About the locked marriage essay

Due to some proprietary information contained in my post (read unique situations I might use in my writing someday) I’ve locked it.

I’d love for you to read it so just drop me a line and I’ll give you the password.

Sorry for the trouble! But I think it’s worth it!


A question for you (yes, you)

I am tired of writing/whining/thinking/worrying/living in the current moment. Things are not good for me right now and I’m sick of it.

I need an escape.

I have several essay topics waiting for me to write them. I don’t know which one to do next. Also since I’m a fairly new blogger, I’m not sure what it is you want to hear from me.

So I’ll let you decide. I’ll list the topics and you pick which one you want to read about.

The topics are (for some reason I had a drum roll playing in my head while I typed that)

-How I rebel in little ways

-Not like other girls (or real feminism)

-The House Fire

-My two ex-husbands (Yes even writing about this topic would be better than thinking about the right now)

-Resident Evil and Feminism

-Living in Utah

-Why we live with my in laws (not so off topic but it might help)

-A summary and excerpt of my screenplay based on a year in my life

-Freedom from Should

If you have anything in particular you’d like me to write about, let me know!

What do you want to read about? Please comment and help me out!

something clever here

I haven’t decided what to do yet.

But I listened to Bullet for my Valentine in the car on the way to therapy and that usually does not bode well.

Hopefully my therapist will have some insight since it seems I am out at the moment.

We have an appointment to see an apartment tomorrow. It has 17 stairs and no fence for the yard. I’m not good with stairs but would it be worth a couple more tumbles down them for us to live on our own?

Add one more thing to the scales. Waiting to see which side will fall.

Just crying myself to sleep

I’m not panicky anymore. Just full on depressed.

I know I am because I am this close to giving up.

If I go back on my meds, maybe I can numb myself enough not to feel my misery.

Maybe I can drink enough to get me through all the bullshit.

Maybe I can shove it all back down and keep it bottled up inside, silent and ignored and ever festering.

What’s one more year. There’s a chance it won’t kill me.

I probably shouldn’t have said that. 

My husband asked me about our monthly budget yesterday and from his phrasing and tone I knew where he was headed. 

“We can’t afford to move out” 

I panicked and told him that I would kill myself if we lived here passed September. 

I’ve never said such a thing to anybody before. 

In 25 years of death wish I’ve never threatened anyone with it. 

I’ve been in constant panic since yesterday afternoon. I couldn’t sleep. My heart is pounding. My head hurts. 

But I’ve realized two things today. 

Firstly, I hate living here so much because I can never find peace. I have no sanctuary. No place to escape. It’s like walking with legos under every fucking step. Every fucking day. For three fucking years. 

Secondly, I don’t think I was threatening. Or at least not idly. I haven’t been so close to crisis in a decade. I have thought about suicide more in the last year than in the previous ten combined.

If I have to live here past summer I’m sure at some point I will hurt someone. Probably me. 

I can’t do it anymore. 

At least now he knows. 

Love and things like it

There are things I haven’t written about here on my blog because I couldn’t. I couldn’t write about them because I loathe vulnerability in myself. I hate to feel vulnerable and to be perceived that way. In others, of course, I think vulnerability and the capacity for showing it are rare and valuable traits. Just not for me.

The reason I can write about my mental illness is because I do not see it as a vulnerability. It’s just a part of who I am and it doesn’t make me weak. I am strong because of and in spite of my mental illness.

But failing at love time and time again is a vulnerability. A big one. And I’m ashamed of it. So I haven’t written about it much.

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