Self,
It’s pointless to tell myself all the things I know or that I’m feeling. Maybe this whole thing is pointless, but part of me thought and hoped that it would be helpful to write. In the past it would have been in my journal, but these days the idea of picking up my journal and handwriting it just too much. I wanted to be able to write, but to be able to do so quickly, so here I am, writing this blog.
I’m having a harder and harder time being social these days. I want to be, to a degree, but I really don’t have the energy or motivation to make the effort. Going to that birthday party this week was almost too much. Hearing the other women who were there talking about their husbands, seeing the women who were pregnant was torture. One woman was talking about how her family is in the process of moving to Arizona for her husband’s job and he is currently there looking for houses, so she is here alone with her kids. She called herself a “widow for a month” and was talking about how hard it is to sleep alone when she is used to having her husband beside her. How every unknown noise in the house makes her jump and worry. I had to (almost literally) bite my tongue to keep from yelling that at least she was going to get it all back. That she was going to get to see her husband again for more than just exchanging custody of their child. That she knew her husband was also sleeping alone. That she wasn’t having to try to put on a brave face, even and especially for those who know what is going on, when all she wanted to do was stay at home and figure out a way to get through the day. I wanted to scream and cry and tell every one of those women to shut up and keep it to themselves.
People keep telling me that I’m dealing with all of this so much better than they would, or than they think I should be. I know that they are saying it as a compliment to what they see as strength in an extremely difficult and emotional situation, but it really bothers me. They have no idea what it is like inside my head. They have no idea how every second of every minute of every day is an impossible struggle. How taking things one day at a time is beyond ambitious and I can barely focus on getting through the current moment most of the time. They have no idea how the ONLY reason I am “doing so well” is because I do not have a choice. I don’t get to completely lose it, even if I really want to. They don’t realize that there are times that I actually WANT to just completely breakdown and don’t. They don’t realize that my only reason and my only real source of strength is my son, who is too young to understand why mommy is so sad and isn’t her usual playful and fun self.
I’m not ok. I’m NOWHERE EVEN REMOTELY CLOSE to the universe where ‘ok’ exists. No pep talks. No clichés. No encouragement. Not from me.
I AM NOT OK