Its Thursday, I slept through all of Michael’s alarms, which is rare and also an indicator that I must have been sleeping soundly because he has an alarm that starts at 5:10 and he will snooze it every five minutes until damn near 6. I push, poke, and whine every time. Just set the fucking alarm at 5:30. It makes zero sense; he just wakes up to snooze the alarm every 5 minutes. I’ve tried to explain that psychologically he is making himself more tired than if he would just get up. It’s a fight I will never win.
I lay there awake in bed, then roll over to pick up my phone, pausing to stare at my end table. It’s full again, full of empty Gatorade bottles, wrappers, opened mail, and a bunch of other shit, another telltale sign that I’m falling behind mentally, which is true. Lately, I feel so out of control of things, and I hate it. Yesterday was an annoying day at work, and to top it all off, I started my period. My fuse is short, and I apologized to my kids in advance. It’s never an excuse, but I did forewarn them that the next few days I will be on a shorter fuse than normal, and that I’m sorry and I don’t mean it and that I’m going to try my absolute hardest; I’m always transparent with my kids. I tell them everything that I can to a certain extent; they are my entire world, so yes, my son knows, “Mom’s on her period, let’s try and pick up my Pop-Tart wrapper, or let’s just take out the garbage on my own this week.”
Yesterday on my way home, I thought about drinking; I didn’t think about stopping at that “same old gas station.” I drove in silence and thought about if I stopped, and how it would completely reset me to day one. I wouldn’t feel any better; I would feel worse. I didn’t even have the urge to drink, not even as irritated as I was after leaving work; I did not feel like drinking. I just wanted silence. I was completely wrapped up in my own thoughts, and I found that asking myself questions and having a discussion with my internal dialogue was actually helping. I love to talk about the situation when I’m stressed; some take it as complaining, and my poor Michael probably gets so sick of it more than he will ever admit, but it’s the only way I will ever feel in control of something I can’t control is by talking about it, releasing that stress, and just venting. If I have a looming anxiety about something with an unknown outcome, I absolutely want to talk about every possible outcome. Did I misinterpret something? Do you think this is what they are thinking? Did my boss reply “OK” because they are upset? Or because they really are just saying “OK,” sounds good that you aren’t going to be in today? I am an extreme overthinker; maybe that goes hand in hand with my drinking. I don’t live in anxiety every day; I just overthink every scenario. It’s some symptom of anxiety.
I make my way down the hall and into the kitchen; Willow’s alarm was going off for her to wake up. I opened the living room curtains, let the cats outside, and made my way to the coffee pot. Every once in a while, she has a little cup of coffee to feel like she’s an adult, and I let her. It’s something my Nana always let me do, and every time Willow pours her own cup of coffee and creamer, it brings me right back to my Nana’s 70s-styled kitchen and me pouring my own cup of “Java” and putting as much milk and sugar in it as I pleased. My Nana and grandpa raised me and were my solid foundation when my home life was falling apart. I lost her in 2016 to pancreatic cancer a few months after I lost my grandpa, and it was one of the darkest times of my life. The depression that I entered, I fear reaching that depth again. I feel the lump in my throat forming as I type about it. My Nana was an alcoholic and struggled with addiction to prescription medication. Even if she never came out and told anyone else, I knew. She told me everything; I miss her dearly. She was a free-spirited hippie who never wore a bra and who smoked pot. I wish my kids could have gotten to know her. I wasn’t there when she passed; I was the only sibling. She passed in North Carolina, surrounded by my family who drove down. I didn’t have a car at the time, and if I did, I wouldn’t have been able to drive. I’m an epileptic, and I didn’t have my license then. I wasn’t there. My sisters were; my mom was. I wasn’t. The person with whom I was the closest, and who raised me, passed away, and I never got to say goodbye.
Starting this blog, I have hopes of healing my inner self: my trauma. The in-depth legwork I never truly did the first time around.
Soberly, Yours. 