There’s nothing wrong with being “in the dark” for a while.
Even the sun sets every night.
There’s nothing wrong with being “down”, sometimes.
What goes up, must come down.
There’s nothing wrong with experiencing every mood that crosses your day.
It’s a sign that you’re mentally healthy if you are actually feeling things as they happen.
There’s nothing wrong with being in a good mood one moment, and not the next.
Even the ocean has tides it must adhere to.
Life is a cycle, live it as it comes to you.
If it’s dark…maybe you’re meant to learn to use your other senses for a while. Or maybe you’re meant to become the light. Only you will know what that darkness means for you.
When the light returns…
Rejoice in the colors that surround you. Because this cycle, too, shall pass.
EVERY moment is temporary.
Don’t forget this.
I haven’t been sleeping well, some nights I don’t sleep at all. Literally.
As in, I’ve been pulling all-nighters, because I know I won’t be able to sleep.
I just lay in bed and stare at the walls, then get up, read a bit, try again to lay down, fail miserably, feel fucking stupid, and go back to my chair to read some more until it’s time to get ready for work.
No, this does not make for good days. I end up crashing in there, somewhere.
I get sick, like I did this week.
I try to stop the cycle, I’ve tried exercise, I put down the phone so I’m not staring at social media right before bed. I haven’t watched TV in, fuck, weeks.
I don’t drink caffeine, and I’ve stopped smoking. (Except for the odd stress smoke)
It’s my brain.
I’m all wrapped around my stress right now. I’ve got decisions that I’m supposed to be making, and things I’m supposed to be doing, that I’m not doing and my heart is starting to race just thinking about it.
I think I’m putting off the decisions and the things…because either way I end up deciding… someone I care about is going to feel hurt.
And that’s something I can’t stand to do.
Goddess, I know! All of this talk is so fucking vague… I can’t even come right out and just say it.
Everything is so bottled up inside me right now, and I feel as though I’m a chunk of cesium in water.
I haven’t been able to talk to anyone, either. Oh…stupid, surface shit, sure. I talk to the coworkers, but that’s work stuff, my mask is firmly nailed on, there.
But, to talk about scratching that surface? Letting anyone see what’s going on behind door number 1? That’s a big nopesicle.
I know I need to change something. Something’s going to have to give, or my brain will break, and not in a good way. (Is there a good way for that to happen? Like a pinata, would candy fall out? Streamers?)
Don’t know how to get out of this bottle without cracking the glass.
I’ve talked before about my being an INFJ according to the Myers-Briggs personality types.
Here’s a taste of what makes me tick…
In order to work on myself, I’ve been doing some hardcore soul-searching, and past-life regression.
As in, taking a long, hard, look at who I really was when I was younger…warts and all.
I’m not going to sugar-coat any-damn-thing, or try to rationalize bad behaviors for myself.
If I’m truly going to make any progress with figuring out how I ended up where I am today, & how I can move forward in a healthier way…
I need to get out of my own fucking way.
Because what I’ve been doing up until now?
I know this.
I just don’t know, yet, how to fucking change it.
I know what results I want to see…
I just don’t think I’ll ever get there.
And that makes me even more depressed.
I – grew up fairly sheltered, as a kid. I was a nerd, didn’t play sports – was horribly bad at them, in fact, unless they happened from the back of a horse.
I was shy, and teased and bullied throughout my school years until I graduated high school.
Except when I was around my best friend, who I trusted. Then, I was outgoing, funny, sarcastic & able to open up. She saw a whole different side of me than everyone else, including my creative side, & encouraged me to express it.
In college, which only lasted about a year and a half (I shouldn’t have gone, I really wasn’t ready & wasted so much time & money there), I truly changed.
I had, by this time, lost my virginity, after throwing it away on my one and only high school boyfriend. (Who lasted about 2 months, until after his prom…no joke. But then, I had decided my virginity was mostly a hindrance, anyway, & used him to “get rid” of it… Not because I was in love. *snort*)
At this point, I wasn’t thinking about what had happened to me when I was 16. I wasn’t flashing back to being molested… Although, I’ve never slept on my stomach since that night.
