past with all the other men and I felt so ashamed for that.
My EX-husband, among other things, had a rape fantasy. So guess what he did every few months? I still have a hard time walking into my own dark house even though it's not the same one he and I lived in together. And forget about hiding around a corner to scare me. That's a cardinal sin in our home and everyone knows it.
My father... my best bet was to look like I enjoyed it. If I showed pain it only made it worse. Same for his friends. But then there were the times where I couldn't muster anything close to a look of pleasure because kids aren't made to do those kinds of things. Those were the worst times.
My husband isn't anything close to being like the other men. If I told them not to do something because it hurt me, they did that thing even more. My husband isn't like that and I don't understand why I would think that of of him. But I do.
I also think that says more about my own condition than his state or that of our marriage.
Now I'm not going to lie. I'm scared to death now that he knows the things that can hurt me and bother me the most. I trust him but then I don't because really, I don't fully trust anyone. I feel extremely vulnerable. I don't know the things that could bring him to a mental stand-still or break him down yet he knows some of my deepest and exacting issues.
It's hard enough growing up the way I did. But then I grow up and once again find myself in a disadvantaged position in my own marriage with the man that I love. I hate that.
I guess the good thing is that he hasn't gone anywhere in 6 years. And he's still here even after me bringing home a list of do's and don'ts. So even though I don't know what normal is; I guess this might be our own normal. He still doesn't understand my differentiation between normal and healthy and that's probably because healthy is normal to him. I guess that makes sense for someone who isn't as fucked up as I am.
I feel childish in this thinking but it's what I want. I don't care about normal but I want to be healthy. Normal can mean so many different things but healthy seems like a much more concise goal. I just read my last few sentences and I realized that I just said something that I want. I don't ever do that so I'm hoping that is a step in the right direction of healthy.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Hurt
Miserable. I don't deserve to be miserable. This has been my mantra over the past several weeks.
I was stopped dead in my tracks shortly after my last post. I went to therapy, minding my own business like I always do, and my therapist told me he had a possible solution for handling my vices. Or addictions as they should be more accurately described.
REHAB
Are you fucking kidding me? Turns out he wasn't. And that was a sobering moment. To come to the point in my life where I'm told that I am essentially out of control and I need to be locked up to gain control is probably enough to get most anyone's attention.
I am all about control so coming to the reality that control is not something in my arsenal; well, that one is a tough one for me. I came here and had nothing to say. Perhaps out of embarrassment. Perhaps out of fear. Perhaps I was wordless. And so I was quiet.
Back to the rehab thing; I used my daughter as a reason... excuse... and asked for a month to get my shit together. I then went home, armed with a list written by my therapist for my husband. And I actually gave the list to him and did a lot of explaining.
I've left my husband in the dark about a lot. Especially when it comes to the food and cutting problems. When I told him that I still cut his response was, "but that's what fucked up people do".
I met his remark with a smile and a raised eyebrow and said, "yeah".
So I'm doing what fucked up people do. I'm talking; not in my head but with audible words for real humans to hear. I'm trying to express my feelings better. I'm being honest about my habits. And I'm letting people help me. All novel concepts.
To keep busy, I'm also quilting and sewing everything in my path. I made two quilts in a week. My husband is worried that he is going to wake up and find himself quilted to the bed. I told him that if it keeps me sober then perhaps he should pick out some fabrics that he likes.
I'm doing better. I am thinking before I eat, drink, or hurt myself.
And politely speaking, really all of this has just been one form or another of hurting myself. Impolitely, I have been self-destructing or fucking myself up. Whatever it is, I don't deserve it.
I've been hurt enough.
I was stopped dead in my tracks shortly after my last post. I went to therapy, minding my own business like I always do, and my therapist told me he had a possible solution for handling my vices. Or addictions as they should be more accurately described.
REHAB
Are you fucking kidding me? Turns out he wasn't. And that was a sobering moment. To come to the point in my life where I'm told that I am essentially out of control and I need to be locked up to gain control is probably enough to get most anyone's attention.
