Monthly Archives: March 2013

Being Myself

Sure, that’ll work.

Myself is someone who is very unhappy these days.  Myself hates everybody.  Myself can’t even have a normal conversation.

Thank you, my Depression!  You’ve done a good job of bringing out my very worst.

My very worst doesn’t even feel like me.  But me is where it is coming from.  I’d rather not know about my very worst.  And I hate co-existing in the same body with my very worst.  It feels slippery and cold.  It feels robotic.

The first time I felt this way was in fourth grade.  I had just made a huge scene in the classroom which involved throwing a chair.  The scene was precipitated by my frantic desire to stop a classmate from asking my crush if I could join his group.  I was frantic to stop her and overwhelmed with embarrassment because everyone already knew I loved him, including him, and I only wanted him to say yes, but without being asked.  I wanted him to just want me in the group.  But it was likely he would say no.  And I was frantic to stop any of it from happening.  I wanted to hide.

And after I threw the chair and almost hit the most popular girl in the class and then heard my crush running out of the room yelling for the teacher to come because I was “throwing a temper tantrum”…. well, then I wanted to more than hide.  I wanted to die.

What the hell was a temper tantrum?  And how did he know what that was?

Oh, the humiliation.

I have never really lived it down.  Classmates and their parents brought that up to my face many times over the years, even into high school.

When I think of the behaviors I have witnessed of emotionally overwhelmed little children through my life time, I think that the only difference is that it happens much more often these days.  I was way ahead of my time.  I was a temper tantrum pioneer!

I would delete that day from my life if I could.  Better to be boring and ordinary than to be forever held at somewhat of a distance by everyone due to my inexcusable behavior.  I could have really hurt someone that day.

Maybe that was the day I first learned to bury anger.  Maybe that was the very day when depression settled into my soul.

How can it be that loving someone made me do that? 

He was the first person I loved that I thought could love me back.  My mother didn’t love me and neither did my sister.  My father did, but he was Autistic and therefore clueless.

Maybe I was the first person in my family to have a range of emotions!  I was an emotions pioneer!

Unfortunately, I still haven’t worked out the kinks.

There have been times in my life when supportive people existed.  There have been times when I was happy and content.  Times when I was not in over my head.  How I yearn for times like those again.

I want being myself to feel good again.




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Things I Do Not Understand

I always want people to like me best.  I want them to be on my side.  They don’t have to be mean to others or not be friends with others.  But they should prefer me and always agree with me when I point out the wrongs I have suffered.

What really happens, though, is that people try to get me to see the point of view of my enemies.  They lecture me on how I should tune it out or maybe just cut the other person a little slack.  My enemies aren’t such bad people.  Why let them bother me?

I think other people also want to be the favorite.  They also want to be understood when they’ve been hurt by their enemies. 

I wonder if they would like it if I delivered a lecture about maybe they should be the bigger person.  The world will never have the answer to that question, though, because I don’t lecture people about how they should feel.  And I will usually have their back when they need that.

And so I don’t understand why it is not reciprocal.

I don’t smoke pot.  I never have other than one attempt thirty years ago that did not a thing for me.  It makes me feel stupid that pot is not my thing.  It seems to be a normal part of other people’s lives, either past or present.  That makes me feel stupid too.

I don’t understand why I have to know things that other people never notice.  I seem always to be in the right place at the right time to be a witness.  What I see helps me form opinions that I feel strongly about.  But sometimes I’m the only other person who was a  witness.  I suspect people think that I’m full of shit.  If anything, I’m full of details and memories and stories that I can’t get rid of.  And then I miss the moments.

One of my friends thinks one of our co-workers stole her mail.  I was concerned that maybe my friend was getting paranoid.  But then I remembered all the things she has figured out lately from little clues that I missed when I was giving assholes the benefit of the doubt.  And now I think it is entirely possible this person did steal my friend’s mail.  I feel bad that I doubted her at all. 

How can I be this mixture of fantasy and concrete?  Shouldn’t I always be one or the other?  Most people seem consistent and predictable.  I am erratic.  What a pain.

I fall in love sometimes.  Even though I am married.  I imagine people would think I was immoral if they knew about this aspect of myself.  My best friend knows this about me.  I told her all about my attempts to make my love fantasies real.  And how both of them failed miserably before anyone could even touch anybody.  She doesn’t think I’m immoral.  She thinks if I reacted that badly to hardly anything happening at all–how would I have reacted if real affairs had occurred? 

I still think that my despair was caused by the rejections.  That if I could have completed these relationships, I would have been fine.  But of course the world will never know the answer to that debate either.

I suppose that I am the only one who should like me the best.  I might still fall in love.  And I still won’t have any interest in smoking pot.  But I might stop over-thinking life.  And then it might get good.

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Every Tuesday

Tuesday, my day off.  It is overcast and cold.  It is a quiet day.  There is no pressure.  I’m just waiting for insights and healing.  There is not enough time in one Tuesday to receive as many insights and as much healing as I need.  But I will not dismiss these tiny doses.  Too small is still more than zero.

I went the thrift store today determined not to buy something just for the thrill of it.  My pile of future fabric upcycles is pretty big right now.  The projects go slower than the accumulating and I am wary of overwhelming my sewing room and my mind.  But the thrift store is inspiring.  So, it’s okay for me to go there within reason.

In the glassware section I spotted a pair of highball glasses with a pair of wild horses painted on them in gold and black.  The horse is my spirit animal and these were striking in appearance.  $1.99 for the pair.  I carried them around the store as I searched the clothing racks.  I knew I might end up not buying them if I carried them around long enough.  But no pressure.

In the dress section I found several long tunics that Indian women wear as part of a salwar kameez outfit.  Since I know they can often be easily altered to fit several sizes, I looked them over carefully for myself.  Unfortunately, several had deoderant stains that I wasn’t so sure I could remove.  But one seemed to have been unworn!  And the seams each had several inches available for altering!  The colors were perfect for a redhead like me.  So, I set down the highball glasses and chose the tunic.  My decision was made and the glasses went back on the shelf.

It was a slow day at the thrift store and no one was at the cash register when I was ready to check out.  A bell was on the counter and I politely tapped it.  I had to tap it once more before someone came and I smiled when she saw me.  It is so hard for me to ask for help or attention.  Ringing a bell is a major decision for me.  I’m not quiet by nature.  But I am reluctant to ask for anything from anyone.  Too many let-downs and betrayals.  Too much of being used and taken for granted.  Too few well-adjusted and kind people in my world.  I smiled at the clerk because I wanted it to be okay that I asked for her attention.

When I got home from the thrift store, there was a message on the machine from the vet.  My cat was ready to be picked up from getting neutered today and hadn’t needed anything extra during the surgery.  I felt so happy that he was okay and ready to come home.  He is a naughty little orange boy but I’m crazy about him and must have been worried about the surgery without even realizing it.  I am wondering if he will change very much because of the surgery.  There was no avoiding it, though, if he is going to be allowed to live in a house.  For now he is quiet and still from the anesthesia and surgery.  He is hanging out on the window sill dozing and soaking up the brightness of that overcast sky.

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