Tonight I came home after teaching a class. The Husband and I chatted a bit about our kids (kid 1 - roller derby. kid 2 - not too annoying at roller derby. Cupcakes for all). Chatted about the class. We made martinis. (I love drinking a martini after teaching. I don't know why) and then we watched an episode of our latest netflix obsession: Carnivale. We're not sure if we like it or not BTW.
After the episode (and it's getting kinda late - like 10:30 cuz we are old now) we chat a bit about the episode. Then he leans his head back on the couch. Me too. Feeling cozy. And I say "hey what's up" and he says "How long are we going to do this?"
I'm in shock and disbelief. I'm angry. (no surprise says him. I'm always angry) I can't believe it. He's unhappy. He thinks we should do something different. He is surprised at my surprise.
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
NOW? Now he gets it? Now that we have settled into something that looks like something we can work on? Now he's thinking "Gosh. He's unhappy. How long are we going to do this for?"
I feel like we have time warped.
We have a conversation about something I said. And how if my presentation would have been better, more compassionate... He tells me how he played this out with his therapist and I'm acting exactly like he predicted I would. I asked what the therapist said then... His response "he said, maybe we're just not good together"
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?
Did I make up the last few years? Am I crazy? I brought up our conversations in couples therapy where I was saying the same things... but when I say them, I'm out of line, or not trying hard enough, or not giving it a chance. But now he thinks these things... And now, now they will happen.
I'm scared. I'm scared I'm losing my mind. I'm scared I'm going to lose my kids. I'm scared that now, now that I've been on some more solid ground, the rug is getting pulled out from under me - and that I'm going to be told that it's my fault. And I'm going to go back to that awful place of depression just when I've gotten out.
And I'm pissed. Pissed that we only ever get here when HE GETS IT. And I let it happen again and again and again.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
I have no social skills
I've been saying this for a little while now... Mostly in a light, joking way... The thing is, is that it's true. One of the casualities of my friendship with R is that I don't trust folks very much anymore. And I certanly don't trust myself.
After knowing many of the ends and outs of someone else's relationship and looking back at mine, it's a real struggle to spend "social" time with people I don't know very well and trust anything that they are saying to me.
My mom met R years ago and her one comment about him was "Well Gosh. You can sure see how he is __'s husband. He's so attentive to her!"
And he had licked my lips just hours before.
I meet men now, and if they look at me too long I feel naked.
I meet women now, and I have no idea if I'm going to like them, wonder if they are telling me/themselves/anyone the truth. Wonder if their husbands are going to hit on me later.
After knowing many of the ends and outs of someone else's relationship and looking back at mine, it's a real struggle to spend "social" time with people I don't know very well and trust anything that they are saying to me.
My mom met R years ago and her one comment about him was "Well Gosh. You can sure see how he is __'s husband. He's so attentive to her!"
And he had licked my lips just hours before.
I meet men now, and if they look at me too long I feel naked.
I meet women now, and I have no idea if I'm going to like them, wonder if they are telling me/themselves/anyone the truth. Wonder if their husbands are going to hit on me later.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Christmas 1984
So my brother is putting together a book of "family memories and/or contributions" This is ultimately going to be all of our Christmas presents this year. In his own words... "This is my clever way of giving people presents while making them do the majority of the work" Awesome huh?
I've been trying to cobble some stores together and finally finished fleshing one of them out. True Story:
The Time: Christmas 1984.
The Place: Woodhull, Ill. a.k.a. Small Town USA. Population: (on a good day) around 900.
The Craze: Cabbage Patch Kids.
Remember that wild time in 1984? When those plastic headed dolls that smelled like baby powder hit the shelves and then promptly flew off? Signed by Xavier Roberts (who is that guy anyway?) on the butt... these dolls were magic. Every.Kid.Wanted.One.
Myself included.
You see, I had visions of a red haired cabbage girl. In my most elaborate fantasies I pictured her wearing a green jogging suit. (Obviously fashion has always been an interesting and challenging venue for me. What kid wants a jogging suit for her doll? The ultra-cool kind I guess)
Well, at that time my family lived in small town Woodhull, we didn't have any big stores (still don't) and the likelihood of any store getting Cabbage Patch Kids... Well, it was more likely for some of the local pigs to learn how to fly than for there to be any Cabbage Patch Kids for sale.
