Tag: lifestruggles

Silent Tears

The tears that soak my pillow at night, or mix with the water in the shower, or the ones that roll down my cheeks when I’m driving or suddenly spring from my eyes when I’m sitting at work; those are the silent tears.

I don’t want to care. 

I don’t want to feel.

I don’t want to ache.

I don’t want to cry.

I try so hard not to care, not to feel, not to ache, not to cry – ever.  Crying only makes it hurt more. And there is never a hug, never a shoulder offered, never a pat on the back.  There is just………. nothing.  Nothing but silence.  I wish feeling like nothing to them wouldn’t hurt.  It would be so much easier. 

I don’t know what else to do, what else to say, what else to give.  I walk on the eggshells that I placed in my own path. I punish myself more than any God or person ever could for my failings and my sins. 

I continue to give all of me away to them and they don’t even realize it. I wish they knew how hard I try, how fucking hard I try  

I feel the rage in me. It scares me. The rage is worse after the silent tears. It screams to be released.  It claws at my throat. I push it down.  I am scared what will happen if it gets out.  I’m scared for me. I’m scared for them. 

I will continue to cry my silent tears, but what happens when there are no more tears to cry?

Tornado Warning

There is a tornado warning today.

I want to find that tornado.

I want to run to that tornado and jump in head first.

I want to flail and rage and scream and cry while the winds whip around me. Let it do what it will to me.

I need to feel battered and bruised. I yearn for the physical pain to match the emotional pain.

I want to dance against the vortex until there is nothing left in me.

Let me float lifelessly in the fatal winds.

As the winds tire from carrying me, let it toss me into the calm, lifeless center.

Will there be peace there? Can I rest there forever? Can I live there forever?

I am my own tornado.

I will not let you see my vortex or feel my vortex. That is only for me to feel.

I created the turbulence I live in every day. Me. I did that. I own that. That is my burden to bare.

You will live in my calm lifeless center where you will feel safe. Where I can convince you and the world that all is well.

There is a tornado warning today.

I am that tornado.

Permission

I called my baby girl on my way home from work yesterday.  Actually, I was on my way to my therapy appointment.  She hadn’t been interacting with me like she typically does, and I hadn’t laid eyes on her in over a month.  I can always tell, sense, feel, when my girl is struggling. 

She was weepy as soon as we started to chat.  I asked her how she was, and she said she was alive and doing the best she can.  I told her I didn’t like the way that sounded, and I can tell she is starting to spiral into her darkness.  She unloaded some of what was bothering her. 

  • Working like a motherfucker and she still can’t get ahead
  • Barely being able to pay her bills and keep food on the table
  • Doing everything for drippy dick and getting nothing but criticism
  • Being responsible for everything in the apartment
  • Knowing she needs to leave him, but not knowing how to do it
  • Wanting to leave him, but not knowing if she can
  • Knowing leaving him will take her years to get over and he will find someone new in about a week
  • Feeling like the black sheep of the family
  • Feeling like she embarrasses the family
  • Staying away from family because it’s just easier

I interjected as she spoke.  Trying to encourage her to get therapy, to have someone else to talk to and bounce things off.  I told her to remember that relationships are two sided.  Everyone is equal. 

And then I stopped talking.  I realized that I had inadvertently created a mini me.  My girl watched me for 18 years.  She watched me being the problem solver.  She watched me cleaning, cooking, doing wash.  She watched me handle a full-time job, kids, activities, family.  She rarely heard me complain, rarely saw me cry and almost never saw me and her dad fight.  I let my daughter grow up to be a pleaser, just like me.  I let my daughter feel she needed to take on the weight of the world because that’s what she thought she was supposed to do.  I let my daughter grow up thinking she was responsible for everyone else’s happiness.  I let my daughter grow up thinking the woman handled her shit, the house shit, and everyone else’s shit without complaining or thinking twice about it. 

Wow.  That’s fucked up.  Seriously fucked up.  I did my girl a huge disservice and I hate it.  I apologized to her yesterday.  I wish I could make it up to her in some way.  I did tell her that relationships need to be a give and take.  No one person should be responsible for the majority of what needs to be done.  It’s a partnership.  Communication is key. 

How can I give my girl advice when I showed her how to survive in a dysfunctional relationship.  I gave her all the tools to play pretend so anyone looking in sees nothing, senses nothing.  I showed her to just keep smiling and doing what everyone expects of you.  It’s easier that way. 

I am so sorry, baby girl.  Your mom is trying.  She is trying to stand on her own two feet, to stop asking for permission to be happy, to stop looking for acceptance in the way she wants to live her life and to just do it.  She will hopefully show you how to run full speed at your dreams no matter what your age.  She will show you that she doubts herself, that she is scared to fail and be the butt of family jokes.  But I think she is going to do it anyway. 

Stay tuned, baby girl.