I am all about control so coming to the reality that control is not something in my arsenal; well, that one is a tough one for me. I came here and had nothing to say. Perhaps out of embarrassment. Perhaps out of fear. Perhaps I was wordless. And so I was quiet.
Back to the rehab thing; I used my daughter as a reason... excuse... and asked for a month to get my shit together. I then went home, armed with a list written by my therapist for my husband. And I actually gave the list to him and did a lot of explaining.
I've left my husband in the dark about a lot. Especially when it comes to the food and cutting problems. When I told him that I still cut his response was, "but that's what fucked up people do".
I met his remark with a smile and a raised eyebrow and said, "yeah".
So I'm doing what fucked up people do. I'm talking; not in my head but with audible words for real humans to hear. I'm trying to express my feelings better. I'm being honest about my habits. And I'm letting people help me. All novel concepts.
To keep busy, I'm also quilting and sewing everything in my path. I made two quilts in a week. My husband is worried that he is going to wake up and find himself quilted to the bed. I told him that if it keeps me sober then perhaps he should pick out some fabrics that he likes.
I'm doing better. I am thinking before I eat, drink, or hurt myself.
And politely speaking, really all of this has just been one form or another of hurting myself. Impolitely, I have been self-destructing or fucking myself up. Whatever it is, I don't deserve it.
I've been hurt enough.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Husband
I have a good husband. I was very fortunate this time around. Husband # 1 was a first class nightmare who also found himself enmeshed with my family from a young age.
We were doomed before we even thought about dating.
My second time around I knew better what I was looking for and I found someone reasonably healthy. No, my husband isn't perfect but I am sure that everyone here also knows that I am far from perfect as well. I wish I could say that I have been an open book with him but I cannot. He knows I have a past. He knows I had a ruthless childhood. He also knows I have D.I.D and he has done enough reading to know what kind of abuse causes such a disorder. Prolonged and severe; he knows these things about me. He "knows" my alters. Some of them like him, some of them don't have much to do with him. Others spend a great deal of energy trying to make him leave us.
Except he doesn't leave. Thank God.
When we were engaged we met with my therapist together and he got the short version of D.I.D, what living with me would look like, things to avoid, and things to do. I was able to tell him that I was abused and that there are things in my past that I do not want to talk about with him. All this he was fine with. And he has remained fine; frustrated at times but still fine.
I used to journal on paper a lot. And then he found one of my journals, read it, and all hell broke loose. So I stopped writing until I began writing on this blog. This has been a lifesaver for me to write here. I have shared excerpts of my writings here with him but I have not freely shared the link. It would not be the end of the world if he found this blog but I like it better knowing that I can write without censoring and having to answer questions about the day's blog post over dinner. Talk about indigestion...
But now I am at a crossroads; my family is gone and with them died a lot of secrets. My husband believes that I do not have a relationship with my father or mother and that my sister passed away... many years ago. Knowing what he knows about D.I.D he has always been fine with us having no contact with them. Now however, why am I still holding on to many of these secrets?
Anger is one reason. My husband will be angry over much of what was done to me. That anger will make me vastly uncomfortable. And further, I have yet to justify causing someone to be angry for no profitable reason. So why make him angry?
I fear what he will think of me; this is another reason. What if he believes that I am a whore? What if he realizes how fucked up I really am? It boils down to my fear that he will believe what I already believe about myself. And if we both believe the worst about me does that then mean that we will be doomed too?
That is my greatest fear.
We were doomed before we even thought about dating.
My second time around I knew better what I was looking for and I found someone reasonably healthy. No, my husband isn't perfect but I am sure that everyone here also knows that I am far from perfect as well. I wish I could say that I have been an open book with him but I cannot. He knows I have a past. He knows I had a ruthless childhood. He also knows I have D.I.D and he has done enough reading to know what kind of abuse causes such a disorder. Prolonged and severe; he knows these things about me. He "knows" my alters. Some of them like him, some of them don't have much to do with him. Others spend a great deal of energy trying to make him leave us.