Add to that, the media frenzy that fed into the craze for the Cabbages! The weeks leading up to Christmas, there were newscasts about it on the teevee. Film coverage of folks running each other over to get a Cabbage Patch for their kiddos. Radios were all a-chatter about this phenomenon. Everywhere you looked there was more coverage about how many disappointed kids there were going to be this Christmas due to the incredible popularity of these dolls.
All of this struck fear in my 9 year old heart. I knew, KNEW, that to ask my parents for a cabbage was to ask the impossible. If those parents on teevee were being denied in the stores, what hope did my folks have? So, I had to go higher up.
I asked Santa.
And I fretted. I had visions of my beautiful red haired Cabbage. The one I couldn't wait to hold, to cuddle, to marvel in. She was already SO REAL in my mind. She was all I could think about. And I so imagined Christmas morning... 2 ways... The first way was picturing waking up and going downstairs, rubbing sleepy eyes and blinking in disbelief at seeing my, MY, red haired Cabbage. The second way (the one I thought was most likely), started the same, but the blinking was in angst at realizing not even Santa would be able to fulfill my dream of the red haired Cabbage. Oh it was torture.
Finally, when I could barely walk under the weight of my hopeful wishes and dread of disappointment, I came to my Dad to have a very serious conversation about Christmas. I knew my Dad would be upfront with me. I had a feeling if I asked my Mom, she may sugar coat it so that I wouldn't feel bad now. But my Dad. Well, he'd be straight with me.
With a deep breath and a solemn face I asked him the question that had kept me awake for weeks:
"Dad? Dad, do you really think that Santa.... Well. (another deep breath)Do you think there is any way for Santa to have a Cabbage Patch for me? (Big Sigh. Looking down, I continue) I mean, there are so many kids that want one. (deeper breath and in a whispered tone....) Do you think there just might be one for me?"
And he said to me "If you believe. If you really believe. So. Stephanie... Do you REALLY believe?"
Emphatically, Enthusiastically, and with a conviction never before seen in a 9 year old I said "Dad. I really believe. I really believe"
So let's talk a moment about Christmas Magic. And let me tell you what was happening behind the scenes.
A store in Galesburg (the closest big town) was due to have a big shipment of Cabbages come in. They took names down for a waiting list. My mom happened to be on that list. She had even requested that if they, by chance, got a red haired Cabbage, then she would be so grateful if they would hold that one for her.
Then tragedy struck. The shipment came in, but instead of lots and lots of Cabbages... The store received 3 Cabbage Patch Kids.
My mom started working on the tale she knew she would have to weave for me about how Santa couldn't get a Cabbage to me. How to keep the magic of Christmas in my childhood, while at the same time delivering disappointing (soul crushing! To a 9 year old) news.
And. The phone rang.
It was the lady from the store.
Turns out my mom was one of the first ones on that waiting list.
Turns out that in the 3 cabbages that were delivered there was one with red hair. Wearing a green jogging suit.
And that lady was holding that particular Cabbage for my mom.
Her name was Kyle. And in her birth certificate it said that she liked horses.
I'll tell you what. Kyle still smells amazing.
And, I still believe.
I've been trying to cobble some stores together and finally finished fleshing one of them out. True Story:
The Time: Christmas 1984.
The Place: Woodhull, Ill. a.k.a. Small Town USA. Population: (on a good day) around 900.
The Craze: Cabbage Patch Kids.
Remember that wild time in 1984? When those plastic headed dolls that smelled like baby powder hit the shelves and then promptly flew off? Signed by Xavier Roberts (who is that guy anyway?) on the butt... these dolls were magic. Every.Kid.Wanted.One.
Myself included.
You see, I had visions of a red haired cabbage girl. In my most elaborate fantasies I pictured her wearing a green jogging suit. (Obviously fashion has always been an interesting and challenging venue for me. What kid wants a jogging suit for her doll? The ultra-cool kind I guess)
Well, at that time my family lived in small town Woodhull, we didn't have any big stores (still don't) and the likelihood of any store getting Cabbage Patch Kids... Well, it was more likely for some of the local pigs to learn how to fly than for there to be any Cabbage Patch Kids for sale.