My apartment

From my office window I have a pretty fantastic view of the city I work in.  It’s a romanticized view from my third-floor window.  It’s a nice part of the city.  Lots of small shops, restaurants, etc.  Catty-corner from me is a building I look at quite a bit.  It is a three-story brick building.  Painted a deep red.  The first floor is commercial and I’m guessing the second and third floor are apartments. 

I want to live on the third floor of the building.  There are big, old windows looking over the city.  I stare at the third-floor windows.  Today, the white curtains are closed.  I wonder what is behind those curtains.  What does the apartment look like?  Is it as glorious as I imagine it to be? 

Could I live alone? Alone in the city?  What would that be like?  Would I actually like myself? I feel like I have allowed so many others in my life to define me; to define my importance.  What am I if I am not needed?  Am I still important?  Am I still relevant to my family and friends if I am not actively doing something for them?  Will I be forgotten?  What do I become? 

Am I then just a lonely, sad, middle-aged woman with nothing?  Maybe?  I would be able to paint and write.  I would come and go as I pleased.  Where would I even go?  Would I have the courage to walk into different places alone?  Sit down and eat alone?  Try and meet new people alone? That is a terrifying thought.  

How alone would alone be?  How would I redefine who I am when I have always been something to someone?  Could I find a new purpose for my life?  Isn’t it a bit late to try and figure out who I want to be or who I actually am?  I wonder who I would lose along the way?  Is this my mid-life crisis?  Why am I questioning so much about my life?  What the hell is wrong with me? 

The curtains just opened.  I wonder what’s next for whoever lives in my apartment.

I Wish They Knew

I wish my family knew a few things about me.  About the real me.  The person I am now, not the person I was 20 years ago. 

 

I am not perfect.  Not that anyone in my family was thinking that I was.  No one is perfect.  We are all flawed in our own ways.  My flaws are much different and were created through different life experiences.  Some experiences they know about, some they don’t.  And that’s okay. 

 

I love my family.  I would do anything to protect my family.  Anything.

 

I am not strong.  Everyone thinks I’m “strong like bull” and nothing can hurt me or phase me and I can take on the problems of the world.  That is not at all who I am.  I tend to take on the stressors of others.  I carry them like they were my own.  I try to fix the stressors, fix the ones that I love and fix those that are hurting.  This hurts me in the long run.  I have maxed myself.  There is nothing left for me to give of myself.  I am numb to the hurt and heartache.

 

I do not want to disappoint anyone, ever.  Especially, my family.  I feel like I disappoint others when I don’t do or say or act the way I am expected.  It was hard for me to break free from the prison of always doing the right thing.  The right thing was typically someone else’s idea of what was right, not necessarily my idea of what was right.  I put many very important relationships to the test by not following what I knew to be true in my heart.  Some relationships were lost, some are okay, and some are still struggling.

 

I have a problem standing on my own two feet and saying no.  The is very true when it comes to possibly hurting someone’s feelings.  I overextend myself quite a bit.

 

I would much sooner ignore problems that might be creating friction and wait for it to pass.  Of course, this ultimately causes more problems and creates something I like to call the cycle of guilt.  I’m sure I am not the only one familiar with this cycle.  

 

I am not cold hearted or mean. I care more than I should at times. I guess I can come off that way when I’m doing all I can to stay afloat in my life. I have donned my armor over the years to help protect myself. No one wants to hurt or be the reason someone is hurting. Pushing others away is far easier than continually hurting the people I care about.

I am different. I am semi-okay with that. I am not traditional, but I am also not a rebel. I think I fall somewhere in between. I like my short, edgy hair. I like my tattoos and I will get more. I swear, a lot. I am probably not always socially correct. I can behave when society requires it.

I have different views on life. I am intrigued by spiritual healing. I have always had a bit of an ability to feel or sense things. I want to hon that skill. I want to expand my mind in various ways and not feel like I will be made fun of.

I want to live freely, without judgement, criticism, or punishment. I want to agree to disagree and keep moving forward. I want the decisions I make to be respected. In turn, I will do the same for others.

The Brady Bunch, Partridge Family and the Walton’s were not REAL!  No family is perfect.  Let’s accept that imperfection and just love each other.

Answers

I want someone to give me the answers.  I want the universe to show me the answers.  I want whatever God(s) are out there to slap me upside the face and shove the answers down my throat.

I need answers. 

I need to feel peace.  I need to feel comfort.  I need to feel stability.  I need to feel rooted. I need to feel safe.  I need to feel secure.  I need to feel heard.  I need to feel understood.  I need to feel love.

I need all those things.

Do I deserve all those things?

Am I worthy of all those things?

Do I deserve answers?

Am I worthy of answers?

Marks

I see the marks, feel the pain from the marks. Marks that I never thought I would have. No one would believe that I would have these marks. I still can’t believe I have these marks. I never thought I would understand the marks I see on others. I now understand. I understand the extreme mental anguish and despair that evoke the marks. I always thought I could handle it, handle my emotional pain. I never thought it could get worse. It got worse.

