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.
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.
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.
I woke up on the wrong side of the bed again. It’s been too hot to sleep here until about midnight so I’ve stayed up much later than I usually do for about the last week. I need between 10 and 12 hours of sleep a night to be a semi functional human being the next day and I haven’t been getting that most days. I’ve been sleeping in longer than I should but I’ve been trying my best.
I slept way too long today. I didn’t get up until almost 11 and even that was very hard. I’m pretty sure I’m in the extended beginning of a bad episode that is going to get worse in the next few days. I always feel them coming. Like when you see and smell and feel a storm coming.
Today I was trying at least a little not to be a hell beast but my husband started talking to me. I tried to get it across to him that this was not the brightest of ideas but instead he started to talk to me about THINGS HE SHOULDN”T TALK TO ME ABOUT EVER especially not first thing in the morning when I’m dog tired and trying to be a civilized human being.
My cynical, pessimistic husband was telling me that I was wrong to resent the amount of money that we pay my in laws for rent (utilities and groceries) and that I need to look on the bright side and appreciate that it really isn’t that much for rent.
The reasons that this is something he shouldn’t say to me is firstly no matter how many times I explain it to him, he’ll never understand it’s not the money we pay them, it’s how that money is spent that bothers me. [for brevity and clarifications sake, my mother in law is a hoarder and spends a ridiculous amount of money on food that ends up in the garbage. She stocks a pantry she never uses and it keeps getting bigger and bigger until it expires and she is made to throw it away]
Secondly because I am the fucking queen of silver linings! I am the one who always looks on the bright side and tries to find the good in everything. And in the last several years of our increasingly difficult marriage he has failed to see good in anything. He is always negative, always hopeless, always seeing only what’s wrong.
I will interrupt myself by saying that maybe he’s turned over another leaf. Maybe he’s decided to change and try to see the good in things. I hope so, I will continue to hope so, but I know better.
Thirdly because the way he says these things. It’s not “hey, maybe you should try to find the good” it’s “you’ve been a terrible person lately and you don’t ever do anything and you should be as enlightened and as appreciative as me that we only have to pay blahblah amount for rent because living anywhere else would be more expensive.”
Needless to say, I did not handle this well. I got mad. I didn’t yell, I don’t really do that. But I got snippy and huffy.
He then told me that I’m terrible to be around and asked if I’d talked to my therapist lately about why I’m angry all the time. I told him I KNOW why I’m angry all the time. It’s because I hate living here with every single ounce of my being and I don’t have anymore “looking on the positive side” when it comes to this situation because I used it all up over the last 3 years.
I do know that I’m being ungrateful. I do. My in laws do a lot for us and there is some question as to whether we’re going to be able to function on our own when we move out. (That question is also the answer as to why I’m not looking for a smaller place on my own instead of a larger apartment for all four of us. I’m sick, he’s sick and we have two kids to take care of. They need us both because neither of us could do it by ourselves so he’s my co caregiver. And I’m
stuck okay with that for the time being.)
But I can’t be grateful anymore. I told him that.
Being grateful keeps me here. Taking the happy pills that keep me complacently numb instead of angry keeps me here.
If I’m not mad we’re never getting out of this fucking house, my daughter will never get into a better school and I’m going to die here and be buried under my mother in laws mountain of expired canned food items in the basement. That we paid for.
Fuck. That. Shit.
I woke up tired, sweaty and cranky.
And then people talked to me.
It was terrible.
I should have stayed in bed.
Saturday I sacrificed my energy, my creativity and my pain free day on the alter of good mom-hood. I took my kids to the pool. Which involved me staying 2 feet from my 3 year old and 5 feet from my 8 year old at all times. It was far more exhausting than I expected. I spent the rest of the day watching mindless TV, too tired to even fidget.
The last two days have been an odd mix of brain dead and inspired. At dinner last night I stumbled over my words and my sentences were word salad but I wrote a brilliant scene for my screenplay immediately after. I wrote the above paragraph and then spent 5 minutes staring dazedly at the screen, my mind a complete blank.
I feel like my mind is a dryer, in the cycle where it keeps clothes from getting wrinkled. It spins with brilliant activity and creativity and then suddenly, randomly and without warning, everything stops and is still and lifeless.