Mommy Needs A Mental Hospital

The past few days have been awful.

For anyone looking to lose weight, I highly recommend stress and depression. I know many people turn to food when they become depressed and turn into chunksters, but I go the other route – I just stop eating. Not out of punishing myself but because I literally have no appetite. None. I had to force myself to eat lunch just now and that consisted of saltines with butter and a cup of tea. Thanks to stress, I have lost 5 lbs in the past 4 days! It’s awesome!

What’s not so awesome is this feeling of aloneness, this feeling of confusion, loss, and just the general idea that I am teetering on the brink of insanity. I am trying to channel some of this into my writing, and that’s been going well. But every now and then I have to stop writing, and the only way I can handle those hours is under some sort of sedation. I sleep like shit, and being awake is like being in a long horror movie where the climax is coming and it ain’t nothing good.

So I’ve started looking at how to commit myself to mental hospital for a few days. I actually just read this hilarious blog post from a woman who did it because she really needed a vacation from stress and she couldn’t afford one, so the brilliant idea occurred to her that a 72-hour committal in a hospital, paid for by insurance, might be just the ticket. I laughed so hard at her attempts to make this happen that I started to cry, first with laughter, but then that quickly turned to crying, the kind of crying one does when one feels hopeless. It doesn’t take much these days.

The one thing that concerns me is that once you commit yourself, apparently something goes on your record where you will never be allowed to own a firearm. I can certainly see why. I should say, I am no danger to my kids, beyond the danger that having a mother in such a fucked up state of emotional trauma. I would never hurt them, shoot them, beat them with cords and wires, or all the other atrocities that I see the World’s Worst Parents inflicting on their children. The only reason I wanted to own a firearm is cuz I thought it would be bad-ass, and also good prep for one of my protagonists.

The worst thing is feeling so alone. I can’t tell my kids Mommy is a psycho and that’s why she cries in the bathroom all the time. I can tell my husband but he’s so driven at work that I don’t want to add to his stress, and I know he just doesn’t GET it, and he gets concerned and then I feel like more of a shitheel for saddling him with Pyscho Wife. My family has enough problems of their own. And friends…well, I have no friends to whom I can talk. I thought once that I did, but I’ve realized recently that I am swimming in this current alone and if I’m waiting for any friends to extend a branch to get me out, well, that ain’t gonna happen. I am totally and absolutely…ALONE.

I don’t know – is it better for my kids to see Mommy disappear in a hospital for a minimum of 3 days? What if later that gets used against me in a custody battle? Mommy doesn’t know what to do anymore. The only thing keeping me from a bottle of pills and a bottle of gin is my kids, I swear. I just don’t want to leave them with that fucked up legacy, wondering what they did wrong. I pray a lot, and every now and then I get lifted by the thought that God loves me, but I gotta tell you, on a day-to-day basis when my heart is heavy and racing with stress, God seems like my biological father – distant, uninvolved and unable to give less of a shit about little old me.

I need help. I need help. I need help. I don’t know what to do and I need help.

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