Monday, May 21, 2012

It's a good thing I don't wear makeup.

Just when I think I have everything under control, I seem to fall apart.

Having a big sobbing cry the moment upon arriving at work on a Monday morning is not a good thing.

I'm trying to separate myself from this feeling and take a serious look at it, like a scientist would. Put the slide under the microscope, get answers.

Stress. Trying to conceive, trying to sell my home, trying to be a worker, trying to be a wife, trying to be a mother. Getting a speeding ticket I can't afford.

Failure. I'm not getting pregnant. No one's buying our home. I stare at my computer at work like I've forgotten how to use it. I don't think I'm the wife my husband deserves. I'm screwing up our insurance with my speeding ticket.

Guilt. Because of the failing. And I don't want to hurt the people I love with the blinking vacancy sign I carry with me everywhere.

Fatigue. I'm not even sure I should get pregnant if I'm this exhausted all the time. Why? The fatigue is unwarranted. After all, I'm not pregnant, and I get around 7 hours of sleep at night.

I think I could sleep for 12 hours. And if not, I'd have no problem with just laying there if that were possible.

But it feels like there's so much to be done (and really it's just basic stuff, shouldn't be hard). Have to shop. Have to cook. Have to take care of the child, who happens to be my Big Love, my reason for living. Have to. Have to.

Have to open my eyes, move my legs, stop crying.

I have a lot. More than a lot. I have everything. Still, I feel like M'Lynn in Steel Magnolias, except I'm not sure what died. I wish someone would explain it to my heart.

I might talk to a professional, except I have better things to do with that time and money than to find out that I'm being a crybaby. (This is my history with doctors: Hi, my wrists kill me and I can't use my hands. Oh, there's nothing wrong with me? Okay. Hi, I can't get pregnant. Oh, there's nothing wrong with me? Okay. Hi, my back has me in absolute agony 24 hours a day. Oh, I'm just out of shape? Right, thanks, bye. AND I PAY THESE PEOPLE HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS. I'm now tapped out and hate doctors.)

Although I'm tired always, I only feel down like this now and then. PMS is a definite trigger. Maybe this is PMS. Heaven knows, I'm aware of the power of hormones.

Writing it out here helps. I still love to read. I still want to write. It's hard not having the time to do the things I enjoy doing. At least I know I still enjoy them. I need to find my inner strength. Embrace the cry when I need to cry. Be good to the ones who love me. Find a way to move, do things, even though my feet are trapped in sand.

* * *

The essentially selfish nature of people has bothered me for a long time, in the sense that I'm bothered by "the world" and "the way things are." How petulant of me.

Knowing I'm one of those selfish beings is the worst part.

All of my problems stem from my selfishness -- mostly, wanting more. Wanting more never ends well. And my biggest problem, the thing I constantly want more of, is time.

I crave time like a drug. It's why I have a speeding ticket. It's why I get angry and almost physically ill at the necessity of employment. It's why I don't want to bother doing anything or going anywhere or knowing anyone.

It isn't healthy.

But at least I know what I'm looking at in that microscope now.

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