Blathering About Life

Venti - honey you really don't want to read this one. I mean that.

You know, it's strange. You get to be a little older and you start to wonder what's going on with the world ... you get to be a little bit older still and you start to wonder what's going on with your family ... still a little bit older, you start to wonder what's going on with yourself - but then oddly, the whole mess of it spins around and you go through the process from back to font. Yourself, family, the world. I think there may even be a period of your life, called adulthood most likely, that's a melding together of those three things - except it never stops - there's always a focus or worry and you can't seem to finish getting through one thing before another thing hits....

I'm not at all implying that all my wondering has ever led to any revelations, I'm simply saying that it seems that life gets - not more complicated as you get older - faster. Sure, you have wisdom that you've picked up over the years, but it's not like you have much time to recall that wisdom in the midst of standing in the middle of your life going WHAT THE FUCK!!!?

I have been through some incredibly bad periods in my life and I don't forget that there are good periods back there, too, but damn if those bad ones don't seem to be outweighing the good by more than a thousand times right now.

I used to wonder about the world - wonder what I'd be when I grew up, how things would evolve and how I'd evolve with it. Was I really going to be an archaeologist? Was I going to be a professor at a quaint little college in Vermont like I'd always dreamed, spending my summers sifting through sand for incredible artifacts? Would there be peace, would I be able to stop being so afraid of the ever present threat of nuclear war - how would the world change? I dreamed about it, and I hoped for it, and now I'm in it.

And I'm not an archaeologist and I don't even remember to be thankful that there's no more USSR because now I have to worry about terrorism in my own country.

I went through the phase of worrying about my family - wondering what made them tick, very much out of sync, but tick non-the-less. I wanted to fix all of them, and perhaps a part of me still does to some degree, but certainly I'm no longer allowing it to consume me. I stopped being a doormat to my family not so long ago, and liberating as it is, it does get lonely at times. I think I've become used to the loneliness now, where I used to miss it, I have simply had to tuck it away and forget about it, and accept that this is my life and that having five people in it is fine. Of course, there are people who don't even have five people in their life and so I should be thankful. I guess.

I also went through a phase where I wondered about myself. I really stretched myself thin on that one, looking deep into my childhood, studying different religions so I could figure out where I belonged in this universe, I tried everything from being Susie Homemaker to immersing myself in all things paranormal. I tried being a writer, an artist, a secretary, and even a cleaning lady - all the while being a wife and a mother.

And because I am a wife and a mother I never really had a quiet moment to figure out exactly who I really was - or am now. Maybe that IS what I am, just a wife and mother. It's possible. I don't really think about it much anymore, it doesn't matter because there's nothing I can do that will ever make me become an archaeologist, and hell - I hate to get dirty anyway, so digging in the dirt of some middle-eastern country while a war rages on over my head is definitely not my ideal profession. There comes a time when you just tuck those dreams away and go change another diaper.

My oldest son, Grande, is 15 years old and thinks I'm the worst mother in the world because I don't clean. Well, he's right - I do not clean. He furiously cleans the house and after he's wound up the vacuum cleaner cord he sits down in a huff and says "I don't know why I even bother, it will just be messed up tomorrow." EXACTLY. I figure that my not cleaning will have no impact on tomorrow whatsoever, and so I don't do it. I used to care, I used to want everyone including myself to have a nice, clean and organized house - but at this point, I don't give a shit - because nobody else ever did. Isn't the definition of insanity 'continuing to do the same thing over and over and expecting different results?'

Do I want a neat and clean house? Of course. Am I willing to go through the process of cleaning it every single day to have it be that way? Absolutely not. Why? Because of what my son is learning. Nobody really cares what the house looks like, as long as they have a clean glass to drink out of - life's good for them.

I bet whoever reads this is thinking at this point - "This girl needs an antidepressant."

Well, maybe that's true, but the fact that my son throws a fit, slams doors and shuts himself down when dinner isn't going to happen at night - so I make dinner and the kitchen gets messed up and the next day he's flipping out on me because I didn't do the dishes...you know what? Fuck it.

