I have no idea why I’m crying right now.

It’s really not my problem. It’s not.

It feels like my problem, but it’s not.

I’m shocked and angry I guess.

The hubs graduates from college today. He’s a late bloomer, true, but I’m proud of him nonetheless. Its been a hell of a ride, but he finally did it. He joined my dad’s old fraternity and they’re having a special ceremony for friends and family before the big walkathon with all the caps and gowns and such. My dad is super jazzed about this and so is the hubs. My dad even made a few calls to the head of the regional pooh bah (or something) so he can knight the hubs (or whatever). He’s so excited. They have this bond that’s very… well I wish I’d been given an opportunity to have that bond with my dad too. I guess it’s too difficult for him to connect with me; he’d have to get to know me and maybe even feel something (heaven forbid).

Anyway, this was scheduled weeks ago. Over a month. The hubs’s father won’t come because I will be there. I wouldn’t miss my husband’s graduation – are you kidding me? The hubs says he doesn’t mind because his father has missed all of his other milestone events, so it’s no big deal.

Ok. Yet another free pass given to the man who doesn’t deserve one. But Goddess help me if my mood isn’t just so when he comes home from work. The man is manipulative, disrespectful and selfish to a fault yet when I’m cycling (like I am now), I’m the cunt and I’m the one that gets an attitude adjustment. Ok. As long as we know where I stand in relation to the man.

I get up this morning to find out that Hubs’s brother, the perpetual waif, will also not be joining us. He forgot he had a doctor’s appointment.

This was scheduled weeks ago. You don’t work, you don’t do anything but loaf around the house (and sometimes public) in your goddamn pajamas. You watch copious amounts of television, play Xbox live and surf the internet. You mean to tell me this asshole couldn’t reschedule their appointment for another day? A day that their doing, you know, absolutely butt-fucking nothing?! They had dinner together earlier this week. You mean to tell me the subject never came up?! I call bullshit!

Again, Hubs says it’s no big deal. He plans to go onto higher learning and says his brother can attend that graduation.

His whole fucking family just decided they weren’t coming. Like he wasn’t important enough to make time for. His piece of shit father would rather stand up on (PATENTLY FALSE) principle rather than see his son graduate. His stupid fucking brother isn’t smart enough to have rescheduled his doctor’s appointment for some (likely) imaginary goddamned disease (I swear, it’s likely for acne or jock itch or something – you know, something that could wait until next week) than show up and support his brother. It’s disgusting. But watch, they’ll go out to dinner next week, like they have been every week, as though nothing is wrong.

Because Hubs is like a battered wife. He can get treated any old fucking way and stays. He allows the treatment, doesn’t speak up and lets ESPECIALLY the man manipulate and use him. He defends and won’t leave the man because of his station in Hubs’s life. He’s his only parent and the man knows it. The man takes full advantage of that and attempts to manipulate everyone around him. He couldn’t control me and I wouldn’t allow him to control my mother which is why we don’t speak. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the next time I plan on seeing that man is when he’s laying in a pine box. You get what you give and he will receive nothing more from me. He doesn’t realize (or care) about how much he’s affecting the Hubs with his actions. He’s the most ignorant and selfish piece of fucking garbage I’ve ever laid eyes on. That’s saying something considering I work in a literal prison. And his brother is just fucking dizzy.

The way they treat Hubs makes me sick. It’s interesting: I banned my mother from our wedding because she disapproved of our getting married. Despite our many, many difficulties she has always been my best friend. It killed a piece of my soul to do that. A daughter usually wants her mother to be there for those sorts of things. But she cut me when she said she disapproved and would do everything in her power to stop my getting married. I knew he was my soulmate and I couldn’t risk it. I’ve spent the last several years trying to prove to her she was wrong about him and wrong on that day. She’s definitely come around and she’ll be there today.

So it’s just my parents, me and my youngest of sisters. Just us. My kin. We’re coming. Because we care. We give a heck. We always will. It’s a goddamn shame that my husband’s family has no idea what that means when you really need them to or it has fuck all to do with them.

