So, you know, therapy.
We talked about my basically dropping the mic, saying ‘I’m out bitches’ and walking out of the kitchen and all that occurs in it.
I told Karen that one of the things that is really bothering me these days is that I feel like I am constantly in mourning for parts of my personality.
I mostly miss the part of me that was able to work like a crazy person, gathering respect from so many that I came into contact with, and still going out and being social on the weekend.
Of course, I was completely manic then, I just didn’t know it. I did have a good time though.
Then there was the part of me that had my nice little sweet job here in our new state. A nice little Mom and Pop shop that I really enjoyed.
The fact that I can’t hold down a big time professional job OR a smaller less stressful job are actually two separate issues for me. And two separate parts of my personality to mourn.
So, Karen and I talked about talking to hubby about how I feel about the kitchen. The kitchen is my workspace. My cubicle. My office.
In case you haven’t noticed, much of how I define myself is work related. Even without a paying job, I still define myself by the work I do in the home.
So I came home and I gave it a shot. I put it the way Karen and I decided, comparing it to his mechanic’s bay when he was still an auto mechanic. Basically, this is your space but someone keeps dumping crap in it without regard for you or your feelings and over your objections. Doesn’t that sound like something that would bother you?
But what does that have to do with the kitchen?
Oh fuck thank God he’s cute.
So, he doesn’t get it. And, since I’ve been nearly silent on the matter to him this whole time, he really doesn’t have any frame of reference for how long this has been bothering me.
And that’s my bad.
He still doesn’t know what it is that I want him to do.
And I’m not in this to hurt MIL’s feelings.
Plus, it turns out he’s upset with me, because I’m always saying that I look forward to him having weekends off so we can hang out and then he had this one and I slept the whole time.
So now, I’m apologizing for being an asshole (guilty) and I’m backpedaling on the thing that I’m upset about, because he just doesn’t get it, and he’s annoyed at me and it’s for good reason.
There is another issue between hubby and me, which is a distinct lack of sex. I have a condition called intersticial cystitis which makes sex painful. Add to that pain from menopause, and I’m a barrel of laughs.
So, I’m looking at that, and I’m looking at what I see as me being useless in the house, and I’m seriously wondering what my role here even is.
What is the point of me?
Karen feels that I could be headed for another hospitalization if I don’t find a way to make myself understood. She feels that I have left myself unexpressed for so long that the conversation will happen either before hospitalization is necessary or during my hospitalization.
I do not want to be in the hospital.
I do not want to be in the hospital.
I do not know how to make myself understood.
My issues are small and petty. But they have piled so high that if they were made of gold, Smaug would have taken up residence.
Maybe I have to take a different approach. Tomorrow, I should get the boot cast off my foot. That should clear me for exercise. A walk in the morning to get going.
I could figure out ways to just “go out for a walk” anytime I get feeling pissy.
But, maybe, if I’m exercising, I won’t feel like I need such control.
And don’t think that I don’t see how I make myself the “bad guy” in all this. I see it. I haven’t fixed myself that far yet.
I have learned in my life how to take the blame. It’s how you make things easier for other people. If you blame yourself, then they don’t have to look at what they may have done wrong. It’s the quickest route out of a problem. The fact that it causes other problems is completely irrelevant.
It seems like the more work I do on myself, the more that there is left to do.
One more note before I go.
I read this morning a post by Bipolar First Bipolar Together about a suicide that was apparently blamed on the blog by Therese Borchard. From what I understand, someone took something that she shared that was personal and used it as justification for suicide. Or the victim’s family did.
Every day, we come here and share the depths of ourselves in this space. Every day I tell all of you more then I tell anyone else, except my therapist. Every day I’m sure I say something that someone could use as justification to end their life.
Now, since it hasn’t happened that way with something I have written, it’s easy for me to sit here at my keyboard and say that I would continue on, sharing my experiences and try to push through without changing. The truth is that it would change me. But, if we let it change the sharing of our personal stories, we will never get anything done. It will be harder for us to get better because we won’t have that easy proof that we are not alone. And we will not take away the stigma of our disease because we won’t be willing to talk about it.
That’s what I should have posted on Ms. Borchard’s site.
Anxious and depressed….wired and tired.
I hate feeling like this. I was just depressed. I forced myself to get a few things done that desperately needed to be done. I took one of the frozen meals that I had the forethought to pack up a few weeks ago, because I just don’t see me cooking dinner today.
But after I got those few chores done, the butterflies in my stomach are awake and trying to bust out and run amuck. I’m so tired. And now I’m edgy. I took a klonopin, so in a half hour I’ll be ready for bed.
That was yesterday.
I ended up going and laying down around 3:00 pm and slept until 5:30am this morning. I’m exhausted. I know that if I went and laid down right now I would go to sleep. For hours. Hell, the only reason I got up this morning is because I had to pee. The only reason I stayed up was to feed the cats and go to therapy.
I think that it is the giving in on the kitchen space. I keep going to straighten up the food in the fridge or on the cabinet and stop myself. Not gonna let this be my problem. But, then, what is my purpose? What’s the point?
I didn’t know how worthless giving up that control was going to make me feel. I really didn’t. I thought it would be freeing. I knew it would be hard, but I did think, that in the long run, I would feel better because I wouldn’t be spending all my time “fixing” things.
The thing is, and this is what Karen will tell me, is that handling the cooking and shopping and all that is my job. I don’t work outside of the home. I work inside of the home and this is a really big part of it.
And, now, I don’t have that either.
I made a salad this morning for me to eat later. It was nearly impossible to find the things I had purchased for this salad because it was all hidden behind 2 (?) rotisserie chicken from the grocery store, cannoli filling, cannolis and various other piles of crap. I wonder how long she’s going to keep those chickens.
I still get to do the laundry though! woohoo.
I still get to try and keep the dinky little room we jokingly call our bedroom as clean as possible. It’s not very possible. It’s literally only a tiny bit bigger then the bed that is in there. It’s near impossible to move around, let alone organize. It’s an overwhelming task, and truthfully, I don’t even know where to start.
Giving up my tasks in the kitchen is so hard. It’s exhausting to try to not care. I don’t know if I’m sleeping so much to escape or because it’s so exhausting.
I don’t know.