He wants such a Leave it to Beaver life, but he picked the wrong mom. Like I said, I used to try my hardest - but I couldn't keep doing it because it was crazy how nobody noticed or cared - unless I DIDN'T do it. How work boots and filthy socks would be the first thing I'd see upon cracking my bedroom door open in the morning looking out over the livingroom, which, the night before had been freshly vacuumed and even dusted. A guy (Rotten Shit Coffee Grounds) who was supposed to love me and support me sprawled out across the loveseat (no, we couldn't afford a sofa at that point and were living in a god-awful trailer park) would snore, and I'd do everything in my power not to wake him up when I made myself a pot of coffee. He usually would, though, and go crawl into bed - always, always after I'd left it. I am doing the math in my head now, trying to be sure of this number...for TEN YEARS. I dare anyone to try dealing with that for ten years and then continuing to cook & clean to please people. Fuck that. There wasn't even any pleasing myself by that point.

So here it is, oh - three years later and I have a new husband, Venti, a good man - and I still don't clean the house, and I most often don't cook dinner. And now I have my 15 year old baby telling me off about it.

Of course I can't ever say "Honey, you're the reason mommy is poor." I don't mean that. But I do. But I don't. You know how it goes, you get pregnant when you're sixteen and college just isn't in the cards anymore, life's choices which were once spread out in front of you like a field full of diamonds becomes a much, much narrower swath - so simple that most days the biggest choice I have to make is which outfit to put on the baby. Will anyone notice if I stay in my pajamas all day? Nope. Will anyone care if I clean the house? Nope. Will anyone care that I've made dinner? Nope. (A stray thank you here and there, but more out of "oh thank God I didn't have to do it" than anything else.) Will anyone really care if I sleep all but four hours of the day? No, not really. There would be a discussion of concern, but if I would sit patiently through it and appease everyone, I could sleep all but four hours the next day and nobody would notice.

Of course, you can't sleep 20 hours a day when you have a baby, and I don't have just any baby - I have this incredible toddler that is beautiful and precious and really hates to play by himself, which I can understand because I used to be the same way. Thank God Short Decaf isn't a girl - just...thank God for that. He won't ever have to face getting pregnant at 16. Maybe that's why the universe only gave me boys - so I wouldn't have to relive that part of my life through my children.

I'm being quite reflective tonight because within the next few days I'll be seeing a psychiatrist about my anxiety. I know he won't want to talk about anything but my symptoms, and I haven't figured out exactly what my symptoms are yet. I haven't really thought about it because I always just say "I have panic attacks and a terrible phobia of my heart" and that's always enough for anyone, doctor or not - to say - "Oh, it's anxiety." Doctors look at the pen their writing with - fresh from the drug reps briefcase full of goodies - to figure out how to spell the name of the drug they want me to take. Thinking it through really is an old-fashioned concept when it comes to doctors who treat people with anxiety disorders. Or well, hell - let's just be negative (or realistic, take your pick) and say ALL doctors.

However, I guess there is - no, I was going to say there's depression but it's not that at all, it's anger. I have so much anger inside of me - for things I lost, for things I've been through, for things I'm going through - at myself, at others, at doctors, at my kids. Well, not Short Decaf, but Grande and Tall for sure.

I just asked myself WHY don't they CARE about anything??? And I can answer that one on my own - look at who their teacher was; me.

God, I've been so busy with the hardships in my life that I guess that's all they ever saw - was me trying to project a peaceful exterior, which meant inside I was raging like a tornado, my heart pounding wildly, panicking really badly - but you can't let your kids see that or it will scare them. So, instead of having them be scared, I let them believe that not caring about anything is fine. The "big lie" that's coming back to bite me in the ass. They could never actually see that I was a spring wound too tightly, because on the outside I was just sitting very still trying not to cause one more ripple of fucked-upedness.

And to cycle in what I was speaking of earlier - now that I'm older and I'm poorer than I've ever been in my life, I'm beginning to see what it's really like to have to face up to all the shit that's going on in my life at once. It's not any singular thing, it's me, my family and the world. So much of it is fucked up and so much of it is irreparable. So, again, the "no feelings, no outward emotion, do not let anyone see any of the pain or frustration you feel" wall goes up, and inside I feel like each and every little thing that's wrong in my life is a shard of glass, and every shard is whirling around inside of me like a cyclone. It hurts, and I have no choice but to focus on all of it at once. I still want to make it better, I still want to believe that there's hope for a better life, but I'm tired and I'm sick of fighting the good fight about money and bills and kids not doing their schoolwork and sisters not caring and ex-husbands being dickheads, and my anxiety, and money - did I mention money, of course I did - it should be mentioned a thousand times since that seems to be the root of SO much misery in my life.

