I’m more tired, not sure if that’s a side effect of Zoloft or life. Zero sex drive, again, not sure who’s at fault there.
I’m less anxious, which has made me a little more motivated. I’m still swinging highs and lows but that’s to be expected.
The Canadian turkey massacre is commencing this weekend, I’m expected at two family events. Pray I make it through them with out mass amounts of conflict. Fingers crossed for the Count.
I still feel the urge to bash people’s faces in with bricks, but my anxiety has less of a grip making it easier to stay level during these situations. Sounds and voices still grate on my nerves, I could barely speak for wanting to throttle a friend today at a play date. Granted, she’s of the 99%.
There’s a relaxed state of hilarity at home with the kid, 3 is such a wild age. In a moment of loose emotions I told him to fuck off. He responded with “My no fucks off Mommy” and I combusted with laughter. The little dude is my magnetic to the earth. I am forever grateful for the way he pulls me back down and picks me back up. At 3 years old he doesn’t yet understand the enormity of the weight on his tiny little shoulders to keep his Mama afloat. I pray I don’t burden him too long, for fear he ends up like me.
I feel my demons sniffing at the edges of this new found clarity and some days I almost will myself to allow them to comfort me. The exhaustion often tries to take hold and drag me into the comfortable abyss of nothingness but I haven’t succumbed yet. And that’s something, I suppose.
When I was born, my grandmother was at the hospital. The nurses wheeled me into the room, she immediately scooped me up and whispered, we’re going to be great friends.
She’s not your typical grandmother. She hardly bakes cookies and has a deep, raspy voice from every cigarette she sat and chain smoked at the local “hotel”. She’s full of piss and vinegar, independence and courage. When I was little she would take me to shows, theatre was our thing. As the costume designer for a local theatre troupe, we saw everything that hit that stage. We had free tickets to Disney on Ice, which I’m sure she muscled through just for me.
When I turned 16 and was openly smoking, I joined her at the kitchen table. This was a monumental moment, I was finally an adult. The kitchen table is sacred, stories are told, eras explained, wine is drank (and sometimes spilled) and the conversation is endlessly intriguing. I remember the way my Mom would hold her cigarette in her hand, resting her head against her thumb, laughing over a big glass of red. My Poppa would lean back in his chair and rub his belly. My Dad, hunched over his own cigarette, hands together, chuckling his silent chuckle. Those were the days.
When I was 22, I left my partner. I was seeking solace, I needed a place to hide. My Gram took me in before I could even explain the situation. We lived like that for a year. Sometimes we would stay up way into the night just talking and laughing. Other times we would meet at the kitchen table at 3am just to watch a thunderstorm. Neither of us speaking, just listening and smoking.
My Gram became too old to take care of her house and when my partner and I got back together we took it over. She moved into a little apartment in a seniors residence and we made the house our own. Unfortunately, after a few years she decided to sell and that was the end of our lovely little house.
But every Sunday, without fail, we still sit at her kitchen table and argue politics, she tells me stories of her youth, we go over family history and debate birth orders. We talk about my mental health, she reassures me and tells me of my greatness. We truly are great friends.
But, everything must come to and end and we’ve had a good run. This Decemeber she’ll be moving across country to live with my uncle. I feel as though I’ll never see her again. I mourn for our friendship and the kitchen table, I’m grieving the loss of my best friend and my Grandmother. My rock, my sanctuary. What might be a small wave of sadness some days feels like a tsunami of grief and heartbreak. I don’t know how I’ll do it without her.
For now I’ll soak up the moments, spending as much time at that table as I can.
Well I did it. I bit the bullet.
I received my formal diagnosis, I didn’t expect anything less than bat shit and Mama, I am officially on the crazy train. I’m doing a week by week plan, upping my Zoloft every 7 days until my next appointment, it’s about 4 weeks away. At which point we’ll introduce some sort of mood inhibitor for the BPD, just to take the edge off.
I’ll maintain visits between him and my counsellor. At some point I’ll see the in house psychologist. Psychoanalyze me baby.
