lost – How do I…life?

The Dance

How long have we been dancing the dance? Do you remember? I think the real dancing started about four years ago. To be fair and completely honest, the dancing was always there. It was in the background at times, but it was always there.

You do know the dancing I’m talking about, right? It’s what has become our traditional relationship dance. I think we unknowingly started this dance; it wasn’t intentional. We did what we needed to do to, right? Is that how you remember the dance starting? There were times family interfered with our relationship. We each pacified the other. I know I felt stuck in the middle and I’m sure you did as well. Looking back, I wish we would have had the ability to cope with the interference and stop the dancing. But we danced around the problems, hoping they would just disappear. While it wasn’t always looming over our shoulders, the dancing was still happening in the background; waiting for a weak moment to speed up the tempo, to make one of us feel weak, vulnerable, unsettled. We did the best we could, right?

I think there was a time, and it probably was about four years ago, where the dancing pattern we are in now started. I would talk to you about needing help with decisions, kids, money, day to day stuff. I would talk, you would listen. I would get frustrated and stop talking. You waited me out, at least that’s how I felt/feel. You waited until I could no longer take the awkward silence, the no talking. I would break my silence, and everything would eventually go back to our normal dancing. It’s odd now that I think about it. I couldn’t stand living in the awkward silence, so I broke. But there was still silence, just a different kind of silence. It was the silent song of our dance. Our dancing pattern happened when, like every three or six months? The dance always started and ended the same way. I feel like I tried over and over again. Do you feel that way? Like you tried over and over again? I guess it doesn’t matter.

We are still dancing. Now we dance around each other. We dance around talking, touching, feeling. What happens when the dance ends? What happens when one of us stops dancing? What if it’s you? What if it’s me? Does it look different or feel different?

Do we continue to live in the comfortable uncomfortableness that surrounds us daily because living in the comfortable uncomfortableness is easier than moving our lives into the unknown uncomfortableness. Is that anyway to live? How do we continue to avoid what is right in front of our faces?

I feel like you are living in the shadows of the three wise monkeys; see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. If you turn a blind eye to what is happening to us, you don’t have to worry about anything. If you refuse to hear what I am saying over and over, you don’t have to worry about anything. If you refuse to speak to me about what is happening to us, you don’t have to worry about anything.

But I have a question.

What happens when one of us steps off the dance floor?

A question

I asked you a question a few months ago. A question that was posed to me from an outsider. The question I asked you was “what does taking care of me look like to you”. I did not push you to answer. I asked occasionally if you had thought about it or if you had an answer for me. It took a month for you to answer me and even then, it was because I was seeing the outsider and I don’t think you wanted to look “bad”. Your answer was, “Difficult to answer, not sure how to answer. Is it because I never did actually take care of you? Or never really thought about it. To take the time for your wants and needs. Flowers to brighten your day, a card, a phone message to say I love you. More decision making on my end to help end your stress. To have answers for questions (not, I don’t know).”

What has changed, in your opinion? I would love to hear that answer from you. From your lips, not written on a piece of paper or sent in an email or text. Could you answer? Would you answer?

I started therapy, for me. When I told you that I finally made an appointment you asked me, “Should I be worried?” I would have to assume if you asked me that question, you were already worried. Right? You felt me changing. You felt the distance that was created between us. You had to. People around us saw it and felt it. Is it easy to ignore that feeling? I can’t ignore it any longer.

I fill my days being busy to keep the real from creeping in. To fill the voids and the gaps with something, anything. You have to realize that. You have to see that. The busier I am the less time for the awkward silence to ooze into all the empty spaces

You will always be a person that will hold a very special place in my heart and in my world. I will always love you, no matter how fucked up that sounds. I don’t want to replace all the memories we have. I want to keep those memories. I want to keep them safe, keep them happy, not destroy them with words of hate and feelings of…discontent, unhappiness, and loneliness.

Our house. Do I love it? Fuck yes, I love it. After almost 20 years, it has become what I had always hoped for. Our kids are comfortable coming and going, even as adults. Our grandkids know where to find their snacks and their favorite toys. That is what rips me apart the most. What about them? I see the way you look at each one of them. Your love shines through your eyes. I worry if we are no longer “us”, your relationship with them will change. That destroys me. But I can’t control that. I can’t control you or your actions.

If I ask you the same question today, “what does taking care of me look like to you”, what would your answer be?

Silence

The silence is deafening. Do you hear it?