Except he doesn't leave. Thank God.
When we were engaged we met with my therapist together and he got the short version of D.I.D, what living with me would look like, things to avoid, and things to do. I was able to tell him that I was abused and that there are things in my past that I do not want to talk about with him. All this he was fine with. And he has remained fine; frustrated at times but still fine.
I used to journal on paper a lot. And then he found one of my journals, read it, and all hell broke loose. So I stopped writing until I began writing on this blog. This has been a lifesaver for me to write here. I have shared excerpts of my writings here with him but I have not freely shared the link. It would not be the end of the world if he found this blog but I like it better knowing that I can write without censoring and having to answer questions about the day's blog post over dinner. Talk about indigestion...
But now I am at a crossroads; my family is gone and with them died a lot of secrets. My husband believes that I do not have a relationship with my father or mother and that my sister passed away... many years ago. Knowing what he knows about D.I.D he has always been fine with us having no contact with them. Now however, why am I still holding on to many of these secrets?
Anger is one reason. My husband will be angry over much of what was done to me. That anger will make me vastly uncomfortable. And further, I have yet to justify causing someone to be angry for no profitable reason. So why make him angry?
I fear what he will think of me; this is another reason. What if he believes that I am a whore? What if he realizes how fucked up I really am? It boils down to my fear that he will believe what I already believe about myself. And if we both believe the worst about me does that then mean that we will be doomed too?
That is my greatest fear.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Friend
What's that line... hello, darkness, my old friend...?
My friend is making a raging comeback. Yippee.
I do not know exactly what has brought this on but I am knocked down, sideways and can't get up depressed. Those irritating Cymbalta commercials showing depressed people sucking at living? That's me minus roaming around aimlessly in sweatpants because I don't wear sweatpants.
I just stay in my pajamas.
I don't have the luxury of sleeping the day away or even lying in bed with my eyes open praying that a spontaneous lobotomy will occur. I have a kid, I have a job, I have judo, gymnastics, and swim team to attend, and I have a rather important (to me) husband who occasionally would like to see me out of pajamas and showered with a smile on my face. It's a rough life these days.
The thing is, I do shower, smile and dress nicely. It's my mind that is still wearing pajamas and perhaps that is where the conflict begins. I am fucking exhausted and I honestly believe that there is not a soul on earth that understands where I am coming from. Try as he may, my husband doesn't get it and he substitutes his confusion with anger. I don't do anger so I just shut up and stay quiet. I certainly am not talking to my daughter about this and I don't have any girlfriends to call up and bitch about my fucked up life.
So here I am.
I told my husband this morning that I am a really fucked up person and it is really hard to live. His response was to yell at me that I'm not fucked up. Right. Everyone he meets hears voices, sees people who aren't there, and wishes they could carve the feeling part of their brain right out of their skull. Right. I'm definitely not fucked up.
Love him.
But seriously, I'm tired. I walk a mental high wire, balancing with hate in one hand and sorrow in the other. And then I crash with only my pretend friends to catch me. The reality of my horrors catches up with me on occasion and now is one of those times. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can barely think. The Shelter is screaming and I can't help those babies enough. I am getting that familiar feeling that I am not the one made for this job.
What this boils down to is that I hate my parents. I hate what they did and I hate what they allowed. That hate is consuming me and I feel myself getting angry so I turn the hatred on myself. It is easier to hate me. It is safer.
Until I run out of room for cutting.
And I'm there; I have no more hidden skin available. This is usually where I retreat deep inside but I'm not OK accepting that this time. Problem is, I don't know where to go.
My friend is making a raging comeback. Yippee.
I do not know exactly what has brought this on but I am knocked down, sideways and can't get up depressed. Those irritating Cymbalta commercials showing depressed people sucking at living? That's me minus roaming around aimlessly in sweatpants because I don't wear sweatpants.
I just stay in my pajamas.
