Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Because I'm Inspiring

Since it's probably against all English writing code to start posts or anything literary with profanity I shall restrain. But for that code I would just say, Fuck a monkey.

Classy, I know. Whatever. I'm spiraling and really don't know how to stop it. My therapist doesn't know how to stop it. His advice is basically, "lie to yourself." Hmm.. maybe that is helpful for others, but denial has never really worked for me, so no banana.

I can't seem to find the desire to get out of bed. Lovely. I know. I have an incredible family and life, and I can't get out of bed. No one has died, our life has taken a financial turn for the better. I know, who can say that these days? Us. Apparently. My husband got a new job where he only has to work three days a week and makes more than his last job. Hah. Cry me a river. And yet... my good fortune just compounds my guilt and makes me pull the covers closer. Tighter. I don't open the shades, I don't want to know if it's nice outside. Because it's nice under the blankets, and that's all that matters.

I don't think my husband really loves me. I wonder if he ever really did. This doesn't seem to bother him, but it bothers me. He's the love of my life. I used to think that not being able to love someone in the way they love you, no matter how much you wanted to, was one of the worst feelings to live with. Ahhh, but no. The other end of the stick is much more fun.

We have sex like twice a month, and it's perfunctory on my part. Guilt induced really. Husband doesn't "need" it. He wants it, but only if I do. Hah! Okay then. So we're going the celibate route then. And he doesn't masturbate people. For real.

He's the perfect person. Loving, kind, sensitive, never complains, never says a mean thing. I've see him upset twice in the ten years that I've known him. Once because he couldn't "think away" the hiccups. He doesn't get stressed. EVER. He just doesn't FEEL all that much. He's brilliant. The smartest person I've ever known. And I'm a freakin nut job.

I am Van Gogh, minus the amazing art. Well and I have both my ears. So maybe not so much Van Gogh. Point is, I'm a creator, and as such something of a kite in the wind without string. I love fiercely, and feel everything in extremes. It's like the hooker who married the monk. But I'm not really... yeah, you get it.

My health has been on the shits for months (10) and the depression is just getting worse. I'm seeing doctors. SOOOO many doctors, of whom I'm starting to hate by the way. But what do you do when someone is just well, crazy? I don't know. They don't either.

Annnnd, I peed on a stick. And got a line. Fuck me.

It was faint, and I'm not trusting it. Because I can't right now. Another child in my life right now, that I can't take care of. Yes, that's just what I need. Fuck.

I'm peeing again tomorrow. On a fancy stick. A fancy stick with whistles and bells, and perhaps a dancing monkey. We'll see what tomorrow brings. Hell, it has to better than today. It just has to.

I know, kids are dying, people have lost their jobs, husbands hit their wives, people are starving. I'm blessed. I'm so so blessed. Which makes the fact that I can't get out of bed all the better. How did I end up here? No, where did I go? And will I ever come back?