self doubt – How do I…life?

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.

Spin cycle

I feel like rambling. My apologies.

So many different things circling in my brain. Kinda feels like a washing machine that is stuck on the spin cycle. I keep trying to break out of the cycle.

First and foremost is a dinner that is planned for tomorrow evening. It is with my sister and two friends. I am beyond fortunate to have these women in my world. It’s a shame my brain always gets in the way. I have given myself the title of “token fat friend” for the group. No one else gave me that, just me. And if anyone who doesn’t know us would see us out and about, they would easily pick me as the one that doesn’t quite fit with the group. Some may think that’s a good thing. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I will give the facts as I see them. Just facts, not my spin on the facts. I will spin those facts a bit later.

Facts: I am the largest of the group, I am probably the loudest of the group, I am the only one in the group with super short hair, I am the only one in the group with tattoos, I am the only one in the group that doesn’t exude confidence, I am the one in the group that will be slumped and slouched, I will eat less than anyone in the group, I am the only one in the group that swears like a sailor, I am the one in the group that looks at life a bit differently and has some very different views and opinions.

Those are facts. How my brain spins those facts is where the trouble starts. I have been worried about what I am wearing tomorrow evening for the last two weeks. What will make me appear smaller? What will make me fit in? What will everyone else wear? What if my tattoos are visible? Will everyone be embarrassed to be seen with me? Am I going to get another lecture about tattoos and how they aren’t feminine or whatever? I will do my make-up the best way I can in hopes to not look like a man. Hoping that the makeup will take away from a face that looks like a long horse face (a comment that my mother once made to me, and I can’t ever forget). I will cross my fingers in hopes my rosacea that I have gotten over the last two years will stay away tomorrow evening. If not, my cheeks, nose and forehead will appear blotchy and red, similar to a drunk person. I will sit with my back to the wall, facing out. This is for a multitude of reasons. First, my back fat will not show to those approaching from behind. It also helps when others are approaching the table that I would normally hug, because my seating choice makes it difficult to be hugged. Which means no arms/hands on the back fat, waist fat or hip fat. Of course, I will do my best to keep all fats controlled with spandex. But one can only wear so much spandex. While facing out, I get to watch the faces, stares, and reactions of others. The others in the group will share stories of travel and experiences I will never have. Again, due to seating choice I can observe and listen, waiting for the opportune time to make a smart-ass comment to deflect from what I am really feeling. That feeling would be inadequacy. A feeling I know well. People will also see me from the front, again due to choice seating. If viewed from behind, my super short hair reveals a neck area that has no definition either from the back or side due to a fat neck and double chin. People will be greeted by a smile. A smile that hides all the pain and doubts and insecurities. I will be the funny one, or at least attempt to be. I use humor to deflect from real feelings. Don’t ask me how my marriage is or how my daughter is unless you really want to know. Cause what I would like to tell you, well that shit ain’t pretty and you can’t handle the truth. I will scan the room, searching for those who are judging. I can tell who they are. The sideways glance that lasts a bit too long. Someone thinking or wondering what poor individual gets to wake up next to me in bed. And what the hell might that look like. If I resemble a bull dyke lesbian in full make-up, what must I look like first thing in the morning. Believe me, it’s horrific. And I don’t wear spandex to bed, so imagine that nightmare. People will come to the table we are sitting at because the others at the table are known. I will get introduced as the sister of one of the groups most well-known. I see the fleeting look of surprise, wonder and at times shock and horror cross people’s faces. How can that thing (meaning me) be related to the gorgeous, feminine, posh, woman? It’s at these times I will make it known we are only half-sisters. I got the bad half.

I will, of course, use the correct forks, use table manners that would make Emily Post proud. After all, while I might be a bull dyke lesbian looking thing, I’m not a complete cad. Now, pass the bread and let’s get this party started

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…

Fucked Up

Do you ever wonder if anyone really knows you? Or do they think they know you because of what you show them, which would actually be your fault (well, my fault because I am talking about me here).

I don’t know why, but I feel like I need to explain myself, maybe redeem myself. Maybe just try to make someone understand me, my choices in life, my decisions. Just me. Here, now, today.

In five days it will be my 31st wedding anniversary. 31 years. Some days it feels like 10 years, some days it feels like 110 years. Three kids, three grandkids, way too much trauma and drama. My wish for our 31st anniversary is……………he talks to me. He opens his heart, his mind and he talks to me. He talks to me about him, he talks to me about me, he talks to me about us. He is open and honest no matter how it hurts or who it hurts. He tells me he if he wants to stop or keep going.

And what can I do for him? I can try, desperately try, to make him understand me, to know me, again. Try to help him see that choices I have made, things I have said, things I have done, have nothing to do with him and everything to do with me. I know, I know – everyone says that. But it is my truth. I want to take the pain and hurt I have caused him away. I see it when I look in his eyes. He doesn’t want to look into my eyes anymore. I see that, I feel that. The hugs are different, the kisses are different. The feeling around “us” is different. And I own all of it. Things that have happened in my past have affected my present. I don’t need everyone to understand it, just him.

I am needy. I need to feel loved, wanted, desired. Why? Because that is how I feel worthy. Yes, I need attention and lots of it. I need the random kisses, the occasional love note, a cheap bouquet of flowers for no reason. I am constantly fighting the demons of my past, trying to convince myself that I am enough, he loves me for me, he wants me for me. But, it doesn’t always work that way.