Not once. Not ever.
But, I was using sex as a weapon. Of sorts, anyway.
I used it to feel good about myself.
Because if a guy wanted to have sex with me, that meant I was desirable, right?
That meant I had worth, right?
I meant something, even if it was only for a little while…
It made me feel powerful…in the moment.
Until I felt cheap.
When I was just ignored the next day, if I was even remembered.
But hey, I was a badass, right?
I stomped through the parties with my smartass, snarky mouth, my nickname “Dragon Lady” more because my words could burn people down than because I smoked. I gave no shits…
At least where they could see.
God, did I care.
I burned through a handful of “boyfriends” in college, short-timers, because I would inevitably be a bitch at some point to them, & they’d wander off in search of calmer waters.
I never cheated, don’t get me wrong.
But, I’d drive them off, usually finding that one pet peeve, guaranteed to piss them right the hell off, and pick at that until they’d had just ENOUGH.
Done and dusted, I would be vindicated once again, knowing that I wasn’t worth the trouble. No one was really willing to chase me down & stick with me.
I just wasn’t worth it.
Not for anyone.
After all…when I was molested, even my parents didn’t believe me. They couldn’t even be concerned enough to come get me, instead having family members bounce me from one house to another for almost 2 weeks, before I finally reached home, after the “incident”. And then, it was never mentioned again.
Not until the summer after I quit college.
The summer of my complete abandon, my downward spiral, and their accusations of drug abuse & attempt at throwing me into therapy.
But – that’s for the next post.
I used to write a lot of funny posts on my blog.
Mostly about my kids, but some about just – life, my past, growing up, my teenage years, shit I did when I was young, you know, normal funny things you remember.
Like the time I made my ElderDaughter a costume for Halloween that was a slice of pumpkin pie, just as she wanted. It was fun, and everyone adored it. It goes into the “Best memories” box.
And getting a foal to fall asleep in my lap. Also, going into that same box. I was a horse whisperer up until my 20s, when I stopped having contact with them, because my parents didn’t have any anymore, & I moved away after having ElderDaughter.
I used to write about all these things.
Until I stopped.
And I don’t know when that happened.
I don’t know when the depression started to take over, when it started to color everything in gray, including my writing.
I know it’s fucking depressing to read this shit all the time.
It’s depressing to write.
But if I don’t get it out of my head, and down onto the virtual “paper”, it continues to burn me up from the inside. It gnaws, and grinds at me, knotting my stomach, making me physically ill until I find myself back here, releasing the poison.
And no, simply writing it isn’t enough. I have to actually push the “publish” button to start feeling better.
Does that make me a masochist?
That I need the outside validation for my feelings to be read?
I wish I could just jump back into being that person I used to be. The one who had people to take care of. She was happy, taking care of her little nestlings, after kicking out the grown cuckoo of an ex.
I want to be happy again, I truly do. I’m so tired of this constant dragging feeling. I’m so drained all the time, as though something outside of me is sucking the energy from my soul.
I don’t know how to climb out of this.
I don’t know how to shift the balance from depression to happiness again.
It’s so difficult to do this when you’re working at it alone, but I won’t burden anyone else with it, so – there you go.
I think I’m going to start, by telling the people I care about how I truly feel about them.
It’ll probably scare some, because most people don’t do this unless they know they’re dying.
I am, in fact, dying, we all are, and who knows when it will happen?
I’m not guaranteed tomorrow.
I’ve lost too many friends over the years – I’ve learned that lesson well.
So, I’m going to start telling people how I feel.
No obligation for response, none necessary, none required or expected. No response even really wanted, to be truthful, because I’d probably end up either horribly embarrassed or hurt.
Either way, not a pretty color.
So, where have I been? I used to be happy… Naively, I thought it would last forever.
Where am I going? Not a fucking clue. Not yet, at least. I am, however, going to work on digging my way out of this hole, even if I have to rip my fingernails to do it. And I will be continuing to journal here. I have to. This is my sanity. Whether anyone reads it or not.
Who am I now? I am a 48-year old woman, desperately seeking a way foward, toward the sunshine.
I’m tired of the rain.