Right about now, I should be posting about my mid-year goals. But this year has sucked so bad so far that my mid-year goals are what I want to write about least.
Are the basic things okay? Sure, my entire family’s healthy (for the most part) and we’re all alive. We have food, shelter, and water. We’re doing great on that front. In fact, I’ll even let you know that we’re financially more well off than we’ve ever been.
But I am miserable. I wake up every day wishing I were dead. What I earn does not make me happy except for the few seconds twice a month when I see how much has been direct deposited into my account. I am able to distract myself with Facebook and Twitter. But when those things are gone, I am left alone with my thoughts. And my thoughts cannot figure out how to escape. How to extract myself from my current situation. I cannot even brainstorm a decent way to commit suicide.
The year started off great. On January 2nd, one of my best friends and I spent the day in Philly taking in Independence Hall and enjoying a few beers at a bar featured on the Food Network. Then January 5th came. And then every weekday after that. It all felt like a nightmare. Being excluded. Not fitting in. Dealing with catty women. My current work situation takes me back to high school and the questions that I grappled with then: Why doesn’t anyone like me? Why won’t anyone go to lunch with me? Why won’t anyone hang out with me after hours? Am I not cool enough? Am I too weird? Is something wrong with me? I showered today but did I not soap well enough to eliminate any odors?
In early April, the senior editor left and I became the only editor in the entire agency. It’s not a big agency, only 28 people, but there’s enough work flowing through that I cannot handle it alone. I have found egregious mistakes in the final round before things have gone to print. On Friday, I found an egregious mistake on a piece that has already been printed and will cost the agency hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars. (Likely thousands.)
In late February, the agency hired a new supervisor for the copy department. She has been difficult to get along with. At every moment I think she’s a cool gal (she’s going to San Diego Comic Con this year), she does or says something that upsets me. She seems to have cooled off within the past few weeks but I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I feel like I can’t get too comfortable anywhere.
People at the agency I thought I was friendly with have distanced themselves from me. People only discuss business with me. No one takes a real interest in my personal life. (Not that much is going on but I am a person with various interests too, I think.) I make an effort to discuss personal things with others but the sentiment isn’t reciprocated.
My son is a man’s man. He loves daddy and grandpa. When he hurts himself, feels sick, or tired, he gravitates toward daddy (when it’s just me and daddy around). I always thought I’d be the one to kiss his boo-boos and cuddle with him when he’s not feeling well. I always thought I’d be the one to put my child to sleep, play with him, watch TV with him, and take care of him. He likes me sometimes but not always. I’m not who he clings to. I don’t even feel loved by my own kid. When he was first born, I felt like I couldn’t bond with him and now I feel like PPD has robbed me of my ability to bridge the gap created by those first few months. He doesn’t even want me. Sure, he’s familiar with me and I can make him smile and laugh but if you spend enough time with the kid, he’ll gravitate to you too. He’s just a really nice, fun kid. But I’m no one special. And I want to be. And the fact that I’m not kills me. I’d rather be out of the picture than feel rejected by my own son.
My therapist tells me I need to love myself and accept myself. I’ve pretty much decided that’s not happening so we need to find another solution. Loving myself would require rejecting the majority opinion that others have rejected me and have deemed me not worthy of inclusion. Accepting myself would require thinking that my quirks (soft rock love and all) are awesome and what other people think be damned.
I can’t do that. Because I want to be loved by others. I want to be accepted by others. No, not everyone has to like me, but I want someone to extend the invitation to feel included. I want to not feel like a freak and a weirdo around the people I spend most of my time with every day. I just want to be included.
I recently took a test for certification as a medical/scientific editor. It was sufficiently challenging. I wouldn’t be surprised if I passed or failed either way. It was a weighted test with difficult questions counting more than the easy ones. This year has been such shit, I’m sort of expecting to have failed. So I guess I will be surprised if I pass after all. (Even if I don’t, I will make plans to get to attend a conference in San Antonio later this year to try and take the test again.) I keep in touch with the former senior editor and she’s convinced that I passed. She’s one of those people who’s always convinced she’s right. And I hope she is.
My marriage is great, though. My husband and I will be celebrating our 10th anniversary in late August. No small feat! We’ve weathered my reoccurrence of mental illness, infertility, the death of loved ones, job changes, hospitalizations, surgeries, various friendships, waxing and waning spirituality, and so on. To celebrate, we’d like to take in a Red Sox vs. Yankees game at Fenway in July. I will be up there for a patient-centered conference on maternal disorders so we have been able to work it out.
My spiritual life is crap. I pray very little. I rarely attend church. (I’ve been attending the local Roman Catholic Church on and off.) I can’t tell you the last time I’ve read my Bible. I am back to the point where I am probably going to hell but am begging and pleading the Lord God Almighty to accept me into heaven in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. I’m not an atheist or agnostic. I have been antisocial and have not wanted to engage in corporate worship. Or schmoozing with anyone from church, for that matter. And then there will be the questions: Where have you been? Haven’t seen you. We’ve missed you!
Maybe we should go back. I know they actually miss us. But this stage of life has taken away our energy to socialize weekly and stay out late Sunday through Thursday. (Friday and Saturday are more flexible for us. But even then, the little man goes to bed at 8:30 pm and our community group gets together at 7 pm. What’s the point of going?)
I’m behind on domestic life. My husband does EVERYTHING: laundry, dishes, housework. He takes care of the little man when he gets home and stays with him through the night (No, our little man is not sleeping on his own and he does not sleep through the night. He is 16 months.). My husband drops him off at daycare and takes care of him in the morning. I now do very little. I wake up, go to work, spend at least 8 hours there, come home, eat, drink a beer or two, and then pass out. I’m very unhappy with my life. I’m a crap mother and a poor excuse of a wife. Being a freelancer allowed me the time and opportunity to do everything I needed to while still earning an income (albeit, inconsistent and fluctuating). I kept up on the checkbook, did laundry, managed medical bills and made sense of the explanation of benefits from insurance. My desk wasn’t super tidy but I knew where everything was. I kept an eye on items that needed to be restocked. Sure, I was powered by 5 cups of coffee a day but I was efficient and useful. My home has never been pristine but it’s not the mess that it is now (and no, it doesn’t really have much to do with my kid). I eat out every single night. I can’t tell you the last time I had a homecooked meal. We used to spend Friday nights with my in laws and my husband’s maternal and paternal grandmothers. Now everything is disjointed and I can’t tell you the last time I’ve seen my husband’s paternal grandmother (who we used to see every week).
I drink beer like it’s going out of style now. It’s the only way I can relax after a grueling day at work. If I’m honest, it’s self-medication. Alcohol has a relaxing effect on me that my actual medications to manage bipolar illness don’t. If I need to, I will drink beer AND take my medication. I really don’t care. If I get sick and die doing that, I’m actually okay with that. I really am that miserable here.
If you’ve read this far, thanks for reading. This post isn’t necessarily for others to read (although since you’re seeing this, you’re obviously welcome to it) but more of a brain dump for me because I haven’t been able to write.
I miss writing. Blog posts, news articles, creative writing—I miss it all.
Most of all, I miss me.