Sometimes, when people ask me how I am doing, I think about telling the truth: “I am fine, except that my husband is tired of trying to make our marriage work, and wants a divorce.”
It’s been about three months since he told me that. Up until then, I was under the mistaken impression that things were actually finally starting to get better. Stupid me.
I was dealing with it pretty well, all things considered, but apparently this week my antidepressants decided to lose the good fight, and for the last few days I have been quietly falling apart. Pretending that things are OK is taking up all my energy. I am barely functioning at work. We have friends coming over this weekend, and all I want to do is lock myself in my bedroom with a book and pretend that the real world does not exist.
It is hard to accept that this is the end. That the last 17 years of my life have, for all intents and purposes, been a failure and a waste. My dead-end job, my dead-end marriage, my dead-end life. I am so terrified of telling my parents that.
The soundtrack of my life, brought to you by ABBA:
Happy Valentine’s Day. FML.
In less than 15 minutes, Thanksgiving will be over. I have so much to be thankful for, but all too often I focus on the negatives instead.
- I am thankful for my friends, who accept me the way I am, and don’t try to make me into something who I am not. I am thankful for all their support, and for being there for me.
- I am thankful for anti-depressants. My life has become much more enjoyable once I started taking them again.
- I am thankful for being employed, and that I have many coworkers who are good, kind, caring people.
- I am thankful for my kids, who make sure there is never a dull moment in my life.
- I am thankful for my husband, who puts up with me and my baggage train of issues.
- I am thankful for books that have given me so many hours of enjoyment.
- I am thankful for Jigidi.com and all the people who create the puzzles there.
- I am thankful for my parents who are coming to visit in a few weeks. We may not always get along, but we do love each other.
- I am thankful that the turkey turned out well :-)
- I am thankful that I get to sleep in tomorrow :-)
(I wrote this post back in April. He still wants to snuggle and tells me that he loves me, but he did stop meowing and licking my hands.)
“Mommy, I love you forever. I want to marry you!”
“Huggy? Snuggles? Mommy, I am your little kitten!”
“Mommy, can you call me Kuzya?”
“I love you, Mommy! Forever!”
“Mommy, I want to snuggle up with you!”
He is just a little over four and a half. I know that I have half a year, at most, and then all this will end. And it makes me so, so sad. My little kitten is growing up :(
If “falling asleep while snuggling with your children” was a superpower, I would have my own comic series by now.
If “staying up until 3 in the morning after waking up at midnight in your child’s bed” was a skill, people would come from all over the world to study at my feet.
If “what the hell was I thinking????” ever needs a poster child, I am available later this morning for a photo shoot.
(posted at 3:15 am on Sunday)
Stopped at Pick’n'Save on my way home, ostensibly to pick up a foil pan to cook the turkey in, some Diet Coke, a jug of milk, and bananas. Walked out an hour later, with five bags of stuff. Spent $95, “saved” $35. I sense a theme…
I’ve been feeling anxious and out of sorts these last few days, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. I am not sure why this is happening; there is nothing I can do to make it go away; I just have to wait it out and hope the wait won’t be too long. It sucks.
My friend-in-the-computer Violet shared this article today: Depression Is NOT a Mental Illness, and it is so, so true….
While I was at the library getting my greedy paws on “Saga: vol. 2″, YoungestOne (totally of his own free will) was practicing writing with UncleMel.
Here are the sentences he wrote:
Gee. I wonder if he hears those a lot :P
Another day, another “it’s two minutes before midnight, I must post SOMETHING” post….
- “Saga” (written by Brian K. Vaughan and illustrated by Fiona Staples) is an awesome, awesome comic for adults. I got Volume 2 from the library today, and read it while Uncle Mel entertained the kidlets. Definitely buying them if Santa brings me Amazon gift certificates for Christmas or Bill gets a bonus :-)
- My father needs to rethink his email subject line strategy. For years now, he has been using “Parents” for virtually all of them. Then a few days ago I got one titled “Farewell.” It had a picture of my Mom’s car, which they sold that day. Thanks for the heart attack, Dad!
- I have six trays of suspicious-quality apples drying right now. Should I die of food poisoning tomorrow, you know what to blame.
- I have finally updated my “2013 Book Log” and “Mount TBR.” I need to win the lottery so I can stay at home and read books.