Add to that, the media frenzy that fed into the craze for the Cabbages! The weeks leading up to Christmas, there were newscasts about it on the teevee. Film coverage of folks running each other over to get a Cabbage Patch for their kiddos. Radios were all a-chatter about this phenomenon. Everywhere you looked there was more coverage about how many disappointed kids there were going to be this Christmas due to the incredible popularity of these dolls.
All of this struck fear in my 9 year old heart. I knew, KNEW, that to ask my parents for a cabbage was to ask the impossible. If those parents on teevee were being denied in the stores, what hope did my folks have? So, I had to go higher up.
I asked Santa.
And I fretted. I had visions of my beautiful red haired Cabbage. The one I couldn't wait to hold, to cuddle, to marvel in. She was already SO REAL in my mind. She was all I could think about. And I so imagined Christmas morning... 2 ways... The first way was picturing waking up and going downstairs, rubbing sleepy eyes and blinking in disbelief at seeing my, MY, red haired Cabbage. The second way (the one I thought was most likely), started the same, but the blinking was in angst at realizing not even Santa would be able to fulfill my dream of the red haired Cabbage. Oh it was torture.
Finally, when I could barely walk under the weight of my hopeful wishes and dread of disappointment, I came to my Dad to have a very serious conversation about Christmas. I knew my Dad would be upfront with me. I had a feeling if I asked my Mom, she may sugar coat it so that I wouldn't feel bad now. But my Dad. Well, he'd be straight with me.
With a deep breath and a solemn face I asked him the question that had kept me awake for weeks:
"Dad? Dad, do you really think that Santa.... Well. (another deep breath)
And he said to me "If you believe. If you really believe. So. Stephanie... Do you REALLY believe?"
Emphatically, Enthusiastically, and with a conviction never before seen in a 9 year old I said "Dad. I really believe. I really believe"
So let's talk a moment about Christmas Magic. And let me tell you what was happening behind the scenes.
A store in Galesburg (the closest big town) was due to have a big shipment of Cabbages come in. They took names down for a waiting list. My mom happened to be on that list. She had even requested that if they, by chance, got a red haired Cabbage, then she would be so grateful if they would hold that one for her.
Then tragedy struck. The shipment came in, but instead of lots and lots of Cabbages... The store received 3 Cabbage Patch Kids.
My mom started working on the tale she knew she would have to weave for me about how Santa couldn't get a Cabbage to me. How to keep the magic of Christmas in my childhood, while at the same time delivering disappointing (soul crushing! To a 9 year old) news.
And. The phone rang.
It was the lady from the store.
Turns out my mom was one of the first ones on that waiting list.
Turns out that in the 3 cabbages that were delivered there was one with red hair. Wearing a green jogging suit.
And that lady was holding that particular Cabbage for my mom.
Her name was Kyle. And in her birth certificate it said that she liked horses.
I'll tell you what. Kyle still smells amazing.
And, I still believe.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Cat Stevens You Groovy Guy
2 years ago my heart broke in a millionbajillion seemingly unrepairable pieces. I was lost, blind and damaged. I felt numb and dangerous. The last 2 years have been an effort of clawing my out from the never ending horror of pain that I felt.
No one understood. After all, I had these beautiful daughters. I had this roof over my head. I've never known hunger. I had a husband who not only puts up with me, but is a generally nice guy. He doesn't beat me, nor does he throw me under the bus verbally (publicly or privately). God How Selfish Am I? I have a ring on my finger. I have EVERYTHING. And I'm sad? Whatever. Get over yourself.
I tried.
I tried fasting, cleanses, therapy, God, isolation, never-ending socializing, retreats. I poured my time into activities, I volunteered, I studied. I taught, traveled, and I thought about suicide every day. I tried to keep gratitude in my heart. Count my blessings over and over and over again. I practiced mindfulness. I took antidepressants. I stopped taking antidepressants. I threw dishes. I prayed. I begged. I curled up every night not understanding why. I would wake up wondering why. Why I had to get through another day. Thinking that this is what my life would be like till it was finally, blessedly, over.
I lost months of my life to depression. I look at my kids now and I wonder where in the heck I was, and then I remember, oh right. Depression. Stolen months of my children's childhood that I don't remember because I was barely functioning.
Bit by bit the last few months I've felt like a baby learning to walk again. Bumping into things, but standing. Albeit on shaky legs, still though, reaching out, and tentatively smiling and then grimacing and then wailing and doing it all over again.
