For Fuck’s Sake

Here we go again. Me trying to write positive posts, coming to an end. I just can’t. I’m sure this post will be a regurgitation of many other of my negative self-loathing posts. I’m not sure yet exactly how. I haven’t written it yet. I just know I have to get something out.

This morning I looked in the mirror and felt even more disgusting than usual. Absolutely repulsive. What the fuck is going on? Is this just another side effect of one of my five psych meds? These spots, zits, acne I’m dealing with at forty years of fucking age? Are you fucking kidding me? It sounds so petty, doesn’t it? Each little symptom on its own? A few spots? A few pounds? That cause a few pains? A bit of memory loss? And on, and on…

Fuck you. I cannot remember shit. Fucking nothing. I often can’t remember if something significant I did was yesterday or four days ago. I have four or five new zits on a given morning – I’m fucking fourteen again, except without the promise of glory days ahead. A few pounds? We’re now up to forty five. Just shut the fuck up. I can’t breathe. And my knees… I know I’ve complained before, but seriously, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do at my sister’s wedding in a few weeks when my knees buckle after an hour in heels.

So back to right now. A hand punched and clawed it’s way through my chest and abdomen à la ‘Aliens‘. It squeezed both organs (heart and stomach) tightly, simultaneously, suddenly, and unexpectedly, creating a visceral reaction within. A shocked ‘oh my God’ ‘this hurts’ ‘why?’ ‘let me go’ ‘please’ ‘damn you’ ‘no’ ‘no’ ‘no’… Tears bubbled up quickly. Not explosively. Yet forcefully. I stared again in the mirror. I was wearing sweatpants because I have no plus size jeans yet. A futile fight I know I will lose. A man’s large shirt that I kid myself hides my rolls of fat, yet does not. It just makes me look fat and frumpy, not just fat. The newfound youthful acne on my aging skin. My short gelled hair, still trying and succeeding to run riot.

I covered my head with a red cap, a Bulls cap. I had the intention of throwing on a black Bulls hoodie. Some coordination. Hoping for a more tomboyish casual look than a frumpish look. Do you know what rhymes with frumpish? Trumpish… I was walking out the door, barely holding it together, when my husband jokingly commented I was “Making America Great Again” with my red cap. He was completely joking, and I knew as much, but it was piss-poor timing for me. I broke. I pulled the cap off, walked out the door, got into the car, and cried. Initially he probably thought I was having a tantrum, but I just had to walk away.

Since Monday, and today is Sunday, each day has had significantly severe depression symptoms. Yesterday was the mildest. I have not had a complete remission in symptoms in two years, but this recent run is concerning. It is so tiring. I have gotten out of bed each day, but the kids have had tardy slips three days out of last week’s five. It just feels like I’m heading towards the bottom again. I was able to make myself somewhat excited about our trip to Italy last night. This morning I’m in another dimension. The medium-term goal for me has to be twofold: for the gap between episodes to be longer; and for the episodes themselves to be less severe.

On this Mother’s Day, my goal is to make sure my children don’t see just how fucked up in the head I am, to show them just how much I love them, and to plan Italy a little more. I’d love once more to fade into oblivion. I however really don’t have a viable option except for suicide, which by its nature isn’t viable, and I suppose, is child abuse.