September 7th, 2011
So remember I was thinking about committing myself?
Well, I have always had a problem with commitment. I mean, hubby and I lived together for 4 years before I would even entertain the thought of marriage. So committing myself to an
insane asylum mental health institution did not sit so well with me after I gave it some thought. I mean, I think I need help, definitely. I have been feeling so down about so much shit recently that I could use some perspective other than my own, which is generally of the why-is-it-that-the-only-people-who-truly-love-me-are-ages-7-and-4-and-why-is-everyone-from-my-parents-on-down-a-total-fucking-disappointment-and-that-makes-me-wonder-why-I-am-here-if-I-am-so-completely-unlovable-and-no-one-fucking-understands-me shit. But then it hit me…
What if they don’t let me out?
What if I am actually, more fucked up than I think I am? And they say, uh, yeah, we know you said you wanted to come in for 3-7 days or so, but after observation it’s clear that we need to keep you here for at least a year, during which time we will give you shock treatments, a lobotomy, and meds that will have you drooling like a bulldog and peeing in your Depends. And you have no say in the matter. And, oh yeah, that’s final.
See, because at that point, what choice do I have?
My normal off-the-cuff response, cuz that’s how I roll, would be to go postal and break up every fucking chair, table and whatever else they have in that place. But you’re probably thinking what I’m thinking: gee, that’s not really going to get me out as much as it’s going to get me put in a STRAITJACKET IN A NICE WHITE ROOM WITH SOFT WALLS.
And then when I do get out – assuming that that even happens because I swear that some of these places are like Roach Motels: you can get in but you can never get out – and my husband realizes he’s married to a complete fucking nut job, he’s going to sue for divorce and custody. And the judge is going to take one look at my stint in the loony bin and the fact that their dad pays for everything anyway –
and give the kids to him.
At which point…
I will break up every fucking chair, table and whatever else they have in that place.
Do you see a recurring theme here?
So, after looking around in ye olde internet to see what nice luxury part-time facilities they might have for people like me who are somewhat crazy, not really crazy as in shoot-up-the-post-office-crazy or run-down-the-street-naked-and-on-fire crazy but just crazy some of the time when they’re really stressed out about having fucked up parents, fucked up friends, and kids who are actually so awesome that it takes your breath away and also makes you feel like a fucking failure sometimes because they’re so awesome despite having you for a mom as opposed to because of it, I decided that…
I would just have a glass of wine with some Clonazepam.
For those of you who haven’t somehow figured this out from reading about [insert name of young dead celebrity here], it is not wise to mix DRUGS, and ALCOHOL. Which is why every time I do it, I tell my husband exactly what cocktail I have taken in my little game of liquid Russian roulette, so that if I wake up dead, he will be able to tell the coroner’s office exactly what killed me and there won’t be weeks and weeks of waiting to see “what she had in her system.” Tonight, what I have in my system consists of a bowl of Apple Jacks cereal, which I practically had to force down because I didn’t want to eat at all because when I’m stressed I just stop eating altogether, and a glass of wine, and a sip of hard cider, and some Clonazepam. Oh, and sleeping pills, I forgot that I just took those. Two, to be exact. Although recently, I have been upping the ante to 3, buuuut, tonight I decided to err on the side of caution. Reckless, yes, but not entirely stupid.
I am not trying to commit suicide, seriously. I’ve said it before, the only thing keeping me going is those two precious bundles upstairs. I do not want them to be fucked up thinking that Mommy didn’t love them when that is so not true, when I know how it feels to live with that feeling of being unloved as I recall that my mother has told me in no uncertain terms that she wants nothing to do with me, despite the fact that I have been Class A Model Daughter. Perfect, I am not, but let me tell you, I was scared shitless of my mom growing up and even in early adulthood, so rebellion didn’t happen. I was so goddamn obedient. I spoke respectfully, I acted respectfully, I got excellent grades, I went to the college she wanted me to go to, I took her in to live with me – we were like a fucking Chinese family! Even when she began treating me like shit as I started to do that awful thing that intelligent adult people with brains do of sometimes harboring an opinion that does not agree with oh-sacred-parent’s, I held my tongue out of respect and a certain amount of fear. For going too far in having a different opinion, too far as in I speak to my grandmother when my mother doesn’t, I have been orphaned. I am not doing that shit to my kids. I love them ’til it hurts and they know this now and they will know if it I am still here when they are my age. I will not let them grow up feeling like they tried their best and were still regarded like shit.
What I am trying to do, though, is numb the pain, which just seems to be getting worse. The rude arrival of autumn (that bastard) is surely not helping, as those of you who know me know that as the days get darker so does my mood and my general outlook on life. But that is just exacerbating other stuff that’s already there, and… I’m just… tired. Not physically, not mentally, but emotionally and spiritually tired.
Well, the pills are starting to work their Woozy Magic so, off to bed I go, and let’s all hope and pray I wake up tomorrow! Remember, if I don’t, here’s the song to sing to the coroner! (to be sung to the tune of The 12 Days of Christmas):On the last night of her life, our Leila toldeth me, One sip of cider, One glass of wine, Clo-naz-e-pam 1 bowl of Jacks And two sleeping pills in her belly!