And the last few weeks.... Something has really shifted. The despair isn't there anymore. I go hunting for it emotionally sometimes, a bit of a poke in the familiar places. Like fussing with a bruise. OW! That hurts.... And you touch it again. Its not there though. The OW! is gone. The vast empty places aren't there. I'm not sure if they have been filled up... I know they aren't there anymore though.
Turns out time was the thing that really helped. Big Surprise, no?. People told me time would help take the edge off and I didn't, no, couldn't believe them.
So I'm listening to Cat Stevens today - Wild World - and I can sing along. I don't wrap up tightly in despair. I mishear (or perhaps heard what I needed) the lyric of "Baby I'm grievin'" and instead hear "Baby I'm breathin'" and I realize that Yes. Baby I'm breathin'.
Better than breathin'.. Singing.
No one understood. After all, I had these beautiful daughters. I had this roof over my head. I've never known hunger. I had a husband who not only puts up with me, but is a generally nice guy. He doesn't beat me, nor does he throw me under the bus verbally (publicly or privately). God How Selfish Am I? I have a ring on my finger. I have EVERYTHING. And I'm sad? Whatever. Get over yourself.
I tried.
I tried fasting, cleanses, therapy, God, isolation, never-ending socializing, retreats. I poured my time into activities, I volunteered, I studied. I taught, traveled, and I thought about suicide every day. I tried to keep gratitude in my heart. Count my blessings over and over and over again. I practiced mindfulness. I took antidepressants. I stopped taking antidepressants. I threw dishes. I prayed. I begged. I curled up every night not understanding why. I would wake up wondering why. Why I had to get through another day. Thinking that this is what my life would be like till it was finally, blessedly, over.
I lost months of my life to depression. I look at my kids now and I wonder where in the heck I was, and then I remember, oh right. Depression. Stolen months of my children's childhood that I don't remember because I was barely functioning.
Bit by bit the last few months I've felt like a baby learning to walk again. Bumping into things, but standing. Albeit on shaky legs, still though, reaching out, and tentatively smiling and then grimacing and then wailing and doing it all over again.
And the last few weeks.... Something has really shifted. The despair isn't there anymore. I go hunting for it emotionally sometimes, a bit of a poke in the familiar places. Like fussing with a bruise. OW! That hurts.... And you touch it again. Its not there though. The OW! is gone. The vast empty places aren't there. I'm not sure if they have been filled up... I know they aren't there anymore though.
Turns out time was the thing that really helped. Big Surprise, no?. People told me time would help take the edge off and I didn't, no, couldn't believe them.
So I'm listening to Cat Stevens today - Wild World - and I can sing along. I don't wrap up tightly in despair. I mishear (or perhaps heard what I needed) the lyric of "Baby I'm grievin'" and instead hear "Baby I'm breathin'" and I realize that Yes. Baby I'm breathin'.
Better than breathin'.. Singing.
When It Rains.....
It rains.
I've been watching some movies lately. Oh, you too? Or not so much? Either way - I tend to go in waves myownself.
And I've been listening to some music.
And reading some books.
And thinking "fuck. I'm such a slacker. I need to EXPRESS myself!" (Thanks Madonna)
I've had this blog reserved for..... AboutAMillionYears. And never posted.
So I'm this...Well, Girl. Although lately I've been trying on the "woman" label. Technically I've been a "woman" for a long time. Well, if you go by rites of passages (then the age would be 12). If you go by what I look like on the outside you would probably guess late 20's. If you go calendar years, then I'm 35. And what the F does any of that mean? Nothing.
I have 2 kids. I consistently am surprised that the older one is 7 (didn't I just yesterday get the scare of the 2 pink lines and revamp my life?. no? Well. It feels like it) and the younger one is 5. (5? Aren't I still in postpartum? Aren't I still adjusting to 2? no? Well. It feels like it)
And if you are like everyone else in my world, the answer to the next question on your tongue is: yes/no/yes/no we are thinking of having a 3rd. Would I love to pregnant again? Erm..... Sometimes. Would I love to have another sweet, snugly baby in my arms.....? erm... Kinda.
Do I really want to bring another person into the world....? Shit - can you refill my martini and ask me in a moment?
I have a husband.
