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That's Not Important, now.

oh, moment is over.

Here I am again, trying to sick to my “resolution” of writing my thoughts on the semi-daily. I want to get out all the garbage in my head so I’m going to take some time and write. Maybe it will make me a better writer, I’ve always wanted to be a writer but never found the “time” or “energy” or “know what the hell to write about” in the whole thing to go through with it. So, now here I am, laying in bed at 1 in the am on January 3rd, writing.

Husband in in the living room, as he always is. He snores. He decided to sleep on the couch because snoring has made it hard for me to sleep because his snoring is getting worse. Part of me fears for our marriage because he’s been sleeping out there for more than a year now. Or longer. It might be going on 2 years this summer. I didn’t mark it on my calendar so I’m not positive how long it’s been since he stopped sleeping in the bedroom. My sleeping habits haven’t really gotten better but at least he isn’t waking me up snoring.

Today wasn’t better than yesterday. After staying up too late I woke up at 7 this morning and had a hell of a time getting back to sleep. Normally I would just get up and start my day, falling back asleep around 9, but at least the coffee would be made when I woke up again at 10. Today though, because I’m going through a dark place, I laid in bed thinking about how nothing would change if I died. What if I wasn’t here? What if I finally did it? I’ve been thinking about suicide on and off since I was a kid. It makes me feel guilty, because my life was never “that bad.” As my mother constantly reminded me, “your life could be a hell of a lot worse.”
I did, however, lay in bed and start crying thinking about how few people would be affected by my passing. How selfish am I? Thinking that and crying because no one would care.
I’m really depressed and that’s why my brain does to me when I’m like this. When I’m better I can see that people would be sad, not a great many but a few. When I’m well I know it’s not a good idea but right now, it seems like everything. I’ll probably never do it.
In the back of my head, though, I feel a thrill to think… maybe I could. And then I think “that’ll show them, for ignoring me.” Because I’m that shallow and basic that I think my death would prove fucking anything to anyone else. I know it would devastate husband and my mother, who has her own struggles. Writing this I feel guilty about the imagined pain I’d cause my sister, who’s trying to hard to keep it together after a year that’s been garage to her. Notice I didn’t mention my brother – not sure he’d care.
Mostly I want to hurt husband. I feel like the classic neglected wife. The suffering martyr who finally gets her shit together and leave her husband, who then finally realizes he made a mistake and course-corrects, winning her back. I want to get to that place, the part where I don’t feel like his maid/mother/servant and get to be his partner. I don’t think it’s ever been a partnership and I’m afraid no matter what happens, it never will be. It’s probably my fault, most things are.
We barely talked today, that’s my fault too. I got up, later than I wanted to because I turned off my alarm. I went straight to working in the computer/Snake’s room. I made breakfast for us and then went back to working. He didn’t talk much. I don’t know how to feel when he responds to my moods like that. He doesn’t even ask what’s wrong. It makes me feel manipulative but I want to him to want to know what’s wrong. When he doesn’t respond it makes me feel like he doesn’t notice. I’m struggling and hurting and apparently that’s all the same to him. Or it’s not and he’s afraid to know what to say.

I got dressed and ran to the store alone. It was a foggy drive and I felt so invigorated leaving the house. I wish I had somewhere else to go, other than a grocery store. It’s very manipulative, I know, when I’m like this but I can’t offer up what’s going on. It gets stuck in my throat. My stomach turns at the thought of saying, “I’m not ok right now. I, hopefully, will be better soon, but right now I’m not ok.” I know, however, my thoughts will try to make sure I don’t dump on him too much, I’m always aware of how he feels. I feel like I do all the emotional work in this marriage while he gets to do nothing. When I’m angry at him, I have to be calm and measured. I never want to say something I’ll regret, that would make me like my mother.
Another cliche, as long as we’re keeping score, that I can go on to the list. I fear becoming my mother. She’s been diagnosed as bi-polar and I’m trying to understand and be considerate but at other times I can’t forget the selfish person she’s always been. She has said shitty, horrible things to me that still eat my soul, such as “no wonder you don’t have any friends.” She doesn’t remember them, or she does and she thinks she was justified in saying them.
I hold onto too much baggage. But that’s why I’m measured in what I say. I can’t tell my husband that I feel like he doesn’t value me and that in turn makes me value myself less. Actually, I have told him that, just not like that. It didn’t change his behavior. I told him I don’t think I can count on him for anything other than making money. I certainly can’t tell him that I fear for the day when he leaves the Marines because then I don’t know if I can count on him to continue to work when it gets hard.  If he ever brings us to the brink of poverty, I’m gone. I don’t think I can do this and live in poverty again.
Sure, sure, I would get a job at that point – and I’m sure all my working outside the home would result in me working all fucking day long. It’s happened like that in the past. I work a few hours a day or a full day, come home and make dinner and do the dishes. He doesn’t even think to do the dishes. It means nothing to him. I’ve explained that it matters to me and that should be enough for him to care. It seems that kind of logic isn’t enough, though. Oh, and…

You might have heard, I grew up poor as hell. These days, I tell everyone.

Today I read Mother Panic issue 2 and more of Postcards from the Edge. I ate nothing but trash (pizza, potato chips, & a hersey’s sundae pie).



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