suicide

Just Waiting It Out

I have an appointment with my psychologist today. Boy, is she in for a disappointing surprise.

Last time I met with her, about a month ago, she was pleased because I was doing so much better. The Focalin seemed to have done the trick. I was reaching out to meet with friends. I was signed up to a group to deal with grief about my father’s death. I was feeling positive. I was feeling hopeful. Despite all the stress.

And it’s sad that it only lasted about a month. It only lasted until I ran out of Focalin and realized that I, that we as a family, are still in the same dank hole we’ve been in for what seems like forever.

I’m finding it sad that for the majority of my life, I’ve had to rely on chemicals outside of myself in order to deal with human life, as we have made it.

I imagine that I’m not the only one. In fact, I’m pretty damn sure I’m not. And it makes me wonder what sort of life human beings have created for themselves that leads so many to seek that assistance from a bottle, whether made of glass or of plastic. And sometimes from substances rolled up in paper. Or found growing in the dirt.

Oh, to be the sort of human that never felt the need to alter their reality or their feelings! The sort of human that is content and accepting of existence as it is, as we’ve been practicing it on each other and our fellow creatures on this planet for millions of years. The sort of human who never feels the need to complain or question or doubt. Who can just shrug and accept and move on and enjoy themselves – despite what they see or hear or feel. Who can do all of that without a little assistance from a concoction of one sort or another.

I’m not happy about the fact that I need to alter my brain chemistry in order to function politely and rationally in our society. In order to not want to fling myself off a cliff. And it’s become obvious that I am beholden to those man-made chemicals now. It’s just a question of legalities and combinations and milligrams and moderation and availabilities.

Because I was feeling better, and now, seven full days without Focalin, I’m not. I had a little taste of feeling positive and I don’t care if that feeling of Hope and Wanting to Survive was synthetically produced. I need it back.

So Much For It All

Damned if I stay. And damned if I go.

Feeling the calm after my morning break-down. Feeling that cold, emotionally-drained, numb sort of resignation.

Canceled my attendance in the grief group therapy program. I’m just not ready.

Or maybe I am, just not in that format.

Giving up.

No, not on physical existence. I had my chance to leave with Cancer and I passed it up. Had to go and get all “Up With Life!” back then. What the fuck was I thinking?? It would have been the perfect way to bow out of this place gracefully! And now I recognize that I am stuck. Because if I choose to leave, that would not be fair to the ones I love. Not that I believe that I’m doing them any good, mind you. Au Contraire! I think my absence could actually do them some good. It’s just that permanently leaving would cause more drama and damage and they don’t need that. At all.

People often say “Just let it go!”, or “Let go, let God!”…and they’re right. I need to let go…. But my problem is how. How to do it in a way that would cause the least harm.

All I can come up with is to emotionally and mentally check out; if not some temporary physical removal of some sort. Like, go live somewhere else. If only money weren’t such a huge obstacle… But then, if I did, I’d still have to live with me. No matter where you go, there you are. And I’d feel guilty for leaving them with all the housework and pet care and chores. Yeah. Because that’s apparently all I can do; and even there, I’m no Martha Stewart.


Checking out emotionally and mentally would help with the resignation to letting go; to letting go of the notion that I can help my kids in any way, to the notion that anything I say or do benefits them, to the notion that I add much value to the world; to the resignation of my Sisyphean lot of cleaning and laundering and driving and grocery shopping and scheduling (because I was unfortunately too messed up to create any sort of career when I had youth on my side)… To the resignation that not much that I do matters. Not in the grand scheme of things. My father’s death, I’m realizing, reinforced this feeling I’ve had most of my life. And in some ways, that’s okay; that’s a bit freeing. But also, that sort of takes any sense of purpose away as well.

The problem is definitely, undeniably, indubitably, me.

Actually, I take that back. This world is pretty fucked up. So, it’s not ALL my fault. There are some real and truly hypocritical, ignorant, mean, greedy, selfish, egotistical, unprincipled, bigoted, violent, unthinking, uncaring stupid assholes out there. And the world is brutal; just the way it’s designed is pretty cruel! Nasty, brutish and short. It’s true. But I’m wholly ineffective and inept and shit at helping my family cope with it all, and that has been the one job I’ve had to do for the last 22 years. And I managed to mess it up. Because I’ve never really been good at coping with it myself…with this existence.

Because I care too much, I worry too much, I talk too much, I think too much, I feel too much, I want too much… It’s all too much. I’m too much. And not enough.

A mother’s lament…..