I don't have the luxury of sleeping the day away or even lying in bed with my eyes open praying that a spontaneous lobotomy will occur. I have a kid, I have a job, I have judo, gymnastics, and swim team to attend, and I have a rather important (to me) husband who occasionally would like to see me out of pajamas and showered with a smile on my face. It's a rough life these days.
The thing is, I do shower, smile and dress nicely. It's my mind that is still wearing pajamas and perhaps that is where the conflict begins. I am fucking exhausted and I honestly believe that there is not a soul on earth that understands where I am coming from. Try as he may, my husband doesn't get it and he substitutes his confusion with anger. I don't do anger so I just shut up and stay quiet. I certainly am not talking to my daughter about this and I don't have any girlfriends to call up and bitch about my fucked up life.
So here I am.
I told my husband this morning that I am a really fucked up person and it is really hard to live. His response was to yell at me that I'm not fucked up. Right. Everyone he meets hears voices, sees people who aren't there, and wishes they could carve the feeling part of their brain right out of their skull. Right. I'm definitely not fucked up.
Love him.
But seriously, I'm tired. I walk a mental high wire, balancing with hate in one hand and sorrow in the other. And then I crash with only my pretend friends to catch me. The reality of my horrors catches up with me on occasion and now is one of those times. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can barely think. The Shelter is screaming and I can't help those babies enough. I am getting that familiar feeling that I am not the one made for this job.
What this boils down to is that I hate my parents. I hate what they did and I hate what they allowed. That hate is consuming me and I feel myself getting angry so I turn the hatred on myself. It is easier to hate me. It is safer.
Until I run out of room for cutting.
And I'm there; I have no more hidden skin available. This is usually where I retreat deep inside but I'm not OK accepting that this time. Problem is, I don't know where to go.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Lost
I get lost. In my own head.
According to my husband, I have been alarmingly quiet lately. I don't mean to. Really. It just happens.
After a screaming match culminating with said husband telling me to get the fuck out of my head; I told him that I am lost in the darkness of my voices.
I have my friends. Best friends that I have had for years. Our friendships have endured the well-worn time and lately I have been spending an increasing amount of time with them. While I read, sew, crochet, quilt, and even sleep, they are there and we talk. They are my comrades in a perpetual war; one that never stops, one that has wounds that never heal just right. They know me and they understand me.
But they are not real. And that makes me weird and quiet.
I have nothing audible to say. My voice is locked inside my thoughts, my hurts, my scars. I hurt but how does one verbalize horror? Horror in the movies is simply expressed in screams both silent and audible, twisted faces, running, backing into a corner, all until one is consumed completely by the evil.
To say that I am scared is an insult. I am terrified. I am haunted. I live in horror. I have joked before about what kind of writer I could be and I always conclude that I would be one hell of a horror author. I love Stephen King yet I can read very few of his books because ironically, they scare me. However, when I can, I have to wonder what happened to him? Horror does not come naturally to most human minds.
I am struggling at this moment. What I wrote in my previous post has sent me reeling. It is horror in black and white. Black and white that is vivid color in my memory because it is my life. These silent times are when depression grows taller and wraps its dense, dark grip around my mind, my body, my eyes. The darkness is in the corner of my eyes, just out of sight, no matter where I look.
I paint a smile on and talk to people all day long. But in those same dark corners on my eyes I have to wonder what if they only knew. And if they did know would they be as lost as me?
According to my husband, I have been alarmingly quiet lately. I don't mean to. Really. It just happens.
After a screaming match culminating with said husband telling me to get the fuck out of my head; I told him that I am lost in the darkness of my voices.
I have my friends. Best friends that I have had for years. Our friendships have endured the well-worn time and lately I have been spending an increasing amount of time with them. While I read, sew, crochet, quilt, and even sleep, they are there and we talk. They are my comrades in a perpetual war; one that never stops, one that has wounds that never heal just right. They know me and they understand me.
But they are not real. And that makes me weird and quiet.