We're not exactly sure we should be together. We feel pretty great about the kids we've brought into this world, and 80-85% of the time feel like we are pretty great parents. (If you have a higher percentage in your own mind... Well. Awesome for you.. I think we've already met. You don't need to write me. : )
So the husband and I.
Well. Mostly we are pretty great. Mostly. Our bad, shady, would Shock-the-Church-Folks stuff though, is pretty juicy. And when we look at each other we mindfully think about how wonderful the other is. Very Mindfully. Very.
We're not really ready to split up though. But we're not really ready to be together either. And if you met us on the street. HAH! You would have no idea. Because we function really well together. And we look good together. Meaning aesthetically we look alright.
So here I am. Having this blog (although really I should journal. I loathe journal~ling though. Lucky You Interweb - You get bits of my head instead!).
~Orange Girl
I've been watching some movies lately. Oh, you too? Or not so much? Either way - I tend to go in waves myownself.
And I've been listening to some music.
And reading some books.
And thinking "fuck. I'm such a slacker. I need to EXPRESS myself!" (Thanks Madonna)
I've had this blog reserved for..... AboutAMillionYears. And never posted.
So I'm this...Well, Girl. Although lately I've been trying on the "woman" label. Technically I've been a "woman" for a long time. Well, if you go by rites of passages (then the age would be 12). If you go by what I look like on the outside you would probably guess late 20's. If you go calendar years, then I'm 35. And what the F does any of that mean? Nothing.
I have 2 kids. I consistently am surprised that the older one is 7 (didn't I just yesterday get the scare of the 2 pink lines and revamp my life?. no? Well. It feels like it) and the younger one is 5. (5? Aren't I still in postpartum? Aren't I still adjusting to 2? no? Well. It feels like it)
And if you are like everyone else in my world, the answer to the next question on your tongue is: yes/no/yes/no we are thinking of having a 3rd. Would I love to pregnant again? Erm..... Sometimes. Would I love to have another sweet, snugly baby in my arms.....? erm... Kinda.
Do I really want to bring another person into the world....? Shit - can you refill my martini and ask me in a moment?
I have a husband.
We're not exactly sure we should be together. We feel pretty great about the kids we've brought into this world, and 80-85% of the time feel like we are pretty great parents. (If you have a higher percentage in your own mind... Well. Awesome for you.. I think we've already met. You don't need to write me. : )
So the husband and I.
Well. Mostly we are pretty great. Mostly. Our bad, shady, would Shock-the-Church-Folks stuff though, is pretty juicy. And when we look at each other we mindfully think about how wonderful the other is. Very Mindfully. Very.
We're not really ready to split up though. But we're not really ready to be together either. And if you met us on the street. HAH! You would have no idea. Because we function really well together. And we look good together. Meaning aesthetically we look alright.
So here I am. Having this blog (although really I should journal. I loathe journal~ling though. Lucky You Interweb - You get bits of my head instead!).
~Orange Girl
What do you mean you Kant?
Dear A,
Tonight I grabbed a RealSimple from the bookcase - a magazine I always love to look at in the grocery store and never buy. You gave me subscription (yea!) and then I never looked at those lovely magazines that arrived in my mail either (sigh). Until TONIGHT!
And what do I find in my delight? (I imagine you are at the edge of your seat wondering the answer)...
Vegetarian Cooking for Meat Eaters.
Privacy Online
And lastly... Philosophy 101.
Did you know that I minored in Philosophy? Hmmm. I'm not sure if this question is posed to you, A, or RealSimple.
So, I'm reading the Philosophy Article in RealSimple (does this seem like an oxymoron to anyone besides me?) and of course I have to drag out my Philosophy book from college.
Wow - that almost sounds scholarly.
Let me back up.
I hated college.
Really hated college.
Granted I had the "college experience" i.e. smoked some pot (didn't inhale. BWHAHHAHA), had a lesbian experience (didn't we all? no? oh. well. Awkward!), and had extreme guilt over the good money my parents were spending on COLLEGE while I desperately tried to figure out WTF I was doing.
