I Saw a Therapist Today

My therapist got right to the point. “What do you hope to achieve from our sessions together?” Fortunately, I had a head start on thinking about what I wanted, since it was also on the new patient questionnaire.

“I want to be more calm and logical when bad things happen. If the ex-husband tries to make me angry or confuse me, I want to control my reaction, especially when I am around the kids.”

What I did not mention is what was already in my questionnaire – that I have frequent anxiety attacks and am exhibiting signs of depression: Sleeping too much and too little, feeling restless, withdrawn, hopeless, discouraged, fatigue, loss of motivation and having a general sense of foreboding wash over me all the time. My general feeling is that everything felt doomed.

After a few weeks of being in this funk, I realized it wasn’t normal. I am aware that everyone has their own struggles and can handle different amounts. I was starting to have trouble handling the amount of crap I was dealt. I don’t think my life is horrible, but it doesn’t mean I don’t feel challenged by situations or disappointed in my perceived success or failures.

The therapist asked me how I slept. My answer was easy! “Hey – when I go to sleep, I am a deep sleeper. I sleep very well!” She asked how many hours a night I sleep. I was a little embarrassed to share my sporadic sleeping habits with her because I sleep anywhere from 1.5 to 12 hours at a time. My work schedule is regular, my weekly tasks are regular but my sleep habits are all over the place.

I guess the first step to improving my mental health is to regulate my sleep, otherwise known as resetting my Circadian sleep rhythm. The second step is to get on a regular exercise schedule so I have an outlet for my pain. The endorphins released by the pituitary gland along with a regular sleep schedule can really help my mental health.

Yeah, that’s probably true. I am not disciplined about going to sleep at a consistent time. After the kids all finally go to sleep, I revel in the time I am left with to clean up the kitchen, make home lunches for everyone, tidy the living room, fold laundry, work on my finances (i.e. balance the good ol’ checking acct) and best of all… BE ALONE. The questions stop, the responsibilities are mundane tasks that I can do while … watching NETFLIX! I don’t mind the chores when I can watch Netflix in the background. I also go to the store after the kids go to sleep. No lines at the check out! I truly treasure the middle of the night when no one is awake.

But… sometimes… okay a lot of the time… I lose track of time and suddenly it’s 3:00 am and I need to wake up in a few hours to start the day again.

I agree with the therapist. I’ll try to abide by a bedtime and go running three times a week. Ummm.. I ate a big dinner so I can’t go running. Can I start tomorrow? Or after the weekend? Or next weekend? Sigh…

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Do You Feel Alone?

Am I the only one who feels alone?  Sometimes it feels like no one will understand my pain and frustrations. I know I am not the only single working mom with a mentally abusive ex-husband, but I don’t know anyone else in the same situation. It’s hard to share my story. It’s embarrassing and I don’t always appreciate people’s reactions. But every once in a while, I feel awful and wish I had someone to confide in.

When I first broke up with my ex, our friends and family were astonished. They pushed me to take him back, to be that beautiful family again. I tried to explain the mental games, how he made feel crazy, how he abused me. They didn’t believe such a nice guy could do anything wrong. My own friends encouraged me to return to the relationship that hurt me.

I did the only thing I could control.  I built a wall and closed off everyone.  I became a ghost of myself while he defiled my name on social media.  It was hurtful to see him post lies about me and see others respond with comforting words about him while getting on the bandwagon of speaking ill about me. I didn’t defend myself and simply took the verbal beatings. Finally, I blocked him on all of my accounts.

An abuser hides their abusive behavior behind closed doors when they aren’t publicly shaming the victim-the real victim. An abuser claims to be the victim.  It’s very confusing, I know.  I was trapped in an endless cycle of feeling crazy until I finally recognized it. Everything that happened was my fault (according to him) and I believed it.  It was my fault that he literally ignored me for a week at a time because I did something wrong. I think it would have helped to know I was being punished.  I wasn’t aware I was a “slut” (and worse) if someone in a grocery store smiled at me and my baby when I wasn’t looking.

His cold shoulder stung. He just stopped talking to me. He didn’t answer calls or texts when I was at work. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t kiss me hello or goodbye. If he was sitting on the couch when I got home from work, I would kiss his cheek and he wouldn’t move or acknowledge my presence. I was invisible for days at a time. 

I don’t know how this treatment sounds to other people, but I was devastated every time it happened. I couldn’t function as a human and felt torn apart. Half the time, I couldn’t figure out what I did wrong.  I was reduced to crouching at his feet, begging for him to love me again, to please just be nice to me again. I would sob uncontrollably as he turned away from me, coldly stating that crying wouldn’t work on him, and that I knew what I did.  I would lose all self-worth and shriek out that I knew it was my fault, that I was sorry and to please forgive me.   I didn’t know what I was apologizing for, I only knew that I wanted to exist in his eyes again.

I am ashamed for my self-deprecating behavior all those years ago. I wish I realized it wasn’t normal or healthy at the time. I don’t want the world to know about my past. I don’t read or respond to his accusations on social media because even though he repeatedly soils my name, I refuse to publicly attack him by defending myself and sharing what he has done and continues to do.

I saw a therapist once. I was told not to respond to negative behavior from him because he is looking for any attention he can get from me now. He will push my buttons any way possible to get a reaction.  I think that’s true.

Years later, he is still trying to antagonize me by twisting words and outright lying. I wish that I didn’t have to coordinate our kids schedule with him.  I wish I didn’t have to communicate with him at all.  Every few months, he calls me names and accuses me of vile behavior in texts.  If he talks to me over the phone or sees me in person, he inevitably yells at me.  I know he is angry at me and I am still scared of him.