I have nothing audible to say. My voice is locked inside my thoughts, my hurts, my scars. I hurt but how does one verbalize horror? Horror in the movies is simply expressed in screams both silent and audible, twisted faces, running, backing into a corner, all until one is consumed completely by the evil.
To say that I am scared is an insult. I am terrified. I am haunted. I live in horror. I have joked before about what kind of writer I could be and I always conclude that I would be one hell of a horror author. I love Stephen King yet I can read very few of his books because ironically, they scare me. However, when I can, I have to wonder what happened to him? Horror does not come naturally to most human minds.
I am struggling at this moment. What I wrote in my previous post has sent me reeling. It is horror in black and white. Black and white that is vivid color in my memory because it is my life. These silent times are when depression grows taller and wraps its dense, dark grip around my mind, my body, my eyes. The darkness is in the corner of my eyes, just out of sight, no matter where I look.
I paint a smile on and talk to people all day long. But in those same dark corners on my eyes I have to wonder what if they only knew. And if they did know would they be as lost as me?
Monday, March 30, 2009
Slow
It is a rare event that my husband and I have a day to ourselves. We typically have 1 or 3 kids with us, he works many weekends and generally we are just going in many different directions that manifest in the ways of birthday parties, karate, soccer, school projects, yard work, house work, grocery shopping, etc. Yesterday was not one of those days.
My daughter spent the day with a family friend and their kids. His kids were with their mother. He didn't have to work and that left the two of us on our own. I saw my daughter off and I actually went back to bed for an hour. I have not been sleeping well so that extra hour did me a lot of good. After that, I got up and walked into a clean kitchen and hot coffee thanks to hubby. We sat on the couch drinking coffee and decided that we should go see a movie... a grown-up movie. We saw Duplicity and loved it.
We spent the rest of the day watching sports; something we both love to do but never have the time or the competitive edge to win out over SpongeBob or Hannah Montana. We then ate ice cream for dinner; something we will never admit to our kids... . We finished the day by taking a walk with our dog and talking about nothing in particular.
Shortly after that my daughter came home covered in face paint, exhausted, and begging to go to bed. It was a good day for her too.
It was a slow day and a good day. We have too few of these and I will look forward to the rare occasion, months down the road where another one will occur by chance. For nearly three years, our lives have been turned upside down by a bitter woman who wishes us, and especially our marriage, harm. Many of our weekends are spent being divided into "his" and hers" teams and it is a tiresome existence.
How comforting it is to know that when the dust settles and we are on our own that we still like, love, and enjoy each other's company. He has his baggage and God knows, I have my own truckload and a storage unit of baggage, but somehow we work and I am thankful for what we have.
My daughter spent the day with a family friend and their kids. His kids were with their mother. He didn't have to work and that left the two of us on our own. I saw my daughter off and I actually went back to bed for an hour. I have not been sleeping well so that extra hour did me a lot of good. After that, I got up and walked into a clean kitchen and hot coffee thanks to hubby. We sat on the couch drinking coffee and decided that we should go see a movie... a grown-up movie. We saw Duplicity and loved it.
We spent the rest of the day watching sports; something we both love to do but never have the time or the competitive edge to win out over SpongeBob or Hannah Montana. We then ate ice cream for dinner; something we will never admit to our kids... . We finished the day by taking a walk with our dog and talking about nothing in particular.
Shortly after that my daughter came home covered in face paint, exhausted, and begging to go to bed. It was a good day for her too.
It was a slow day and a good day. We have too few of these and I will look forward to the rare occasion, months down the road where another one will occur by chance. For nearly three years, our lives have been turned upside down by a bitter woman who wishes us, and especially our marriage, harm. Many of our weekends are spent being divided into "his" and hers" teams and it is a tiresome existence.
How comforting it is to know that when the dust settles and we are on our own that we still like, love, and enjoy each other's company. He has his baggage and God knows, I have my own truckload and a storage unit of baggage, but somehow we work and I am thankful for what we have.
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