Depression is ever present in my house, whether from Venti, one or both of the kids, or me. Someone can't have a game, someone can't go to the store, someone can't pay the gas bill, well, you know what, there's a baby who has to have his formula rationed, too - and I consider that a problem well above the fact that there may not be hot water in the morning or a new GameBoy game, you know? My baby, my sweet angelic wonderful baby, barely has any clothing that fits him and he's growing like a weed. Everytime I go into a grocery store with Venti the babyfood aisle is the first one I head towards and Venti runs off to other aisles to grab things so I won't go down those aisles and see other things and throw them in the cart - he knows it takes me a while to pick out the babyfood - so hell, why not take advantage of the opportunity. This is why I no longer care to even go into a grocery store. And it's not just Short Decaf and his food - it's the older boys who need summer clothes, hair cuts, lunch money, and on and on it goes. These are necessities, not luxury items. Okay, I can cut hair, I can go to thrift shops to buy their clothes someday when we have money again, I can try to make them pack lunch, but I am oh so very fucking tired of facing every single solitary day with those facts staring me straight in the face as soon as I wake up.

And there's still not a man in the bed with me when i wake up - considering that I sleep in so late so that I can avoid being 'alone' for as long as possible. Thank God Short Decaf sleeps late, too. I stay up late at night because it's quiet and I don't have to wonder if the baby is going to swallow somebody's toenail that they ripped off of themselves in the livingroom.

And throughout all of that I wonder what the hell is wrong with the world that my family doesn't qualify for public assistance because we make TOO MUCH money! It's absolutely, positively laughable.

Have I asked for anything here other than for my anxiety to go away? No. I try not to care about anything else for me, personally. If I could just feel no fear that would be enough. I don't ask for things, I don't insist on getting new clothing, haircuts, jewelry, shoes, my nails done, a car, - oh, I did ask for a candy bar the other day, and I used to ask for a cup of coffee from Starbucks, but that was - what seems like - a long, long time ago.

Shit, I had to go and fuck up my job because I was having severe panic attacks on my way to work and on my way home again. But I couldn't put myself through that physical and emotional torture every day anymore, it was just way too much. I could have taken extra xanax then driven if it weren't for the fact that I had my baby in the car! I had no choice but to quit. I could never have taken a double dose of xanax and then hop in the car because of Short Decaf being in there with me, plus - God, even if he wasn't in the car, what if I would have wrecked into someone because I was stoned on 2mg of xanax? I took 1.5mg a half hour before I left for work in the morning and a half hour before I left to go home in the afternoon and I was still so panicked that I always had to pull the car over and try to convince myself that I wasn't going to pass out and die or have a heart attack. NOTHING in the world was ever as much of a relief as pulling my car into my driveway and turning off the ignition switch - talk about sweet relief! I felt like I'd just run through a mine field with all three of my kids and made it safely to the other side, I was so desperately relieved to be home! I did that nearly every day for four months, I still don't know how I found the inner strength to continue doing it. I guess because I knew if i quit, things would get THIS bad, and now they have and I hate myself for quitting.

So now we have no money and if there's a finger pointing anywhere, it's pointing right at me. Yet, my panic attacks are raging out of control, my mind is usually a complete blank because I've been FIGHTING the damn panic all day, plus the fact that I've lived in - well, pretty much constant isolation since the first week of February - God, three months now. My brain is mush. I have too much anxiety. Just thinking about getting a job makes me dizzy. And of course, we only have one car now.

Let's add some icing to this cake, shall we? Tall Decaf is going to be 13 in a few days. We won't have a spare dime until four days after his birthday, so I borrowed a hundred dollars from my sister to buy him a cake and some presents for his actual birthday, as well as put together a party for him - inviting my whole family from 3 hours away - the following Sunday. Yes, nearly a full week after his actual birthday - bad enough, right? Well, that $100 went to pay for the gas bill this week because they called and said they would be shutting it off. Also, it turns out that Sunday is Mother's Day. Oops. No party on that day and nobody seems to be able to make it down here for the new date, Saturday the 8th. And if they do - I don't know what they're going to eat. It's supposed to be a pizza party - so far only my sister has said she'd come and she'd only be bringing her husband (possibly - he usually doesn't come.) So, what have we got here? One kid who's so excited about having a REAL birthday party with with the works - including his family, (I even invited his dad and his girl-o'the-month) - but nobody will show up, I won't be able to afford anything for him, so he'll sink into a depression which I'm sure will include him dying his hair black and getting hiding cut marks on his forearms.

God, I'd cry but there's nothing inside of me.