Even with all of that.... I had this Philosophy Teacher. He was amazing. And by amazing I mean, we (the students) would show up, some of us had actually read the material (OH! That was me! That was one class I actually cared about! ) and then we would pick his brain. He was an Asian man living in the rural Midwest. Granted it was a liberal arts college..... A liberal arts college surrounded by cornfields and guys with trucks filled with gun racks, guns, and dawgs. And he listened to us, asked questions of us, spoke softly and passionately. Put up with our shenanigans.
So for the first time in my life I was introduced to other folks who were AS full of questions and angst as I was. Why is a fucking chair called a chair?
And what about Christianity? (What does that question mean for you? Now that's a can of worms... Or not)
So I'm looking through my college textbook for the highlighted parts (I paid a lot of money to highlight words of my choosing...!) And the first one is this:
We must appreciate how important it is to nurture our curiosity.
Interesting! 15 years later that when I now teach childbirth classes, this is one of the things Itouch on drill in... The idea of being "curious" to the experience.
Was I truly that deep 15 years ago? Or am I just freakin' stagnant? Or neither. Or a bit of both? Am I curious to the answer?
Funny - in my anecdotal bits about college I tend to self-deprecate my slackeredness. In re-reading my philosophy book however, I was ALL kinds of serious. I have highlighted, underlined, and written in the margins. Maybe it's time to opt for a bit of forgiveness towards my time in college. Obviously I took some things seriously. Like my very core.
Tonight I grabbed a RealSimple from the bookcase - a magazine I always love to look at in the grocery store and never buy. You gave me subscription (yea!) and then I never looked at those lovely magazines that arrived in my mail either (sigh). Until TONIGHT!
And what do I find in my delight? (I imagine you are at the edge of your seat wondering the answer)...
Vegetarian Cooking for Meat Eaters.
Privacy Online
And lastly... Philosophy 101.
Did you know that I minored in Philosophy? Hmmm. I'm not sure if this question is posed to you, A, or RealSimple.
So, I'm reading the Philosophy Article in RealSimple (does this seem like an oxymoron to anyone besides me?) and of course I have to drag out my Philosophy book from college.
Wow - that almost sounds scholarly.
Let me back up.
I hated college.
Really hated college.
Granted I had the "college experience" i.e. smoked some pot (didn't inhale. BWHAHHAHA), had a lesbian experience (didn't we all? no? oh. well. Awkward!), and had extreme guilt over the good money my parents were spending on COLLEGE while I desperately tried to figure out WTF I was doing.
Even with all of that.... I had this Philosophy Teacher. He was amazing. And by amazing I mean, we (the students) would show up, some of us had actually read the material (OH! That was me! That was one class I actually cared about! ) and then we would pick his brain. He was an Asian man living in the rural Midwest. Granted it was a liberal arts college..... A liberal arts college surrounded by cornfields and guys with trucks filled with gun racks, guns, and dawgs. And he listened to us, asked questions of us, spoke softly and passionately. Put up with our shenanigans.
So for the first time in my life I was introduced to other folks who were AS full of questions and angst as I was. Why is a fucking chair called a chair?
And what about Christianity? (What does that question mean for you? Now that's a can of worms... Or not)
So I'm looking through my college textbook for the highlighted parts (I paid a lot of money to highlight words of my choosing...!) And the first one is this:
We must appreciate how important it is to nurture our curiosity.
Interesting! 15 years later that when I now teach childbirth classes, this is one of the things I
Was I truly that deep 15 years ago? Or am I just freakin' stagnant? Or neither. Or a bit of both? Am I curious to the answer?
Funny - in my anecdotal bits about college I tend to self-deprecate my slackeredness. In re-reading my philosophy book however, I was ALL kinds of serious. I have highlighted, underlined, and written in the margins. Maybe it's time to opt for a bit of forgiveness towards my time in college. Obviously I took some things seriously. Like my very core.
Monday, February 8, 2010
February 2010
It’s strange how it happens. I don’t think that anyone really believes me, when I tell them about the last year and a-half. They see my perky hair and smile (someone actually said to me last week “wow. I like your smile”) and they hear the words “I’m not doing okay, depression is overbearing in my life, but it doesn’t fit with what they are looking at.
Nor should it. For when I’m saying those words, it doesn’t fit. That’s because I’m usually sincerely glad to be where I am. Happy to be away from my life. Happy to be with the people I’m suddenly around.
