Monday, July 8, 2013

Disoriented

She's back in her house for the week, while her (ex?  when do you start saying that?) husband is on the East Coast for business.  So far, the reviews are mixed.  It's nice to be able to take care of things as she thinks of them, but the clutter and chaos are maddening.  If she could, she would just pack three boxes of things to keep, back a Dumpster up to the front door, and haul everything else away.

She woke up, disoriented, in her own bed, in her own house.  Her phone alarm went off, but it wasn't on the right side, like it is where she sleeps now.  It was strange, to wake up in a familiar place and yet not know where you were at first.  And then the sick feeling of recognizing where you were, and realizing why it didn't make sense that you were there.  She wore that feeling all day, a cloud she couldn't shake off, no matter how defiantly she shrugged her shoulders and tossed her head.  It's impossible to get out from under the cloud when it descends.  Panic ensues when she sees it coming, no way to get around it.  It's like a train is bearing down on her.   A trainwreck, more like.

They had planned to play Boggle after dinner, but something struck her while she was doing the dishes, and she just couldn't face sitting down to the game.  The waves roll over her and she has to hang her head, and run the hot water to try to make it look like it's not tears, but perspiration that is making her face red and wet.  "What's wrong?" people ask.  The answer used to be that she had a mood disorder, that nothing was objectively wrong, it was her responses that were wrong.  Now what's wrong is her marriage is over and her family is in ruins.  And she has a mood disorder.  Let's not forget that.  No.

It is overwhelming to think of all the things there are to do, all the decisions to be made, all the awkward moments to go through.  All the feelings.  Exhausting.  The manic months of the Nightmare  Spring have caught up with her and she can barely slog her way through the evening's activities.  She just wants to sit on her (former) bed and drink beer and write about all her feelings in the third person in an effort to make them somehow literary and not pathetic.

So we'll always know where it is.
It's disorienting, to feel all the feelings, all at once.  She's been doing that her whole life.  Apparently it's not a good thing, although for so many years she didn't know that, and she didn't really have a choice.  Now she understands that she is somehow different.  She mistrusts her responses.  She cries a lot, seemingly out of the blue.  She laughs out loud, hard, sudden laughter, maybe disproportionate to the joke, but it feel so good pouring out of her.  She feels angry, she feels love.  And these days she feels distracted, exhausted.   Like usual, only more so.  Even more so.  As if that's even possible.



13 comments:

  1. Sometimes writing in the third keeps one objective. Drink that beer and never let them* see you sweat. Or cry, whatever. You are doing the right thing, and you tried more than your best to hold it together. Save yourself!

    *to quote MWDAS, even the "crotchfruit"

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  2. Also crashing from a manic episode, the mania is like a nice vacation from my usual depression. I think I might start speaking in the third person too :)

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  3. Hang in there, woman... (((HUGS)))

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  4. So then she drinks a couple of beers and declares valiantly "Fuck this - I might have a mood disorder, but I refuse to let it be blamed for everything...especially when my partner in life refuses to support me in a fight to save my daughter's life." Then she shaves her legs, puts on her nicest bra and some kick-ass shoes, and finds a place to go dancing. And she's absolutely f.a.b.u.l.o.u.s.

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    1. Okay. Sobbing now. You happy? Thanks a fucking lot. <3

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    2. Yep!!! I'm happy. I've been watching one of my favorite bloggers/crackpage be a total badass while life fucks with her and her family. You're keeping your shit together, still kicking ass at work AND you're keeping your sense of humor. I've got mad respect for you lady. Work that shit, sista.

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  5. You write so beautifully. I love this. I hate that you're going through this, but I appreciate the beauty that comes out of this. I've said it (and thought it) so many times: I can't wait until you're on the other side of all of this. Because you will be one day. But I hate this part for you and for anyone in it because this part SUCKS ASS. And yes, you gotta fucking cry sometimes or you'd be a straight up weirdo. Let it out. And let it out here. xoxoxo

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  6. Don't you dare clean that house for them!

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  7. As the Bloggess says "Depression lies" (and Bipolar and Anxiety are her lying ass friends). Since hearing that I have tried to think of Depressed Becky as a different person from just Becky. So writing in the third person is the only logical way to write the way I see it.

    For all of you still not hip to The Bloggess, you gotta check her out, she's as effed up as all of us and just as awesome.
    www dot thebloggess dot com

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    1. Love the Bloggess. Love.

      www.thebloggess.com

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  8. I don't know what I was going to write, but I got sucked into Harriet's response. I hadn't seen that before but it is so effing true. And also so hard to remember that Real You and Monster You (that's what I call it) are not the same person. That can be disorienting in itself. Hang in there.

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    1. Thank you. I'm listening. And nodding. And trying to remember.

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