Well, I suppose I have more motivation to type things up on here.
The person that I've been writing letters to describing the things that trigger my anxiety attacks is basically unable to cope with it. He's got his own stresses. I understand that. He's got alot of really crappy stuff to deal with being stuck in prison and having to face down the possiblity of cancer.
It was probably really friggin unrealistic and bitchy of me to expect him to beable to listen to my fears. So, I think I'll just stop writing about them. Or atleast, writing letters to him about them. He's anxious about his mother's health problems, his own health problems, the little brother off in the Marines during a time of war, and the other things I just mentioned. And I've gone and added my anxieties to the list.
I guess that makes me a bad person or something. I don't know. I'm torn between this feeling of bitterness and anger... and... I don't know, resignation and a sense of being proven right. Hell, not everyone can take on the world, put a smile on their face, and be the confessor/confidant of damn near half of the people they know while on the edge of their own anxiety attacks. I suppose I was expecting too much, maeby I'm the only one with that singular talent. Because I'm managing to make it look like I'm not coming apart at the seams except to the ones that I've told how bad I really am.
And even then I don't really say just how bad it is. I just give snippets of it because it overwhelms them to hear it. I manage to get about half to a quarter of it out before I get told they need to move on to a different topic. So I jam the cork into the bottle, choke back the tears and the hurt/angry wail of "What about me? Why do I have to be 'OK' for you? I'm hurting right now! Can't you fucking tell?"
I'm feeling hurt, depressed, and resentful right now. I don't really know what to do about it. I've got some dishes in the other room that needs washed, laundry to fold, needlepoint to stitch, a sweater to crochet, and various other projects and chores to possibly distract me. But it doesn't work. I just hit this point of auto-pilot and I'm not there anymore. Oh, sure I'm doing the work and I'm attentively doing it. You won't see any flaws in it, or at least no more flaws then when I'm completely focused on it.
But I'm not mentally there beyond counting the stitches, untangling the thread, or making sure the dishes get spotless and not dropping them. I've dissociated and am lost in my own mind and the horrible feelings that are plauging me. I'm getting to a point where I've realized that it's not the dissociation where I'm going to hurt myself, it's more along the lines of I'm distracted some how. I'm relieved by that fact, because I'd be terrified if I was on the verge of hurting myself again.
It doesn't help much that I catch myself thinking about hurting myself. Don't let any one tell you that I'm not a stubborn woman or that I am weak-willed. I've caught myself so full of self loathing and the horrible impression that the whole world, including and especially those I love, would be better off with out me that I'm fantasizing about doing things to harm myself. I break myself out of those reveries when I catch myself doing that. In the moments that those thoughts come to me, I can almost feel it happening to me. I see it all so clearly in my mind that it's like some horrible vision or nightmare.
It's enough to make me feel guilty. What right do I have to contemplate taking my own life? What right do I have to damage myself in some fashion? I'm not some horrible person. I don't rape babies or do other acts of animalistic savagery for fun or some sick sense of personal power tripping. I don't engage in sadistic acts to escape my sense of misery. I don't lie, cheat, or steal. I'm an honest person who deeply loves her fellow man.
I have a roof over my head, food to eat, a husband that adores me, friends who love me, and a family (while crazy and generally not good for me) that care deeply for me too. I have so many good things in my life that I have a hard time counting them all. I shouldn't be so damn depressed. I shouldn't want to hurt myself so badly that I can almost taste it. But, for some sad, sad reason, I do. I feel that I need to punish myself for the fact that I'm only human.
As if there's something wrong with it, and I'm flawed or broken for not being "perfect". The sane part of my brain, the part of me that knows I have these good things, that knows I am blessed to live the life I am right now, knows that I'm not guilty of all the hardship in the lives of the people I love. The sane part of me knows that I'm not a horrible person or that I'm like that wretched woman who died recently.
But the things we know and understand with logic rarely match up with what the heart feels or the wounds of our psyche.
In it all, I find myself crying out for something again and again. Something that doesn't happen as often as I need it and it never really did, to be honest.
I just want some one to hold me on their lap, cradled against them, as I weep with this pain. And as they hold me close, tell me I'm safe, that I'm not crazy, and that it really will all be ok. Remind me that I am a good person and that I am loved. Show me that the logical part of my mind really is right, because I doubt myself far too much.
But I guess that's too much to ask for in this world when you're an adult.
Somedays, I miss being a little girl and having my daddy hold me when I got scared like this. Now, I just get people responding to me like my mother. "Suck it up, it's not really that bad. Stop this crap and get over it. You're being dramatic, knock it off."
I'm afraid. I'm so damn afraid but no one holds me anymore. No one tells me it's going to be ok when I want to cry because I'm convinced that the world is going to end if I stumble. I know those times happen when I'm not at home, most of the time. But... It makes me wonder, maeby I really am broken inside and perhaps Mom was right. Perhaps I need to be in an insitution some where.
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