Melancholy

Sometimes I find it so distressing that I am, once again, fighting melancholy. It happens so often.

“How often is often?” you ask…let’s say an average of 3 – 6 days a week.

“That’s kind of fucked up,” you might think.

Yes, yes it is.

And this is me on medication.

And this is me with the strength of a fucking ox.

This is me, sitting in my bed, wanting to crawl under the covers, maybe watch Mean Girls, or maybe that would take too much effort and I could just absent-mindedly surf Facebook taking tests to find out who my mythological spirit animal is, but instead, I am writing this, knowing that as soon as I hit “publish” I will get up, go downstairs, help with dinner, play with the dog (who will definitely know that I am faking it) and act like everything is fine.

And it will be for a while – it will get my mind off of…my mind. No one will know the Herculean will that it has taken to eat a steak, fresh off the steer and grilled to perfection just for me. No one will know the craving I have for solitude and escape

Why not just give in to it tonight?

A myriad of reasons, most of which boil down to shame or fear.

I am ashamed for anyone to know that I feel this blue when nothing has happened today to make me feel this way.

I am embarrassed for MCB who is generally very content, to see me like this for no apparent reason.

I am afraid that if he does know how I feel tonight, he will, like my ex-husband, decide that I am either psychosomatic or just a drag and leave.

I am afraid for my children to see me sad because they were witness to my nervous breakdown years ago and I never want them to have to either worry about or navigate through that again.

Which leads to the holy terror that I feel when I think that letting go, giving in, for even one evening, will cause a spiral into the depths of mental and emotional hell and that I don’t know if I will ever be able to crawl out again.

I am afraid if I take or do anything to escape that I won’t be “dealing with my feelings” which will result in my severe dysfunction as an adult along with a full-blown drug addiction.

I am afraid that if I give in, it means that the medication that I do take isn’t working, that my sadness is too much for it.

I am ashamed that I am medicated.

I am ashamed of what others would think of me if they knew the truth.

I am afraid of others expressing their opinions to me, about me.

My desire to check out and sit on my ass is mortifying in a world where my friends are always game to do something. It shames me that I would rather hide in my bedroom than spend the evening with my fabulous children. I fear that if I do actually do that, then tomorrow something will happen to one of them and I will forever live with the guilt that I wasted this night “feeling sorry for myself.”

So, I’m wrapping up this post; I can smell the grill. Guess I’m going to go play with the dog.

Moving In

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I think that I, we, are moving in with my boyfriend.

I swore that I would never, ever get married again and often finished that declaration with, “Probably won’t even consider living with someone again.”

I LOVE to sleep alone.

I love to masturbate.

I love to eat Cheetos (out of the secret stash in my shoe closet) in bed at 2 in the morning.

I love having my very own shoe closet.

I love to have total control over where I hang paintings, what paintings I hang, and how long I leave the Christmas lights hanging.

I love to not listen to music in the house and when I do, I love listening to the same CD 52 gazillion times.

I love being the center of my children’s world and not sharing the spotlight with another adult.

I love having the excuse, “I’m a single mom, I can’t do it all,” to not scrub the tub and just sit on my ass watching The Good Wife.

So what happened?

Honestly, I’m not quite sure. One day we were breaking up. Then we were back together and using the L-word, then he spent the night when my kids were home, then we went on a family mini break, then we looked at a house to rent and now we are signing a lease – seems like all in a week.

I kept saying “This has to move very slowly. VERY,” and then, without consciously changing my mind, I asked him to look at a house.

That was yesterday and today we are taking the children over there to pick out their bedrooms.

Oh God, I think I’m having an anxiety attack.