But, again, if I huff and puff about something because the bottom drops out of my mood – I’m the asshole. Let’s not forget. Alice is the mealy cunt because she can’t reign in her moods. There’s this expectation of me but not one of the man or brother. It’s absolutely unbelievable. I’m held to a higher standard for what? They’re held to a lower standard because “they’ve always been this way?” Are you kidding me? Like I haven’t?! The man has always been a cocksucker who sees invisible people under his car (but I’m mentally unstable, folks) and the brother has always been forgetful and effectively useless.

“Well you weren’t like this when we were kids.”

… Because we weren’t close when we were kids. I kept my depression, anger and anxiety to myself. And they couldn’t diagnose kids with that back then. I was just “depressed.” But believe me, I was like this. Just unmedicated. Boy was I fun to be around. Ask my mother.

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You won’t try for me – not now

Saw my dad this weekend.

He was on his way to work and was entertaining guests at this party I was voluntold to attend, so I spend all of 20 minutes with him.

So I literally saw him. And that was the end of it.

My husband gets chorded next month – some graduation ceremony as a part of this thing he’s doing. My dad is a part of this frat, so my dad wants to chord him. He made a huge deal about it on the phone.

To me.

I don’t know. Since my dad has deemed my brother the forever fuck-up, I guess this is his chance to have a son.

Let’s not talk about the two daughters he’s forgotten about. Ah – incorrect: just me because I’m childfree. The other brought him a grandchild and now serves a purpose.

The therapist says it’s easier for my father to have a relationship with my husband than it is to have one with me. I’m a reminder of his failures. I come with strings.

No. Not an excuse. I’m aggravated that I’m still a porcelain doll. A toy. I sit on the shelf, collecting dust until he’s ready to play dad. When he’s done, back to the shelf I go until next time. It’s been like that since I was a kid.

I’ve quickly gone from hopeful Raggedy Ann, waiting and waiting, to a haunted and angry Annabelle. Mellowing in my old age I think I’ve settled on a pissed off Tiffany.

But this doll is aging.

This doll is old.

This doll is tired.

…This doll isn’t a fucking doll at all.

Don’t say I’m out of touch//with this rampant chaos

So instead I hid in the kitchen.

Not a better use of my time, just easier than connecting. Easier than being vulnerable, as my therapist would say. God I fucking hate that word so much. It makes my goddamn skin crawl.

I’ve got my husband asking me why I can’t be vulnerable with him.

Fucking can of worms… just kicked the hell over.

I. Don’t. Know.

I thought being honest and open and talking about feelings was enough. Apparently I’m supposed to open myself from stem to stern and let all my creepy crawly feelings and thoughts seep out everywhere.

Gross. No.

Anyone else struggle with this?

Because I can’t keep doing dishes and making my lunch instead of spending alone time with my significant other. Especially when I want to spend time with him, I just don’t know how to the way I think he wants me to. He wants intimacy and right now I’m terrified of that. I don’t know why. I want to spend every waking moment of every day with him and preferably nowhere else, but the idea of intimacy makes me anxious. I know he wants that. I know he craves and needs that but I don’t know what happened to the Alice that used to be able to provide that. I used to not think so much of myself and just nosedive right into it. Now I just pray the cat is in the middle of the bed or he’s tired or… anything.

…Anything but asking me to be vulnerable.

[Goddamn fucking therapy bullshit.]

I’m so lost without you

I’m genuinely concerned about something here.
Maybe I’m out of line.
Maybe I’m wrong. It happens occasionally.

All I know is that I’m fucking irritated and as much as I don’t have a right to be I feel like I have a right to be.

My brother in law. I don’t know how to handle my brother in law. I don’t know why I get so monumentally annoyed by him. He does stupid shit and we’re supposed to co-sign on it. We’re supposed to turn a blind eye to it. Nicest kid you’ll ever meet. Since he’ll eventually be my child, I’m glad to know he’ll be a polite one.