- YoungestOne got into trouble for making a finger gun and shooting a girl in the head. I told him to leave his finger-gun-shooting activities to the privacy of his home :-) It is so sad, though, that innocent games like that now merit a call from the principal…
After feeling like crap all weekend, and taking a sick day today, I finally took a shower this evening. MiddleOne and YoungestOne were on my bed, solving puzzles on Jigidi.
As I dragged my carcass out and started drying myself, two pairs of inquisitive male eyes gave me an evaluating look.
Me: “Yeah, Mommy is fat.”
MiddleOne: “Mommy is fat! Mommy needs to work out!”
YoungestOne: “Mommy has BIG boobies!”
Me: “Nothing wrong with big boobies, it’s my fat gut I don’t like.”
At which point my two skinny sons lifted their shirts and demonstrated their flat stomachs for me. Rub it in, spawnlets, rub it in…
When American movies and TV shows don’t bother to hire real Russians to do Russian dialog and to make sure the signage, etc actually makes sense. Looking at you, “Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D” episode The Hub…
(Writing this at 12:10 am, but post-dating the post. Yup, cheating, I know.)
I had a painkiller-resistant headache all day :-( It is finally going away, almost at midnight.
Well, at least the spawnlets made it to gymnastics on time, and MiddleOne to his friend’s birthday party.
I spent the rest of the day upstairs, listening to “Incarceron” and now “Sapphique” on CD, and putting puzzles together.
My parents are coming to visit. They are flying in on December 11, and leaving on February 1. I am nervous and excited.
This is the first time they are coming here since my grandma died, five years ago. The house has NOT improved in their absence. My parenting skills and recreational preferences have NOT changed for the better. And I have to remember to move the anti-depressants to our bedroom.
I am excited because I love my parents, and miss them, and wish we lived closer. They love my kids, and the kids love them.
I am nervous because in person I annoy the hell out of them. We get along great on Skype, but virtually every time they have visited have been a disaster, starting with my wedding (oh dear god, what a clusterfuck that was) and going on from there. I say and do all the wrong things; if an action or a word or facial expression can get misinterpreted, it does; the disapproval and disappointment in my parents’ eyes makes me feel like a total loser.
I thought I was doing good at not disappointing them this summer. Then I asked my Dad if they plan to come and live with us in America. His reply was, basically, “Dear God, NO! We’d fight all the time! Now we are holding our tongues and not saying anything, but if we were living together, we’d point out all the things you do that we don’t approve of…” It’s a good thing we were in the village, because I could walk out into a field and cry, and nobody saw me.
I am glad they are coming, but I am not “expecting the best and preparing for the worst”. I am expecting the worst and preparing myself for arguments and disapproval and disappointment. And who knows, maybe this will be the visit that actual goes well. Stranger things have happened (see: good parent-teacher conferences a few weeks ago).
Took the kids to my work for ice cream sundaes with the math club. Made kids clean the great room and do their homework. Put kids to bed. Great room, TV room, and study are vacuumed. Kitchen floor is clean. Downstairs bathroom is clean. Apple crisp comes out of the oven in 20 minutes. Time to relax with a Jigidi puzzle!
I have come to the conclusion that YoungestOne must be a camel. There is no other explanation for the amount of spitting on people that he does. I have threatened to donate him to the Zoo, because seriously, two phone calls from the principal’s office in two days is a bit much, even for me, who has been forewarned by having two boys go through 5K before.
At least OldestOne’s and MiddleOne’s 5K adventures have prepared me for what to expect. OldestOne liked to spit, too, but at least he only spat on the floor. He did shove people, though. MiddleOne made it his mission to be a class clown or die trying, so the notes he generated were more along the lines of “is no longer allowed to go to the bathroom with other people”. Good times, good times.
The door to the basement has been dubbed “the wall of shame”, because that’s where we tape all the orange (talk with teacher) and red (talk with principal) notes YoungestOne hauls in. So far in November, we are up to 10 – 8 orange, 2 red. November 11th brought a bumper crop – 3 oranges and 1 red. If he keeps it up, we are going to run out of door :-)
There are no “walls of shame” for OldestOne and MiddleOne anymore, though, so I have living proof that YoungestOne will get a clue eventually. Until then, I will continue answering “What do you think we can do to stop him?” questions with “We can duct-tape his mouth shut”…