I started a post last night about why I haven’t written much lately, but it isn’t so much that I haven’t written lately, it’s not writer’s block- it’s life block. I am barely living my life. I am not someone I have ever been, or ever dreamed I would be. Part of me wants to be curled up in bed, or watching TV or reading. And part of me looks at that part of me with disgust.
That part of me, looks at me and how I am living my life right now and wants to scream “wake the hell up”. You have two wonderful children- yes they have issues, but they are amazing human beings. Stop yelling at them for making messes, for wanting to play with slime, for being a typical teenager with earbuds in. You have an amazing husband who stands by you no matter what. He’s picked up the cooking when you dropped it, he doesn’t feel well either and yet he humor’s your breakdown. He listens to every bit of whining you do about your past, or how you look, or how much this isn’t the life you dreamed of. This isn’t the life he dreamed of either. He didn’t expect to be unable to work at 38 years old. He didn’t expect to have to depend on the “system”, he expected to follow in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps, and work hard all his life, to come home and be a jack of all trades, to be able to take vacations, and be able to do things he wanted to do. That part of me, looks at me with disgust and disappointment. Thinks I am selfish. Hates me. That part of me knows I am a disappointment to my family, that I have never done anything or accomplished anything.
And that part of me? Hates all of me. Hates itself for not being stronger, for not being able to “snap out of it”.
I want so badly to wake up tomorrow and to smile, to be thankful for another day, to get up and make breakfast, happily get my kids ready for school, or better yet still be homeschooling them, to cook my husband a good meal at dinner time. To be the fun mom that makes slime, that let’s them cook in the kitchen and make a mess. The mom who understands that her teenager pushing her away isn’t about her, that it’s about growth and independence.
But instead I am trapped in a prison of my own construct. No matter how much I WANT to snap out of it, I can’t. I have mental illness. It’s not laziness, it’s not weakness, it’s not selfishness. It’s just as real as a physical illness. I KNOW this is my logical mind. In the part of my mind that Mary Poppins would say my insight lives. But I can’t seem to accept any truth where I am not at fault for everything.
Another reason I haven’t written is that I just don’t seem to be able to muster up the energy most days. For some reason that is unfathomable to me, February was a crazy stupidly busy month. And what 2 years ago I would have scoffed at and completed with ease, makes me need a long nap. My counselor and I were talking today about the fact that I am just drained all the time, I am grumpy and irritable, I have no hobbies anymore – even the thought of taking out my knitting needles makes me tired. She told me about the “spoon theory”. She explained it that we have a certain number of spoons everyday, and as a person with my mental illness has fewer spoons that someone without it. So where someone without mental illness can get up at 6am, shower, get their kids off to school, make breakfast and maybe work out and only use a spoon, me just thinking about getting up out of bed to face another day uses a spoon. And showering uses a spoon or two. That by the end of the day I don’t have any spoons left. So true. The only reason I have the energy to write all this out today is that I took a nap already, and I am home alone. Hubby has taken little one to occupational therapy, and big one is still at school. No one needs me at the moment.
Last night I was laying in bed thinking about how hubby has to take little one to occupational therapy and maybe I should surprise him and make dinner. I want to do that so much, but just thinking about the work it will take makes me exhausted. I am going to try. Even though everything I cook lately comes out terribly, even though it will wear me out. Sometimes I think I don’t express enough gratitude for all the does for us. He is the unsung hero, here in the family, holding us up, when he himself can barely stand. So while he might not be able to work, he is providing something so much more important than financial support, he is carrying the weight of it all on him. I will never be able to pay him back for all he does. I just wish my family could see the tremendous amount he contributes to our lives. I wish they would look at him the way I look at him and see a hero.