A restless soul, a weary mom

Battling demons I don’t even understand, among the everyday muck of too much stress and not enough sleep, I’ve become weary. At the same time, I’m restless; I’ve always been an oxymoron, the exception to most rules.

My brain, finally quieted by the medications (which I’ve incidentally forgotten to take two three nights in a row now), is ready to reach for something more, but my body is worn down from years of abuse – emotional abuse from myself and others, physical abuse, too.

Now I have new abuses – my children who don’t sleep and have severe needs, my significant other six years my junior with a sex drive to match, the stress of figuring out how to pay the bills when you quit your job and your s.o. lost his after taking three days off to deal with family issues – important family stuff, and I don’t fault him for calling off – his boss is a pretentious asshat.

I was looking forward to getting a fresh start, moving out of our run-down mobile home and into a real house, a permanent place to raise my kids and start my family on solid ground. I hate living in a trailer, and especially in the community we’re in. Living here, being ashamed of where we live, it’s doing absolutely nothing good for me, except assuring that we have a roof over our heads that we can afford, because we own the stupid thing. It’s falling apart, pretty reflective of its tenants, I think. And something in the back of my mind is urging me to get the hell out of here.

One of us needs to find a job, though, and I have this feeling it’s going to be me. Mostly because I’ve always been the one with a steady job we knew we could count on. The thought of going back to work, not being home with my boys, has me in knots.

Hiding my depression is getting to be overwhelming, but it honestly feels like not one person would understand if I expressed my fatigue at just getting through the day, getting out of bed. I know that’s ludicrous because millions of other people experience depression. My children’s father certainly doesn’t understand, though, and I know my children wouldn’t understand, I can’t even get them to understand simple things, things I, myself, understand.

I’ve been pushing through it, this deep, aching depression, hiding it behind a smile for so long that I can’t even shift myself into a place of believing I’m allowed to feel what I feel.

I’m in physical pain, from a multitude of sources. I’m in emotional pain. I’ve been avoiding talking to my mother about anything real because I just can’t. I don’t have the energy to do more than the basics to get through the day, let alone have a difficult, emotional talk with my mom.

I feel like I’m failing. I’m failing at parenting, I’m failing at my relationship, I’m failing at being an adult. I don’t have a job, which isn’t a huge deal overall, considering I chose to quit my job, but I’ve been working for more than 12 years, I held 3 part-time jobs in college, as well as a 3.5 GPA. I thrive on busy, because busy hides the pain. Busy hides my awkward. Busy keeps me from thinking too much. Being a stay-at-home-mom to special needs kiddos keeps me busy, but it’s too much focus on one thing – I think too much about their needs, their deficits, their futures – and I need a distraction, for sure.

Ever since I can remember, my brain has been on overdrive, I’ve thrived in the noise and hustle of my day-to-day life. Once college was done, and I didn’t have clubs to join, or peace to rally, I threw myself into a marketing position, climbing to the director of marketing position within a year, working 60-hour weeks. I was awesome at what I did because my brain works best when it’s too busy to stop and take a breath. And then came children…followed by the medications I haven’t always felt a need to take.

Now, my brain feels sluggish, like the medications slow it down to what I can only assume is a ‘normal’ pace. I don’t like it, it feels wrong. I feel wrong. It’s not helping the depression, which is the whole point, right? I kind of prefer manic me, because she got shit done. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been taking the meds and missing my doctor’s appointments…

I’m a mess. That’s one thing I know for sure, even if no one wants to agree with me – I’m an everloving mess. I’m floundering, trying with everything I have, my inner warrior princess, to keep my head above it all, to ‘just keep swimming’, if you will.

Hopefully 2015 will be the year I start to clean up my mess, clean up my memories and work through my most deeply buried issues. If I can just manage to keep a damn doctor’s appointment…or get a good night’s sleep or a break from my children, with all of their needs, and their father with all of his. A girl can dream, I guess.


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