Today though. I felt the shift. It was audible, physical. We’re in the car after I’ve been at the EC Meeting all morning. The kids are n the back and they are tired. Molly asks where is her pillow. The blue pillows that I bought for camping. And the car seats. That I have specifically set aside with their snuggies as car accessories. That are now packed, crammed away in the back somewhere.
How is this possible? And it’s not that I don’t see all the work that has obviously been done. I do. Of course I do. The car is FULL. I know that didn’t happen all by itself. The gas tank is full, the fridge has been cleaned out, the truck was packed. I SEE all of that.
So I say “Maybe you didn’t know this, but I bought those pillows along with the snuggies for car rides. So the kids could have them in the car. For next time, now you know.” And he replies “I packed them. There weren’t any specific instructions about them.” All morning, and parts of yesterday I tried to give specific instructions and then this morning tried to alleviate some of the remembering of all the instructions by taking care of a few things. I didn’t think to give specific instructions about the pillows and snuggies because My God, we’ve only talked about how those stupid snuggies and pillows are for the kids to have IN THE FUCKING CAR. I then take a breath and say “I’m not trying to be offensive, I just want you to know.”
And I just sink. Sink under the veil of miscommunication and depression. Vowing that as soon as I get back from this trip I’m going to start popping the pills. Why am I resistant. I just want to be numb to this life.
Am I finally getting to a point where the things that I’m “grateful” for are not worth enough for the things that I really want? I would rather be alone than have someone who can’t think of the little things that make us a family who thinks about each other. The small things like how he goes to the pantry and knows that something will be there because I think things like that. And I think of those things, not because I’m a goody goody, better than anyone else, but because it’s that little stuff that says I’m thinking about you. Your needs/wants are important to me.
Even more so though. Without those things – that would be fine. If he could have said something like “oh. Of course those pillows were for the girls in the car. I forgot!” Instead, the defense. And then the veil falls. Why do I keep being disappointed? Because I continually have some sort of different hope/expectation I suppose. And that’s what I want to get rid of. Just numb that chit right out of me. No more veil falling, just a continual fog instead. That’s what I want.
Nor should it. For when I’m saying those words, it doesn’t fit. That’s because I’m usually sincerely glad to be where I am. Happy to be away from my life. Happy to be with the people I’m suddenly around.
Today though. I felt the shift. It was audible, physical. We’re in the car after I’ve been at the EC Meeting all morning. The kids are n the back and they are tired. Molly asks where is her pillow. The blue pillows that I bought for camping. And the car seats. That I have specifically set aside with their snuggies as car accessories. That are now packed, crammed away in the back somewhere.
How is this possible? And it’s not that I don’t see all the work that has obviously been done. I do. Of course I do. The car is FULL. I know that didn’t happen all by itself. The gas tank is full, the fridge has been cleaned out, the truck was packed. I SEE all of that.
So I say “Maybe you didn’t know this, but I bought those pillows along with the snuggies for car rides. So the kids could have them in the car. For next time, now you know.” And he replies “I packed them. There weren’t any specific instructions about them.” All morning, and parts of yesterday I tried to give specific instructions and then this morning tried to alleviate some of the remembering of all the instructions by taking care of a few things. I didn’t think to give specific instructions about the pillows and snuggies because My God, we’ve only talked about how those stupid snuggies and pillows are for the kids to have IN THE FUCKING CAR. I then take a breath and say “I’m not trying to be offensive, I just want you to know.”
And I just sink. Sink under the veil of miscommunication and depression. Vowing that as soon as I get back from this trip I’m going to start popping the pills. Why am I resistant. I just want to be numb to this life.
Am I finally getting to a point where the things that I’m “grateful” for are not worth enough for the things that I really want? I would rather be alone than have someone who can’t think of the little things that make us a family who thinks about each other. The small things like how he goes to the pantry and knows that something will be there because I think things like that. And I think of those things, not because I’m a goody goody, better than anyone else, but because it’s that little stuff that says I’m thinking about you. Your needs/wants are important to me.
Even more so though. Without those things – that would be fine. If he could have said something like “oh. Of course those pillows were for the girls in the car. I forgot!” Instead, the defense. And then the veil falls. Why do I keep being disappointed? Because I continually have some sort of different hope/expectation I suppose. And that’s what I want to get rid of. Just numb that chit right out of me. No more veil falling, just a continual fog instead. That’s what I want.
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