I'm doing it again. I know it when I'm doing it.
But nothing can stop me. Nothing.
I've taken to wearing my husband's fleece pajama bottoms since he's traveling so much. Since he's gone so often. Since I'm alone so, so much.
It always starts with a missed breakfast because I didn't get out of bed until 10:00am. I convince myself I'll eat lunch soon so no worries.
No problem.
I peal a banana and try to eat it. I never can. The taste sickens me. Feels odd against my tongue. I can't eat it so I give it to Jaru and Lucy.
Since it's cold I have something hot. Coffee, cocoa, tea or warmed eggnog. I lean back and take a sip. Live in the moment of allowing it to coat my throat. Live in the moment of following along my trachea. Hoping, wishing and praying it reaches my heart and fills the pain that is there. That won't ever go away.
And I write.
I write.
I write.
The darkest shit I've ever written. And I know I might need to go get some help because this pain is so raw, so...real...so...ALL CONSUMING that I refuse to open up about it for fear I'll lose myself as I spilled the misery all over...all over...EVERYTHING.
I write what I feel and all I feel is PAIN.
Before you know it, it's 2:00 and it's time to schedule more posts since I scheduled something for every half-hour until 2:00 the night before. Until then I just sit and pretend I'm not in the pain I'm in. I pretend mostly for him. Because he loves me soooooooo much and I know it bothers him to not be home when he feels I need him. Because I know him and I know that he'd hop a plane and come home without thought for his project. Because I feel it would be selfish for me to require such. Because I love him so much that jewel of a man who is my Prince. My hero. My Robinator.
But sometimes...
It just hurts so fucking bad.
And then...it's time for Oprah and I haven't moved. Haven't combed my hair. Haven't cleaned up the mess I've made from doing nothing. The clutter visible from every angle.
And I realize I haven't eaten anything except a piece of raisin bread but I can't eat anything else. So I grab the bag of stir fry veggies and eat them like they are potato chips. Straight out the bag. They taste like nothing nor do I remember eating them. I don't remember getting up and putting them away but put them away I did because they are there ready for the next time I can force myself to eat something. Anything. To just open my damn mouth and chew.
Do you care to know how it hurts? The sharpness of it? The totality? The emptiness? The pain? Oh my God...the pain.
I can't spend too much time with anyone because they'll know. They will figure out I just want to die. That I would probably starve myself to death if he didn't come home on Fridays. The day I cook and pretend I've been fine so he doesn't worry.
He calls me for lunch. I picture him...in his suit sitting outside eating a salad. He calls me and we talk like I'm having lunch with him. In the park. Outside with 80 degree temperatures. I close my eyes and listen to his voice picturing his smile. The crinkles around his eyes. His beautiful eyes.
I should have been an actress because I can put on one hell of a show. It's not that I'm embarrassed that anyone knows my pain. It's that I'm scared of never being able to be THAT PERSON they want me to be if they KNEW. So yeah...quick hi's and goodbyes. Hiding under a hat. Walking fast. Moving away quickly.
I feel like everything has been destroyed. My get up and go has gone and yet I pretend, I pretend, I pretend.
My family taught me well. (Insert laugh here.)
The sight of my own blood has always terrified me and brought with it serious panic attacks. I pricked my finger today on a staple and the bead of bright red blood bubbled up and sat there. I looked at it and felt nothing.
I wiped it on my husband's fleece pj bottoms and I curled up in a ball until my arm fell asleep from the position of my hand under my cheek.
I'm not an emotional eater. I'm an emotional non-eater. I've lost five pounds again. When I'm depressed I don't eat.
And God knows I'm depressed.
The pain in my heart is palpable and 5 days out of the week...I'm alone. Maybe it's just the timing of this project in that it started pretty much immediately after the last IVF. Maybe that's why this time it seems as if I'm broken. Mortally wounded. Defeated beyond recognition.
I hurt.
Still.
Pray to God you never hurt like this. The kind of hurt that takes all of your hurts and gangs up on you to beat the shit out of you raw. Okay. I've been beaten man. I've had my azz kicked. LET ME GET UP ALREADY! FUCK! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?
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If I were a betting woman...right now I'd lose.
Good thing I believe gambling is beneath me.
COMMENTS ARE CLOSED.
