I am so fucking co-dependent.
I mean… seriously.
I rip the skin off of the sides of my thumbnails.
I have done this for years. I have no idea when the habit formed. None. I can’t remember NOT doing it – so there you go. Years, I guess. Til it bleeds.
Sometimes I put band-aids on them so I can stop, but then when the band-aids where out it is all I can fucking do to put another one on. I hate feeling like I can’t control myself.
It’s the same with my medication. I take anti-anxiety/anti-depression medication and also some herbal shit for the plantars warts that have invaded the bottoms of my heals on my left foot. Every day it is a struggle to get them down my throat. Every day I fight myself about taking them.
I tell my mother this and she just tells me that I need to suck it up and take them – and if I had some other sort of illness I would do it. But it’s not easy like that.
I don’t even know how to explain it because it just makes me feel insane, but I know I’m not alone here. I know I can’t be alone.
When I went to the last therapist I called “mine” she told me that it’s part of the disease. How it fights for its existence in your body, in your mind – telling you that needing the medication is a stupid weakness and that you could control yourself if you just tried harder – but the fact is – it isn’t like that. You stop taking the pills and then the disease takes over again – it drags you back down into the depths of the fog. Everything disappears. You’re numb again.
I know I can’t go back to that but feeling everything is hard.
That sounds like bullshit too and I know it is bullshit but at the same time it isn’t.
I feel like I can’t handle my own feelings. My own thoughts. My own… self.
The guy who runs the hiking club I go to emailed me today and asked me out to coffee.
I’m not some naive little nancy who doesn’t understand when someone is hitting on me.
And then I think about Ed and I think about our agreements and conversations about things like this and the fact is – I don’t want to sleep with the Hiking Guy. Like ever. So if I go to coffee with him I feel like that’s some sort of insane open invitation into my vagina, you know? But it fucking isn’t. It’s just deepening a friendship. But the world is so fucked up. You can’t do anything without it being about sex. At least the end game is about that, right? Even women who say they’re just your friends – fuck that. Everything is sexual. I should write a book with that as the title “Everything is Sexual” – because when it comes down to it – sex is the thing that makes the world turn, really.
I told him I’d love to meet him for coffee sometime and chat or whatever the fuck he wants to call meeting for coffee. I used to think that was all innocent but it isn’t. Nothing is.
I realize that I’m rambling now. I can’t really help it.
I’m going through this insane life crisis where I realize that I’m not very good at anything.
Or at very least, I surround myself with people who are either better at the things I’m good at than me or who see no value in the skills I possess – which leaves me feeling like a giant pile of shit most of the time.
I mean, seriously. I’m spending time right now when I could be working on a novel or poetry anthology writing this shitty blog that not one fucking person reads because I know I’ll just get interrupted and I don’t even know what the fuck is wrong with me. Why can’t I just be happy like normal people – or get better at pretending that I am? All these mothers who are so “fulfilled” just being mothers. And if they aren’t then they’re so “fulfilled” with their job and somehow get over the guilt of leaving their kids at home all day without them – being raised, essentially, but someone else.
I look back and can’t believe the woman I once was – dropping my kid off at daycare for literally ten hours a day.
That’s bullshit parenting. You can say it isn’t all day long but when you look deep inside yourself you know it is. Absolute bullshit. But I had kids and so I need to make my bed and lie in it, right? I have to do right by them and by myself.
One of my friends is taking all this time from her husband and children and working on her writing and she said she knows it’s fucking up her marriage and her relationship with her children but she isn’t allowing herself the luxury of feeling guilty because she needs this writing time in order to sort herself out. I don’t even know what that is. She feels certain things will be right on the other side. I’m way too scared to do that, even at the expense of my soul, because I would hate the person I’d become if I abandoned everything.
Don’t think I never think about it, because I do.
At least once a week I think about giving up everything and starting over somehow.
Then I think about the fact that I can’t even bring myself to get my own fucking band-aid so I’ll stop picking at my own damned skin until it bleeds.
And it brings new waves of guilt and insanity to realize that if I left and struck out to be myself, I would probably die.