I think I’m about to get into it. I think I’m getting ready to get better.
Last time I saw my shrink, which was 2 months ago, she chewed my ass up and down. She told me to quit living in a fantasy and pull my head out. She told me to quit making excuses for people. She told me I am not better. She told me I am still depressed. She told me I am still angry. She pressed about why didn’t I just pull out that anger and deal with it. Why did I only let it out tiny bits at a time.
She called my bullshit.
Since then, I’ve been wretched. I pick the word wretched because of Talyaa’s post “On Being Wretched“. The word clicked with me.
I haven’t been getting any
In all this wretched, my body has said no. I’ve been sick almost this entire school year. In mid-February I gave up doing anything but sleeping and keeping Alex safe. No laundry, no cooking, no dishes, no cleaning. All I had left was the need to get well. Finally. It took realizing I’d had two consecutive healthy days ONCE since before Thanksgiving to really shake me awake on needing to super duper reboot myself on the health front. Had to get out of survival mode at last.
Once I felt healthy again, I had to start climbing out of the house mess hole that was left behind.
Slowly. Laundry got done. Dishes got done. Outfits got put together in my closet so dressing was fun again. Alex’s room got cleaned. My room is clean.
There are still spots of total disaster in my house (guest room, my bathroom, kitchen table), but it’s getting BETTER.
I sit here tonight, knowing I am healed. I didn’t know this was what I was looking for, but now that I sit in the bed I chose, covered with the bedding I chose, literally surrounded by the two cats I chose, on the flooring I chose, in the house that I chose . . . I am healed. Past tense. No longer the active “healing“. Healed.
Last spring, on one of the most painful days of my life, I threw my phone across my kitchen, sobbing, “I don’t want to live in this house without you!” I was in agony. I was destroyed. I was . . . I was as far from healed in that moment . . . yet I got ripped apart more and more in the months to come. It was summer before I began to heal even a little.
I love this little home of mine. Filled with the choices I’ve made. I’ve messed a lot of things up. My housekeeping continues to be lacking . . . disastrous . . . sometimes lazy. There’s been a good bit of half-assing up in here . . . my whole life.
I am healed.
Which is different from okay.
I am angry.
Oh God (which I say as a prayer of sorts, because God help me . . .) I am angry. Set me on fire and fuck off angry.
I am healed, which means I can finally feel it and not be destroyed by it.
Each day I drive past his work, or our old apartment, or pass them, or meet them at a stop sign. I am angry. Today instead of trying to take the high road, I began whispering out all my hate. It’s time. I hate them for what they did, for how I was treated, I do not wish them well, I wish them nastiness that makes their parts fall off, I hope they are miserable together. I hope they get what they deserve – which might just be each other.
I’m not sure where the anger at Dad is going to fall. I only know that when it creeps up … which it will, because we are in the thick of “4 years ago today…. blah blah happened” time of year . . . that I get to be angry at him too. He screwed up and it screwed me over, time and again, and it’s okay for me to be angry about that. Him and the restarting families rather than caring for the one ONE child he was supposed to take care of always . . . yeah, I get to be white hot pissed about that if that’s how I feel.
To the one who was all I hoped for . . . who showed me “my WHOLE list” existed in a man . . . and then went away . . . no matter the reasons . . . or excuses I made for him . . . yeah, guess what, I’m livid about that . . . which is complicated due to the whole “fucking miss him” and as long as I am just laying it all out and being honest at long, long last . . . well I love him too. Without being loved back. Which is completely crazy making in my head. Even if I won’t pick up the phone . . . love him I do . . .
This honesty stuff is not easy. I write that above paragraph and wonder how I would feel if he read it. I’m in a nice fuzzy denial that he ever will. No matter how old I get, I seem to stay terrified of showing my heart for fear it gets trampled.
I’m healed. I’m okay. I mean, clearly I’m a mess, but I’m okay. I’m not worried for myself, my health, my job, my home, my son.
I’m okay. I want to be better.
I won’t get BETTER without honesty. I won’t get better with this anger inside me. It’s taken me two months to stop pinging from being called on it. I’m healed, now I want to get better.