The silence screams the truth. Do you hear it?

The silence speaks what I can’t. Do you hear it?

The silence speaks what you can’t. Do you hear it?

The silence speaks because we won’t. Do you hear it?

The silence is calling us. Do you hear it?

The silence is a friend telling me to stay. Do you hear it?

The silence is a friend telling me to go. Do you hear it?

The silence is telling you something. What do you hear?

What do you see?

What do you see when you look at me? Can you tell me? Will you tell me?

Who do you see when you look at me? Can you tell me? Will you tell me?

Tell me the good, the bad and the ugly. Here I am. No filter, no make-up. Just me, raw and vulnerable. Opening to you. What will you do with this?

I wonder if you see what I see. Do you only see what I want you to see? Do you see me? ME!

There are so many words I want to hear, so many truths I want to hear. The truth can be messy, hurtful, powerful. It can open doors and it can close doors.

Who do you see when you look at me? Can you tell me? Will you tell me?

What do you see when you look at me? Can you tell me? Will you tell me?

What do you see?

Ramblings

Please excuse me, but these are the ramblings of an old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman.

I can say those things about myself. I am old. I can’t say midlife anymore. That would mean I have another 50+ years of living. I’m fairly certain that isn’t the case. I am fat. Society and medicine tell me so. Even when the people who say they love me don’t tell me the truth, I know I am fat. Yes, I am scatterbrained. How can’t I be? Who isn’t these days? A wannabe loved woman. That is also me. This is one of those catch 22’s and probably most of what my ramblings and deep dives will most likely lead back to.

Feels like so many things are just floating around “out there”. My girl is in therapy. At least I think she is. She started May 18th. It is from 8:30 AM to 3:30 PM, five days a week. As far as I know she has gone every day. No real way for me to check since she is over 18 and an “adult”. The last three weekends she has basically been gone from the house starting Friday evening through late Sunday night. I don’t like it. She tells me she is with a friend and ends up spending the weekend. Is she? I don’t know. Is she with drippy dick? I don’t know. Someone suggested putting a tracking device on her car. I honestly did think about that. But, I need to do my best to trust her until she gives me a reason not to trust her, right? If, in the near future, I need to make a decision to kick her out of the house or cut her off, or whatever – it will be because she messed up. I will not spy and/or trick her. Don’t get me wrong. I want to spy, I just feel like I can’t right now. I need to let her go and do her thing, whatever that is.

A very dear friend recently lost her mother (as did my husband). I haven’t talked to or seen my mom since Mother’s Day. It’s such a messed-up relationship. She won’t break down and call me, that would mean she is giving in. And honestly, if/when I call her at this point I will be subjected to guilt. I carry more than enough guilt around. But, what if something happens to her and I haven’t talked to her in over a month? The guilt would be tenfold and would stay with me forever. I can’t understand why she doesn’t see or refuses to see that I do all I can for my family. I work to continue to support my kids and grandkids in things they may need. If I didn’t spend money on kids and grandkids, maybe I could stop working – at least fulltime. She stopped working by now. She stayed home. I’m not 20 anymore. I do get tired, I do have aches and pains, things aren’t always as easy as they used to be. I would like her to understand that. I have tried to tell her. She says I’m just making excuses. She actually sees her great-grandchildren, my grandchildren, more than me. But she still plays the victim. No one calls her, no one stops to see her, etc. I want to be more sympathetic. I just can’t be at this point. As the saying goes, “too much water under the bridge”. I shouldn’t live in the past, but the past made into this old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman.

I found another arthritis lump on one of the knuckles of my right middle finger. I found one about 6 months ago on my right pointer finger. My hands now look like my great-grandmothers did. At least what I remember her hands looking like when I was 15 and she was 76. I don’t like it. My face is getting droopy. My neck is gross and hanging, along with every other body part a woman doesn’t want to have hanging. I feel completely unattractive and gross. That’s the plain and simple of it. I like one thing. I like my eyelashes, and those are fake.