But you know what? He is nice to his friends. He is nice to his co-workers. He is nice to strangers.  He is nice to everyone… except me. I feel like a target or a toilet for him to use.  On social media, people congratulate him for being a great father and a good guy. He appears to be mostly nice to his kids, although I worry that he tries to make them feel sorry for him. I shouldn’t say that.  But sometimes, I worry.

It’s hard to explain. I have tried to talk to others and no one truly understands. I don’t know who might be his friend, so I am afraid to make new friends.  I am invisible to the world. I like being alone, but sometimes I feel alone.

 

 

Handful of Failure

I gaped in awe at the fattest turd I have ever seen. Who even did that?? Their poor butt hole, I can’t even fathom how that thing exited the sphincter.

The blob sat at the edge of the hole in the bottom, threatening to plug it up. My eyes were bulging in amazement. I double-gloved my right hand and prepared to snatch that atrocity out of the toilet bowl with a strong plastic bag.

My hand posied above the bowl, I flushed the toilet to make the water level drop and let me have a go at grabbing the poop. Quick as a flash, it swooshed into the hole and visibly clogged it.

DAMN.

I readied the plunger. Floop, floop, floop. Nothing. Flush. Floop, floop, floop.

Still nothing. Floop.

Floop.

Eons later, I admitted defeat. My pinky was burning. I took off the gloves and discovered a blister. A stinkin’ toilet plunger pinky blister.

Oyiee. That sucker hurts.

My kids immediately began complaining about hunger pains the second I emerged from the bathroom. Fine. I sanitized and fought to open a can of refried beans. My hand slipped and sliced pieces of skin from my knuckles.

Bloody beans, anyone?

Ghostly Laughter

It is the middle of the night. I hear a toddler giggle.  At first I stared into the darkness in a petrified state, every shadow morphing into a ninja. 

Then my brain started to work.

I cannot locate the exact doctor stethoscope toy blurting a decent variety of sounds and phrases EVERY 5 MINUTES. 

There is no off button. I would need to unscrew.   Yeah, well screw that. I am too tired to do all that! Hope I get used to it soon. 

Boiled Eggs

It is midnight. I am pacing around the house, trying to stay awake while I wait for these eggs to boil. 

My kid needs to bring in 2 boiled eggs to dye at school tomorrow.  But I forgot to do it earlier, of course! I forced myself to roll out of bed as soon as I realized I was about to epically fail again. 

So, here I am. Pacing around. Pausing to stare at these eggs in a pot.  Basically feeling like a zombie trying to impersonate a human. 

Igghhhhhhj aaaaggahahaha I am exhausted!

Mom, what’s this red thing?

My kids like home lunch. I’m not very good at including a desirable variety of items. It’s not usually a surprise to them about what I might include.

I was caught off guard when my brother noisily searched the remains of my kindergartener’s lunch bag and asked me what the red thing was. He likes to tease me about the “junk lunch” I provide, so I wasn’t paying very much attention… until my daughter asked, “Mom, what’s this red thing?”

My head jerked up and I looked for the alleged red thing. I have no idea what it could be. My brother held up a ziplock bag full of what appeared to be red salsa. But I never ever give my kids salsa. What the heck was that?

I reached for the bag and sniffed at the contents from the outside of the ziplock bag. I nearly retched all over the floor from the horrid odor.

The mystery bag was quickly thrown into the trash as I puzzled over the contents.

Ah hah. I switch out the lunch bags periodically to match the backpack. Sometimes I just can’t find the lunch bag so I use a new one. I apparently neglected to empty the bottom compartment of this particular lunch bag for weeks. The original items in the ziplock bag were tiny wheels of cheese covered in red wax. They must have melted over time.

I felt so badly for my child having brought out the Red Food bag at lunch time, wondering if she had tried to eat that gross thing in front of her friends. Sometimes, I am absolutely mortified at my horrible mothering skills.

Are you gonna eat this?

I gathered dishes and food from the table and walked toward the kitchen.  As I passed my mom, a thought occured to me. “Mom, are gonna eat this?”

She took a few steps forward to inspect what I offered.  The baby bowl tipped forward and we watched the lone plump strawberry fall to the ground. 

My mom spoke slowly, her eyes glued to the strawberry’s new location. I guess because she is a mom, she had to state the obvious.  “No, I am not gonna eat that.”

“Yeah. Okay.” It is just that kind of day. 

When Was the Last Time…

I simply cannot remember.  Did I poop yesterday? Or am I constipated? Umm. I was really busy. Every time I had to go, I remember getting interrupted. I think. Or not. Wouldn’t I be extra gassy?

The short path from the kitchen to the bathroom was an endless loop of obstacles.  “MOM! She was looking at me!” Or “My neck is dry. I need water. I need water. Mommy. I need water, Mommy!”   What was that blob on the wall? A booger?  No one confesses.

Midnight arrived. Kids were in bed. Home lunches prepared, kitchen and living room cleaned, paperwork completed and I took advantage of showering with hot water. (Who likes to shower after water hogs?) Brushed my teeth, quickly decided against worrying about tomorrow’s outfit, and sank into bed. 

Shit. I forgot to poop. 

Exit Strategy

I pushed open the door to my daughter’s room. As I strode toward her, she looked up at me sheepishly. I put my arm on her shoulder.

“Mom, I just farted.”

“Oh…I see,” I breathed out carefully,  “then I shall only exhale.. ” How lucky I was, that I had not yet refilled my lungs. 

My feet shuffled quickly backwards, still slowly exhaling until I spun to dart through the exit. 

I made it!