The doctor kept reminding me that there was a light at the end of this tunnel. I wanted to take his pen and tunnel it through his forehead. But I didn’t. Baby steps, right?
Immediate side effect is the fuzzies, must sleep forever.
I’m making a pork roast. I’ve invited people. There’s football and the air is cold. I even have a pumpkin spice candle burning.
Today I’m a 60’s housewife. The house smells amazing, it’s clean and thankfully the child is being well behaved.
But… I want to sleep. I’m dreading the company, the candle smells too strong. I don’t even want pork for dinner. It’s too cold outside but I sit out here and chain smoke anyways. I should probably shower. Maybe I’ll skip washing my hair. I just want to sleep.
The only one who suspects is that damn cat. He hasn’t left me alone all week. Which is good because I probably should be left alone.
I want to crawl under the floor boards and just stop existing. Just for a minute. Ah, but the timer for the biscuits just went off. And the potatoes need to be put on. And I really should shower.
Taking a look at my life, I wanted to remember the last time I felt free. When I wasn’t someone’s wife and I wasn’t someone’s mother, before the all consuming chaos that is my brain took hold for good.
I was 17. We had moved to a new rural town that I hated. I was 3 hours away from my boyfriend and the school I was about to graduate from with my life long friends. I made the best of it. I met the most wonderful group of people. The summer before my 18th birthday was the best summer of my life.
One particular memory stands out. My friends and I had decided to rip all our clothes off and jump into the bay. We were standing on the town’s barging dock, 30 feet above the water, holding hands in the night. 3, 2, 1… Jump! The air whooshed by us as we broke the surface of that icy, black water. We plunged deep among sunken boats and drowned cars, shopping carts and bicycles. Nothing mattered. We rose exhilarated, splashing around, clamouring for the ladder.
Later, dried off and back in those rusted old trucks, I remember sticking my head out the window into the wind, this is freedom, you are a wild child.
We were in a place far away from the expectations of society. We lived in daisy dukes and flip flops, makeup was for the city girls. We let the sun highlight our hair, bronze our skin. We played in the mud and sat on the roof talking into the night. We danced naked in the rain and ran through the wilderness.
We were free. I was free.
Hush-a, hush-a, my sweet angel. It’s okay baby, Mama’s got you.
PTSD triggered, I’m leaving him. How could he do that? I thought I could forgive him, but I can’t. It’s okay baby, I’ve got you.
I’m homeless, they kicked me out. Please don’t rip me off. I can’t pay rent. I can’t afford groceries. Please don’t kick me out too. It’s okay baby, I’ve got you.
I need some where to stay, take care of me. I’m broken, please fix it. Eating disorder, bi polar, she’s just a kid. It’s okay baby, I’ve got you.
He’s abusive, I can’t leave him. He needs help, we need help. It’s okay baby, I’ve got you.
Can I borrow money? Can I talk to you? Please help me. Where are you? Why aren’t you answering? You’ll never guess what happened…
My plate is full, my belly is bloated. My life is stretched like an elastic band ready to snap, I patch the tears. I see the splits forming as the band stretches thinner. I need you, please call me.
You’re my rock, my best friend. Where would I be without you? Patch the tears, glue the splits. Yes baby, I’ve still got you.
You’re such a bitch.
Why are you over reacting?
You’re always so miserable.
Why does she freak out like that?
I’m beginning to make sense of it. Show some damn compassion. But I don’t know how. Can you please just show some sympathy?
You’re so cold hearted. Am I? Identity crisis. You’re wicked. Okay. I feel abandoned. How can anyone love someone they can so easily paint evil? Question everything, always. Trust no one. I’m such a bitch. I become the persona. I am evil. I am wicked. I play the part.
I love you deeply. I idolize you, please love me back. I hate you. You mean nothing to me. Identity crisis.
Everything is black and white, forget the gray area. I have no room for understanding. I’m just joking. It’s not funny. Learn to take a fucking joke. Identity crisis.