Was that day my rock bottom? I keep thinking about that day. I see it clearly; I hear it clearly. I remember. I remember fear, hurt, regret, disappointment, pain, embarrassment, despair, hopelessness. What I wanted was the darkness. The darkness of nothing. Was that the answer? Nothing? I wondered how long I would need the darkness; need the nothingness to last. Would it be for an hour, a day, a week, a month, a year? Would it be forever? Should it be forever? What would it be like, the darkness? Would it be like floating? Seeing everyone I loved, but I can’t get to them? Would I feel nothing? Would I feel the people I loved? Did the marks keep me from darkness, from nothingness? Maybe the marks saved me in some fucked up way. Did they?

It was a week ago that the marks showed up on my body. A week is not enough time to answer all the questions or figure out all the answers. Some days, waking up is the best I can offer. Other days, I want to conquer the world and give a big fuck you to all those judging me for trying to figure out my world. Why am I not allowed to be me, EVER? Always dancing the line between acceptable and hearing the disappointed tsk. Live for me, live for them. Live for me, lose them. Live for them, lose me. Why are there only two options?

Fuck. Do you see? This is where the marks come from. The exasperation, the desperateness, the hopelessness. My marks are mine. I own them, I understand them. I needed my marks.

Stuff – just more stuff

It’s been forever since I sat down to…. unleash some of my thoughts.  It feels like so much has happened, yet everything is the same.  Life keeps moving, no matter how much I want and need it to slow down and maybe even stop for a bit.  Just a short press of the pause button, that’s all I would like.  That’s not true.  I want a lot more.  Like a lot, a lot.  A fuck-ton more. 

What do I want?  I want answers.  I want discussion.  If someone asked, “how is your relationship/marriage?” What would the answer be?  Good?  OK?  Normal?  Is that the truth?  Is that what is perceived or what is real? 

Thinking back over the last almost four years, I have left and returned three times.  Not once was there any meaningful communication when I returned.  Just silence.  I always crawled back, tail between my legs.  Back into the position of wife, mom, Mimi, daughter, sister.  The way everyone expects me to be.  Not me as a person, but me as a wife, mom, Mimi, daughter, sister.  As long as I am here, everything is ok.  As long as I go to sleep in the same bed, wake up in the same bed, do the same things over and over again, everything is ok.  Because I am here, where I am supposed to be. 

Nothing was ever worked out or talked about when I returned.  It was just accepted that things go back to “normal” to the status quo. But there was always silence when I came back.  The silence is uncomfortable, but somehow comfortable.  Because after the chaos of the kids and grandkids leave, the silence returns.  The silence has always been part of the relationship.  There are just times where the silence screamed louder than others.   This is one of those times.  I feel the anger, the rush of emotion, the resentment, the fear, the unhappiness.  I feel it all from you, but we can’t talk about it.  Talking will make it real.

My therapist once told me, no good marriage ends in an affair.  There I said it.  The word.  The word that gets ignored.  The action that gets ignored. 

Something just hit me and hit me hard.  The times I came back, the times there were small talks, the times where I needed more, the times where the emotions were rolling out of me; I was never asked what I wanted.  I have asked that question thousands of times.  What do you want?  It’s a hard question to ask, right?  What do I want?

Decision made

I think I have finally decided.  I finally decided I will eat myself to death.  Sound good?  Questions, comments, or concerns?  Why, you ask, would I even consider doing this?  Why not?!  I can consume all the awful, horrible things that this world has so lovingly created and that will cause havoc inside my body.  At some point the body will not be able to handle it and I will hopefully just go peacefully.  Even if I end up at an ER, I will have my DNR strapped around my neck and tattooed various places on my body, so everyone knows – DO NOT RESUCITATE.  But it can’t be that simple, right? I know it, you know it.  Jesus, why is keeping my mouth shut so fucking hard?  I just can’t stop it.  Open mouth, insert food.  Step on scale, swear and call myself names.  Fat ass being my favorite. 

What happened to me?  Why did I exit the weight loss surgery highway and start following the food truck path?  I sit here feeling like an overstuffed sausage link just waiting for the casing to split.  It’s fucking miserable, but I don’t stop. 

Is it stress?  Oh, absofuckinglutely it’s stress.  What about self-control?  Yep, total lack of self-control.  Do I feel shame for doing this?  The shame is mortifying, but it doesn’t make me stop.  What about guilt?  Guilt is what makes my world spin.  Of course, I feel guilty.  Guilty for disappointing people, guilty for embarrassing people, guilty for every fucking thing I have done wrong in my life.  And now, now it’s just out of control.  We all know control is an illusion, right?  But I want to live in that illusion of control.  I want to control the hand to mouth movement.  No, I want to be in control of my life. 

And, BOOM.  There it is.  It always comes out eventually.  The reason I mean.  I have no control over any aspect of my life.  None.  Nada.  Zip.  Zilch.  For all the people that are in my world, everyone has a different opinion of what my life should be like, look like.  And all I can do is shut down the feels and eat.  Cause if I’m gonna disappoint everyone, I might as well go big. Get it, go big…………….