This isn't depression folks, this is outright anger - and I know, so very well, that if I start to let even just little bits of it out like this that more and more will come out until I'm livid on the outside, shaking and palpitating on the inside, panicking because the feeling of expressing anger vocally is something I never do or else I get horrible physical feelings that I'm certain will cause me to die every time.

What could fix this? Money.

And guess what? There isn't any. Even if I get money it's absorbed into the "HOLY SHIT THIS IS URGENT" stream immediately. I made $38.16 cents off of my website - something it took me three months to do, it came in the mail and Venti brought it to me to sign, he even opened the envelope I believe, then took it right to the bank so that some emergency could be avoided (until the next one came along, which of course was the next day.) Man, I really wanted that forty bucks. I don't know what I was going to do with it - buy hair dye, get my eyebrows waxed, i don't know - but i wanted it. They've sent another check, it's $19.77, I assume I'll be getting it in a few days, probably just in time for Tall's birthday, which isn't too unfortunate. At least I can actually take the cash and see it being spent on someone or something. The illusion of control over one iota of my life.

I need to add a new member to the Decaf's - and that is Buttplug Decaf, a friend of Venti's. He called to tell Venti that he has now decided that he's not going to buy A house, no - he's buying two. Which will bring the grand total of houses he owns to three. Hey Buttplug, your best friend drinks bargain bin gallon jugs of wine with screw tops (that he has to ration, by the way) and I'm sitting here sad because I don't have any more decaf teabags so my mornings are screwed, but way to go on your prosperity. I swear, honest to God, there was nothing else about that phone call than "I'm good. I have to tell you how good I am."

Jealous? No. Angry. I'm not jealous of people who have things I don't, really - I am angry with Buttplug for being so devoid of soul or brains that he'd actually call his nearly destitute friend and tell him how prosperous life is for him.

Destitute: Lacking resources or the means of subsistence; completely impoverished. See Synonyms at poor.

Yes, poor - but making too much money to qualify for food stamps, cash assistance, or even WIC, which ANYONE seemingly can get. I swear to God this world is fucked up.

The only good things I have in my life are my husband and kids and my ability to control my dreams. I've gotten pretty good at getting whomever I want to be in my dreams to show up but that's another entry for antoher time when I'm not so pissed off. Wouldn't want to taint a good thing.

I want my fucking Indian restaurant back! I want a goddamned haircut. I want a car that doesn't humiliate me to be seen in. I want to not have to scrape together quarters to buy a soda when we go for a drive, (which I always have a panic attack doing, plus I keep staring at the gas gauge feeling horrible about the fact that it's going to take $20 we don't have to refill it.) I want to care about how much money we do have instead of how much we don't have, or how much we need to get back to good, or just make it through the day.

And so, on the 7th of May, we'll have a paycheck that won't need to go entirely to rent and bills - mostly, but not entirely. Then on the 21st of May, another paycheck we'll have to pay bills out of and should probably also pay rent out of - otherwise we'll have to wait until the 5th of the month to pay the rent and we've paid it 9 days late for several months now, I think the landlord is going to get really pissed soon, so we can't do that, either. Which MEANS, that we won't have any spare money until June 4th - again take note that it's still fucking April! - which means .... nothing. We will have nothing at all until June, and I am betting any amount of money that with that paycheck a major car repair will need to be done, which will leave us with exactly $50 less than the amount of money we need to survive until the next paycheck comes.

I'm not trying to be pessimistic here - I just know I'm right. It's the way things work around here.

And in between all of that, I have to deal with my family, the world, and worst of all - myself. I'm sure that the doctor on Thursday will prescribe some new medicine like Lexapro that will cause me to balloon 40 pounds within 4 weeks (then yell at me and tell me to stop eating so much junk food) - and also give me horrible, horrible start up side-effects like dizziness, nausea, all kinds of horrible panic-inducing feelings. Hey, I know - I'll just ask him to knock me the fuck out. Wouldn't that be easier? No, I guess not, since Short Decaf would then need a babysitter we couldn't afford.

God, I'm sick of hearing myself bitch. And no, I'm not PMS, nor depressed, just angry.

Fuck - I really wanted that birthday party for Tall Decaf to happen the way I envisioned it. You only turn 13 once, I wanted it to be so special for him and he's so excited about it. Such a sweet little boy, his insides haven't grown as fast as his outside would lead a person to believe and I know that this is going to crush him. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I have so much more to say but I am probably going to hit some sort of post length quota and lose everything I typed ... so, more another day? Or more likely keep it inside because i know that bitching like this only makes my anxiety worse, as well as everyone else's who reads this.