He’s 30 fucking years old. He’s never held a job. He’s never driven a car. He’s never finished school. Why? He’s his daddy’s little boy! Can’t use the good china – it might chip. The other china, however – my husband – fuck it: set it out for the guests or use it as frisbees. He wouldn’t give two shits, until he ran out of shit to eat off of.

When he needs dependability, he runs for the husband. Because he coddled the ever-loving shit out of China Boy and when his appendix almost burst 5 years ago, China Boy called my husband first instead of 911.

Because that’s what you do in emergencies: call family that can’t do shit in the moment instead of trained fucking paramedics. No goddamn sense about himself, that boy. Has tons of opinions about how the world works – sponsored by fucking YouTube and Wikipedia.

I’m convinced I’m going to raise this boy as my own child when the man dies. As much as I absolutely dislike the man, I don’t wish that on him. However, considering his penchant for alcohol, I can imagine his insides are either rotting away or pickling themselves. I’m not a doctor, but that shit isn’t known to prolong one’s life.

…China Boy gets a motherfucking allowance, y’all.

No bills to pay. No job. No responsibilities. Free money. No student loans. Free food. Chauffeured everywhere.

Thirty. Years. Of. Age.

And then I feel like a dick when I want to change the password on the free Netflix and Hulu Live with Showtime that he has access to. Because he seems so overly active with that job hunt.

Because I pay the Netflix. With my fucking job.

My husband pays the Hulu Live plus Showtime. With his job. And China Boy contributes nothing.

My husband frequently covers his meals and drinks when we go out and I scream internally “That’s my fucking mortgage! What the fuck are you doing?!” He has a savings account. This is not someone that needs your assistance in purchasing a goddamn taco and beer, OK?

Did the husband ever get any money from the man? Nope. Not one red cent. Written out of the will, because of me. (I only care because of how it must have hurt the husband to hear that. I don’t care about the money part. I have my own; I make my own. Fuck that man and all that he stands for. He was never good to the husband and he’s shooting China Boy in the foot. He can ride his pride train all the way to hell.)

I feel bad. I feel bad for not wanting to be around China Boy too much (remember? He’s a really nice kid – wouldn’t hurt a soul). I see someone who is emotionally… stunted (and knows it – see: Asperger’s) but does absolutely fuck all about it. I think that’s what pisses me off so much.

And the man just lays in the cut doing nothing, twiddling his goddamned thumbs.

Worse than my father. And that’s saying something considering he is in the same fucking house watching this shitshow.

It never was and never will be

A “doorknob confession” is an industry term used when a client drops a bomb on you right before the end of a session – often as a means of avoidance. Usually I hear things like, “I’m divorcing my wife,” or “I relapsed and did 3 lines of coke over the weekend” 43 minutes into a 45 minute session. It gives us zero time to address the issue until next time and they know it. They’d been sitting on it for the whole session and didn’t want to address the elephant only they could see. My attitude is typically, fine – you’re the one that has to live with that elephant sitting on your chest all week. See you next time.

I detest doorknob confessions. They deter progress. I especially hate what I now call doorknob confrontations.

Doorknob confrontations are something my husband uses. I’m getting ready for work, getting ready to leave for something and as I’m making my lunch or putting on my shoes to walk out the door I’m confronted with an issue that’s been plaguing him – usually some unsavory behavior of mine that’s being called on the carpet.

The emotional dumping continues as I’m trying to mentally prepare for the hell that is my job, the anxiety-inducing traffic or sifting through the fridge to locate something suitable to eat. I end up providing half-thought out answers or disregarding the conversation altogether out of frustration and anger. He likely ends up feeling neglected, brushed aside and defeated because his feelings, in that moment, appear not to matter and his requests and concerns fall on deaf ears. I leave and carry his emotional baggage with me to work (or wherever), making me effectively useless at my job (or whatever) because the situation is unresolved – leaving me seething because this could have been remedied by discussing it the night before or when I came home. He gets to air his grievances and go off to work (or wherever), having emptied his bag of shitastic emotions all over me. I’m glad he feels better but now I get to wear his shit like a cloak plus my depression, anxiety and what my therapist has deemed “imposter syndrome” to work and try not to collapse under all that pressure. To add to this, I’m expected to greet him with smile like Mary goddamn Sunshine when he comes home from work.

