Monday, March 28th. 10:35AM.
Song: Clark Gable, The Postal Service.
I need to heal.
It’s not something that is optional. I have my good and my bad days, mostly bad, and some days where I feel the weight has lifted. On my good days, I wake up smiling, giggling at the licks I receive from my dogs, and snuggle my face into their soft fur. On my bad days, I wake up feeling worthless, questioning: “Is this even worth it anymore?” I’m lucky to even have the good days, because there are some people who don’t have them. I’m not really sure that I could even fathom having only the bad days. Sometimes I feel like I am in an endless cycle – happy, sad, happy, sad, etc.
I know that this is something that eventually will get better. “This too shall pass.” But that doesn’t make it any easier, does it? Waiting patiently, as if my life is a TV show, and I just have to keep clicking on “Next Episode” until finally I get to a good episode. Which is strange, because I don’t like watching those types of shows – the ones that are constantly doomed (like The Walking Dead).
So, this morning I woke up with one of the bad days. I felt like a horrible employee, that none of my bosses like me, my co-workers are getting sick of me, and my husband getting frustrated. I know that none of the above is true – but it’s harder to say that than to accept it.
I kept telling myself that I had to call my mom yesterday. My husband understands it’s something that I have to decide for myself, but he’s a doll because he encourages me to do it so much, but he doesn’t blame me when I don’t. I do this thing where I say, “Okay, I’ll call her after ‘this.'” Which never happens. At easter lunch yesterday, I told him that I was going to call her. He put his arm around me and hugged me, saying he thought it was a good idea.
Later that evening, I was growing more anxious as the hours passed. I knew that I -should- call her, but why was I getting so nervous? We were watching The Good Wife, one of our favorite lazy Sunday shows, and I randomly paused it. I picked up my phone and dialed. That’s how I make decisions – I can’t overthink them, or say I’ll do it after the next episode, I just have to DO IT. She, naturally, guilt tripped me for not calling her enough. She seemed fine over the phone, but I had no idea why I was so nervous. She was my mom, shouldn’t I be comfortable talking to her on the phone?
A few weeks ago my mom checked herself into the psych ward: extreme depression, PTSD, and anxiety. She said she was going to take a handful of pills and end it all, that she had nothing to live for. It broke my heart.
She’s still there, at the hospital, where they are treating her. At one point, I’m really excited she’s going to get better this time. But at the next point, I know I’m going to get disappointed again because she’s not going to take care of herself.
So, I decided to write. Baby steps, you know? I’ve been feeling restless – not just physically, but mentally I just can’t seem to calm down. I rely on my husband a bit too much, and decided that he can’t heal me, I have to heal myself. This is my first step in this journey, of discovering my own self worth, and realizing that even though my own mother doesn’t care, that I should still care about myself.
Easier said than done, though.