"Miss Martha, you are so weird!" "I know . . . isn't it wonderful!?"

Never EVER marry a man that you wouldn’t be proud to have as a son.

 

 

I

am so stressed that my body is locked and I am in AGONY.  Well . . . perspective . . . I’m not in pain at all compared to pre-back surgery.

 

However, I am in a lot of pain.  Physical manifestations of psychological rumblings.

 

 

 

Like distant thunder

and an old man’s joints know

and the cows lie down

and the leaves flip over

the wind is picking up . . .

And . . .

. . . I typed too soon last night.

 

He blew up because the torte didn’t come out right.  Yes.  You read that correctly.  Screaming, berating, name-calling.  Yeah.  Over food.  Sooooo rational.  (Can you smell the sarcasm?)

 

Then he yelled at me because the smell of my tea “makes me sick” so I took my tea and my computer, and went upstairs for the night.  I don’t mind living in my bedroom . . . I just don’t want to share it with him anymore.
AND . . . I don’t think that I should have to retreat in a house that I PAY FOR.

lately.  Probably because I’ve finally decided that I’m done.

 

When someone who was very special to your wife dies, and your wife attempts to go to her funeral, only to find out afterwards HOW she died, and your wife comes home and, through tears, tells you what happens . . . YOU DON’T LAUGH.

 

It wouldn’t be funny if it were a stranger.

 

I no longer even want to care how he feels or what he thinks.  It doesn’t count anymore.  What little pity I had left for him evaporated with my tears.

 

With all the name calling and screaming and breaking my things and insulting my family and telling me that I’m worthless . . . that one laugh resonated so deep.  Too deep.

 

Finally.

. . . I’m done . . . here’s another reason . . .

 

K:  “So, I guess we’re not putting up a Christmas tree this year?”

M:  “I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

K:  “Call my mom.”

M:  “Why?”

K:  “Because she’ll come over and help you, it would be done by now.”

 

Because, you know, I married his mother.

Well . . .

I FINALLY go back to work on Thursday.  I’m sitting here, eating my mac ‘n cheese (Kenny is, obviously, at work) and I hear a crunching noise.

 

I figure Lilly has a toy, and I continue eating.

 

CRUNCH.

 

What toy is it!?

 

I set my dish down to see what she is destroying.

 

My dinner has been interrupted by the sound of one of my dogs biting her back nails.

 

Yeah.

 

Mmmm, dinner.

It’s been a LONG road, and it’s not over yet.  I am enhausted.

 

Physically.

 

Mentally.

 

Emotionally.

 

Yet . . .

 

I refuse to give up.

 

I am stronger than this.

 

But it is strong.

 

I’ve been making the mistake of using denial and sheer stubborness  as my only coping mechanisms.

 

Those, and humor.

 

But lately, it’s not funny anymore.

 

I’m not ready to laugh about this just yet.  Right now, it’s not funny.  It will be again . . . but for now, it’s not, and I must take it seriously.

 

I’ve been making choices (on EVERY level) that will do nothing to make me better, or help me cope.  This *may* be as good as it gets . . . but that doesn’t mean I have to lie down and take it.

 

I am more than this.  I am more than all of this.

 

But I am small.  I am a speck, a mote, an ort in the universe.

 

Yet my expectations of myself are far greater than anything that I would ever put on anyone else.  I would not place a FRACTION of this on anyone else, yet, in my own eyes, I am a failure.  I am a disappointment.  In my eyes and no others.  Moi et nul autre.  Ca, c’est tout.  Pour quoi?  Je ne sais pas.

 

I have created, for myself, such a level of stress.  Of course I can’t relax.  If I relax, I must be doing something wrong.  I must have forgotten to do something.  I MUST smile at all times, though my body may be screaming and my life feels like it’s falling apart.

 

Make the face that shows how you feel right now.  Don’t smile.  Make the face.  Hold it.   Hold it.  Keep holding it.

 

A single tear falls.

 

And there it is.

 

That is truth.

 

That is honest.

 

That is real.

 

This is real.

 

My facade cracks.  My smile disappears.  And . . . for the first time . . . in weeks?  Months?  Years? . . .

 

My shoulders relax.

 

My jaw unclenches.

 

How much energy do I spend pretending to be fine?  How many hours of the day do I subconciously waste worrying that other people view me as I view myself?  It is EXHAUSTING to be me.

 

Exhausting because I want YOU to see me as I WISH I saw myself.

 

Inside, I’m overwhelmed.  Inside, it’s too much.  Inside, it’s not funny.  Inside, I’m banging my fists against the wall screaming about how unfair it is.

 

Yet, I *know* I’m lucky.

 

That doesn’t make it hurt any less.

 

I wish it did.

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