…Covered in emotional baggage and excrement.

Uh-huh.

So… I’m supposed to look like this?

When I feel like this:

Oh, OK. I’ll be sure to self-edit for everyone’s comfort. Fabulous.

I know I’m not supposed to mind read, but if I were to air my grievances – these particular ones, the response would likely be: “Nevermind, forget I said anything. Let’s just forget about it. Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.” This completely shoves the problem under the rug, further stuffing his feelings inside until he brings it up again in a few weeks/months and I’m wearing the cloak again. It’s cyclical.

I believe that children are the future

Sigh. I don’t think anyone understands or will understand how I feel. The sheer anxiety and anger that I feel when the topic of children comes up is almost uncontrollable.

Some days I don’t want them at all. Some days I want them so bad it’s all I think about. Some days I’m completely ambivalent.

Today, I don’t want any. Tomorrow may be different.

Everyday is the same however – the anger and anxiety. That hasn’t changed since the abortion. I’ve been angry and anxious since. I now know what lies ahead when the time comes to have children.

Y’see, there’s never been a doubt: I’m going to have children, regardless of whether or not I’m having a “no” day, “ambivalent” day or “yes” day. I’ve been told that changing my mind about wanting children was a dealbreaker. I’m not ending my marriage. So the kid is my future.

I’m not sure I’ll ever not be angry. I doubt I’ll ever get rid of this anxiety – it exists in several forms. What I do know is that I’m getting older and the longer I wait, the narrower my chances are to have kids.

Today is still not that day. Neither is tomorrow.

I was on a lot of medications when I first got pregnant. I was excited to be a mom – surprised, but excited. Broke, but excited. Terrified, but excited.

I remember hearing about the time my mom told my father she was pregnant with me. She told me she was so happy. She’d had a miscarriage the year before so she was excited to have another chance at motherhood. She ran up to him and gave him a big hug; he never hugged back. He was completely stoic. He never wanted children. Kinda set the tone for our relationship for a few decades.

I made my husband come with me to a random gyno appointment one year. I wanted him to visualize the pain and anguish of the duck lips. Hearing about how scary a prostate exam was was beginning to wear on me (it’s one finger – are you fucking kidding me?!). I told the gyno I’d been having some weird symptoms – lack of appetite (weird for me at that time), nausea, no period for 2 months (which was not uncommon for me), but nothing too extraordinary. She wanted to do an ultrasound just to be sure.

There it was. I was a mom. She said I had been a mom for 6 weeks by that time. Goddamn home pregnancy tests are for shit. Blood test came back positive. Imagine little Alice: a mom. Seemingly everyone can, except Alice.

But I remember that day and all the days leading up to that day. I saw my husband’s face in that chair when my gyno said we were going to be parents. It was the face I’d always imagined my father had when my mom said she was pregnant with me. A face that said, “Great. What do I do now?” That was not the face I wanted my child’s father to have when they heard he was coming into the world. That’s what I’ve always feared – since I was young. I wanted him to be happy, not afraid of how we would afford to feed him. I knew in that moment this wasn’t going to happen.

It dawned on me in the days following that my body had been pumped full of medications for years, non-stop. Just like any other drugs, there are side effects that cause damage to the fetus so I started doing some research. Even the most benign of side effects wasn’t benign enough to allow myself to go through with it. I’d been on one specific, life-saving medication for almost 7 years and read where it caused severe birth defects.

So I made the toughest decision I’ve ever made in my life. Because that day, was a “yes” day. And I had to do it anyway. Because I didn’t want my child growing up with numerous birth defects that I didn’t have the money to fix – that not even God would be guaranteed to fix. My psychiatrist told me given my medications and risk of defects, I made the right decision. The child would have likely been deformed.