Do you ever tire of people saying they wouldn’t know what to they would do without you, that they couldn’t live without you? I do. If you feel that way about me, let me ask you a question. What are you doing with me? What are you doing with me in YOUR life? Where do I fit? Are you more afraid that I would leave and you would have to figure out that I actually did a hell of a lot for you? Are you afraid to lose the comfort and convenience of me being around? Is that fair? I am a comfort and convenience for some of the most important people in my life. At least I feel that way. Old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman will always be here. She always comes back, no matter what. You don’t have to reciprocate, you don’t have to show love, you don’t have to talk to her, you don’t have to respect her. Because the old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman isn’t worthy of more or better. The old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman is reliable, convenient, easy, a doormat for everyone to wipe their dirt on and move on. What happens when the doormat is taken away? What do you do with your dirt? Think about it. The old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman wants just that. I wannabe loved for me. Just me. Not because I have become a comfort and a convenience to have around. Show me that love, tell me about that love, tell me why I should stay, don’t make me feel like a doormat or an afterthought.

The old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman says, “tag, you’re it.”

Maybe

Maybe if I was younger

Maybe if I was skinnier

Maybe if I was prettier

Maybe if I was blonde

Maybe if I had big boobs

Maybe if I had thin thighs

Maybe if I had a flat stomach

Maybe if I had no cellulite

Maybe if I cleaned more

Maybe if I cooked more

Maybe if I laughed more

Maybe if I cried more

Maybe if I cared more

Maybe if I made more money

Maybe if I loved more

Maybe if I talked less

Maybe if I complained less

Maybe if I spent less

Maybe if I laughed less

Maybe if I cried less

Maybe if I loved less

Maybe if I cared less

Maybe if I changed all of me

Maybe then…

Again…

Ironic, I was typing a blog about an hour ago. The blog was about the dreams I kept having this past weekend, all surrounding my girl child. And I got a phone call from her. She was crying, screaming, wailing, hysterical, gasping for breath. She was saying she can’t do it anymore, everything is fucked up, nothing ever works out, she doesn’t want to be here anymore………..the connection sucked and it was hard to understand her. I have unfortunately dealt with this before and knew I had to keep my voice calm and get her to focus on me and what I was saying. It was taking much longer to get her to focus on my voice and listen to what I was saying. I asked where she was and she said told me at his (drippy dick) brother’s house. I asked if she was alone and she said no, he (drippy dick) was there. I could hear him yelling at her in the background. She told me she would call me right back. I told her to stay on the phone with me and that she needed to come home. She hung up.

I called and called and called her. I sent her messages. I finally get a response via message that she is good, everything is fine. I messaged her to call me, she said she is fine. I demanded she call me. She did. She was in her denial mode. Denying there is a problem with her, because she is fine. Denying she should come home, because she is fine. Everything is fine. She isn’t coming home, she is staying there with him.

I don’t know where she is. I don’t know who she is with. I don’t know if she is safe.

In the dreams I had about her, she kept getting farther and farther away from us. We would find her and she would disappear and each time we searched for her it was harder and harder to find her. I feel her slipping faster and faster into a black hole. I am so fucking scared she will fall so far into that black hole that we won’t be able to save her. She will be lost and gone from our lives forever.

Ironic.

Emotional Conflict

As a self proclaimed super mom, there are days/weeks/months/years that I feel like a complete and total failure. I am not looking for a pat on the back or a “but you’re doing great” comment. I’m being honest. I can’t imagine anyone that is a parent/guardian/caregiver/whatever hasn’t felt like a failure at some point. And it’s not so much an outward failure where my kid showed up at soccer practice with no cleats, shin guards, water bottle or ball; more of an inner failure. The struggles we feel daily. The times when we question our decisions and the answers we gave to important questions. The times when I say to myself – I have no fucking idea what I am doing.

As horrid and awful as it sounds, I am having a moral and inner fight about suicide. I feel an overwhelming sadness washed over me the last few years. I have a nagging voice in the back of my mind that keeps saying “what if”. What if I am wrong to try to convince my daughter to stay in this world? How can I tell her over and over again that things will get better, but they haven’t? How can I know what she feels? When she tells me she doesn’t feel connected to anything in this world or she finds it impossible to feel any amount of happiness. Who am I to tell her she has to stay and fight? Am I being selfish in keeping her in my world? Am I being selfish to allow her to continue to feel the daily pain of her life? This feels so wrong to put into words, but I question my decisions daily.

I sob when I have dreams that she is gone, that I can never see her smile or smell her hair when I hug her. But what about her? Is she holding on because she feels guilty? Have I made her feel guilty? She finally has an actual diagnosis of what she has been fighting, but I keep telling her the diagnosis doesn’t define her. I am begging her to get the therapy. I am asking her to give her life one more year to see the change the right therapy can make. But she has to want it, she has to accept it, she has to embrace it. Can she? Will she?