This will sound fucked up and it is. I still try to get his attention. I know he knows it. At least I think he knows it. I have always been an open and flirty person. It’s me. There is no way he doesn’t see it when I go into my flirt mode. I do it to make me feel worthy, it’s always been the way I am. It’s like my built-in defense mechanism. If I don’t feel worthy or loved, or desired or wanted – I will go into flirt mode. I KNOW I DO THIS. It is a huge fault of mine. HUGE. When he sees or feels this happening, I want him to look at me and tell me to stop. Tell me that he loves me, he needs me, he desires me, he wants me, he is not going to leave me. Yes, I’m a needy bitch.

And I want to wrap myself around him, crawl inside him to be as close as possible. I can’t do that, I can’t flirt, so I will eat. I will comfort myself with food. I know I will. It’s just me, it’s who I am. Yes, I am fucked up.

International Women’s Day

I had no idea it was International Women’s Day. I had no idea there was an International Women’s Day. My first failure as a woman. Not my only failure and certainly not my last failure.

How should I feel on IWD? Empowered? Uplifted? Kick ass? Take on the world? I don’t feel any of those things. And that’s no one’s fault except my own. I TOTALLY own that. I actually feel similar to that of a beached whale. Bloated, sloshy, swollen, poke me with a stick and I will ooze grossness. Others are staring at me, seeing what I’m feeling; I know they are. Like the little old lady in Sixteen Candles; making squishing noises as I walk.

I completely do it to myself. I talk to myself all the time. Make the right choices. I know what the right choices are. I don’t always make bad choices, but we always focus on the negative, right? I ate a small bag of Goldfish. I shall now perish in the flames of hell and feel like a fat cow the rest of the day. But I promise myself to do better tomorrow. But why should I do better tomorrow if I already failed today. I know I’m just going to fail again tomorrow. Might as well just say fuck it now and roll in a tub of Crisco and order some muumuu dresses right now for the upcoming spring and summer. No reason to try to change, nothing ever changes anyway.

I want to say nice things to myself. I try to. I fail at that, too. I don’t have those tools in my toolbox. I love helping others feel good about themselves and try to raise others up. That makes me feel good. Knowing I might have helped brighten someone’s day, even for just a brief second. Why can’t I do that for me? Wait! I know this one! Because I hate myself and I know I’m not worth it. It takes much more time and effort to be happy and positive.

I want to feel empowered; I need to feel empowered. I want to feel uplifted; I need to feel uplifted. I want to feel kick ass; I need to feel kick ass. I want to take on the world; I need to take on the world. So why the fuck do I let my size dictate that? GODDAMN IT.

Can I make the necessary changes as I am about the enter my 52nd year in this world? I can, but will I? Can I make me a priority? I can, but will I? I must at least try. I need to make a promise to myself to try.

Happiness

What is happiness?

Websters defines happiness as: a state of well-being and contentment.

Let’s try to break that down.

A state of well-being. This is defined as: the state of being happy, healthy, or prosperous.

Contentment. This is defined as: a state of happiness and satisfaction.

Prosperous. This is defined as: successful in material terms; flourishing financially.

Healthy. This is defined as: normal, natural, and desirable.

And so on and so on and so on.

We each have our own inner definition of happiness. My happiness isn’t the same as your happiness. Right?

I feel the state of being happy when I kiss and hug my grandbabies. But that’s not everyone’s happiness. I don’t know when I feel like I am in an actual state of well-being. Is that horrible to say? I thoughts of self-doubt constantly. I struggle with feeling depressed, being enough. That isn’t a state of well-being.

When do I feel contentment? Do I feel it? Have I felt it? Or do I pretend I feel it because that means I’m happy.

Healthy. Ha, that I know I’m not. I eat too much, drink too much, weigh too much, stress too much, sleep to little, exercise to little. The list is endless. Would changing these things make me healthy and happy?

Desirable. Dear God, don’t even get me started on that one. No, I do not feel desirable. No, I do not feel I am desirable. I rely too much on others to make me feel that. It is not something I have ever found on my own.

I think I can lump prosperous, successful in material terms and flourishing financially all into one group. Do you agree? I feel I am prosperous in some ways as I am successful in material terms; meaning I have spent too much money on material items to make myself happy, which in turn means I am not flourishing financially.

So, am I destined not to be happy because there is no way I can ever meet all the definitions of happy?

Random thoughts on a dreary, rainy day.

My first big girl job

How can I be almost 52 and I feel like I finally have my first REAL big girl job? And I’m scared shitless. Scared to fail, scared to let others down, scared to let myself down. Scared to succeed, scared to do well, scared to like it. Scared to immerse myself and lose myself in another job. Is it a job or a career? What was my last 32 years in the working world? A job or a career? What do I want this one to be? What will this one be? Do I make that choice?

I am trying to keep my mind open to anything that comes along in my new big girl job. I don’t want this job to define me. I want to define the job I am doing. Does that make sense?

The what if’s are winning

What if…

…the world never returns to being normally fucked up and stays super fucked up

…I fail at my new adventure

…I fall on my face and hear all naysayers chanting I told you so

…I am confusing love for pity or pity for love

….I miss out on something amazing because I am scared

…the truth really does set you free

…I stop hearing the music

…my fears come true

…I actually succeed

…I stop feeling the music

…I find independence and like it

…it’s really better to walk away

…it’s not

…the music stops healing me

…I never get my what if’s answered

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