So the idea of having children now sends me to a dark place. I think of my lost child. He (I always felt it was a boy) would have been 8 in July. I think of having to ween myself off all my medications before trying to get pregnant, then actually trying to get pregnant, staying off all my medications during pregnancy, enduring childbirth, staying off my medications to breastfeed, and enduring postpartum depression and think to myself: why is it the people asking me to do this aren’t the ones paying for this? Either paying for my medical bills when I completely lose my shit, my mortgage when I lose my job after I lose my shit, gaining stretch marks, gaining weight, or taking time off work? I’m the one that has a lot to lose here – my sanity, my job, my body (that I just got back) – but hey, I’m just the vessel. I’m just here to deliver the goods.

Hell, talking about this makes this a “no” lifetime and makes me want to lose my shit.

I’m still breathin

I was breathing again.

Apparently I got drunk on date night and said some things I shouldn’t have.

Apparently I got drunk on date night and did some things I should have.

I was touchy-feely playing miniature golf. That’s a plus for someone whose love language is physical touch. Mine is acts of service, however I abhor physical touch; wanna take a wild guess why that might be? Give you a hint: it starts with rape.

Anyway. We got home and I almost spilled the beans on some other psychological problems I’ve been having since early childhood that have been exacerbated since I started working in this field – more so over the past 3-4 years or so. I’ve never spoken of them to a soul and, honestly, they’ve become so ingrained in my everyday life that I don’t think about them much. If I were to summarize these issues/behaviors in a nutshell, they would fall, broad spectrum, in the category of Anxiety Disordered behaviors. I could do without yet another diagnosis – as the behaviors I’m exhibiting as I age would definitely fall under that umbrella.

I’m over it. My doctor has treated me for something similar to no avail. I’ve lost hope regarding this particular set of behaviors. I will not discuss them, they continue to serve a purpose, they are not harmful to me or anyone else – just mildly inconvenient to me. When it becomes overwhelming or I develop more behaviors, I’ll worry about it. I do realize the behaviors cause undue mental anguish and stress at times however it’s, again, something I’ve been dealing with several times A DAY since I was 7 years old. I will not address this issue any further and will not disclose any further information regarding my behaviors.

Last night and this morning were also a shitshow. Again, I seem to not display the appropriate emotions or use the appropriate language. I thought I was doing better with things but I guess I wasn’t. My husband said he almost prefers me in a manic state. I’d be more touchy-feely, more loving, more horny.

I don’t know how to respond to that. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore. With the sweet comes the sour; with the mania eventually comes the depression. Don’t get me wrong – I love my mania. I absolutely love it… well, most of it. I’m productive (until I’m so frazzled that I’m not), I’m focused (until I’ve lost so much sleep that I’m physically unable to focus) – I’m on top of the world (shit, I think I AM the world). It’s an amazing feeling – to live on the top of a roller coaster, like you’ll never come down.

Until you come down. Straight down. All the way down. You wake up and the feeling’s gone. No warning, just pain. You think about taking a shower, but the idea of leaving the bed makes you wince in pain. It takes effort to change channels on the TV. All you can think of to do is cry until your eyes burn, and then until you’re out of tears. Then you try to cry but there’s nothing left.

That’s rock bottom. The emptiness. The thoughts come creeping in about your inadequacies, how you and your disease are nothing but a burden. Then more thoughts come until you complete the cycle in two ways: pull yourself through the pain (survival) or out of the pain (suicide).

Hopefully you, dear reader, find a way through every time.

In any case, I’ve found myself trapped mid- cycle. I’m at what is called “baseline.” The problem is I have a pretty flat affect*. Many psychiatrists would consider this “stable” considering my past, however my husband does not. He knows I’m capable of more vacillations in my mood (see: drunken golfing). I know that tweaking my meds could mean more than just a “vacillation” – it could mean mood lability.

Do I risk my certain stability and new job? Do I stay an automaton and risk my marriage? He shouldn’t have to live like this. And I don’t know how to fix it.

*until a situation arises and then I tend to respond appropriately.