As I said yesterday, today I am opening up space here on my blog for an anonymous poster. The Betchfest is Her Bad Mother's brilliant idea to let people rant somewhere other than their own blogs, be it anonymously, or not.
Please take a few minutes to read her rant and offer your support in the comments. Thanks!
Roar of Epic Destruction
I thought this was going to be a rant about my mother and middle sister and my dreams about a frustrated roar of epic destruction. I have these dreams where that frustrated <arggg> we are all so familiar with becomes a roar that radiates out of me with so much suppressed, frustrated rage that the roar grows and grows until the structures around me shake to rubble. I mean, don’t get me wrong, that is, or would be, or could be, or whatever, a good rant, but once I started writing, I found that there is quite a bit more than I had anticipated, festering beneath my surface.
Thank you Lori at Spinning Yellow for allowing me to spew and Catherine at Her Bad Mother for putting this bitch fest together. Generally, I would never write anonymously, I feel that if you have something to say, good, bad or ugly, if you are going to write it out loud, you should own it. However, what I want to do here today, no what I need to do here today, is rant. Unfettered of other people’s feelings and just get it off my chest. I want to say all the mean, horrible, ugly-honest things I have bottled up, without having to consider anyone else’s feelings. I always fight fair. But today, I don’t want to fight; I don’t want to be fair, I just want to fucking bitch. And I don’t actually want to hurt the people I am bitching about.
I’m scared that I don’t love my husband any more. I am mad at him. I don’t want to have sex with him any more. I can’t find that spark. I can’t figure out a way to communicate to him what I need changed. I don’t want a divorce, I don’t want to give up, I don’t hate him. I’m just angry, frustrated and, I don’t know… annoyed. I don’t want to stay feeling like this, but I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to get my shit back together. I don’t know how to fix this.
I went for my yearly physical and my GP made me cry, just by saying, you need to take care of yourself, not just everyone else. I am the oldest of 4, (okay 6 if you count my parents, and you should) and have been taking care of “everyone else” my whole life. My whole life since I was 3 year old, sitting by the phone in the middle of the night debating whether or not to call the police. My mom had gone out dancing naked in the rain. She had been gone a long time. We lived in a city. There are freaky people in the city and she was a naked, (possibly high?) hippy, dancing around in the rain. She also left me home alone. If I called the police they would be mad and maybe take me away. But I was worried about her. She was dancing naked in the rain in a city were bad people lived. What to do? And how is a 3 year old supposed to decide? So now we are back to my family and maybe this rant is about them. I don’t know.
I need therapy. I’ve had lots of therapy. You talk and talk and it doesn’t really seem to me that talking about the past is a good way to get over it. So I need therapy to help me move forward, get a plan, fix myself so that I can be a good mother to my children and a good wife and friend to my husband. And yet still in the meantime, I need to be a good enough mom to my children that I don’t screw them up in the process. How does one do that when they can probably feel that all is not right with their parents? God, I don’t want to be my mom. I need to get my shit together.
I’ve know this for a while and have been thinking about this for a while and then, for Hanukkah/Christmas this December, my dearest youngest sister gave me this card.
My dearest sister,
I hope you know how much I love you and how much I appreciate everything you have done for me over the years. You are truly one of the most remarkable women I have had the pleasure of knowing.
All my life, you were the cool one. You were so hip and together. I have always looked up to you and tried to emulate you.
This is why I am particularly distressed by how your life has been these past few years. I will do anything and everything in my power/ability to help you out of this funk that you are in.
I know that you are tired but it doesn’t mean that you have to give up “you”. I know that it will take more than a gift basket for you to feel like the 34 year old bombshell that you are, but at least it is a start.
So here is a goody basket that (hopefully) contains some items to help you reclaim your self. You are not just a mom, nor just a wife. You are a beautiful, intelligent, young woman. I hope you can find that woman and bring her out. Please let me know if there is anything, anything at all that I can do to help.
Fuck. What to say? Yes true, I don’t know? Are you crying? I am crying. Such simple words. The same intimated by my GP. But it sums up how lost that self is. MY self.
My husband says I am depressed and should get medication. My GP says I am severely sleep deprived and as soon as my kids start sleeping I will “perk up”. My kids are mostly sleeping through the night for about a month now and I just don’t feel perked up. Okay, so I started a blog, joined twitter, started learning how to market my jewelry business, have made an effort to make friends, have people over, learned what SEO means, and social networking (wow hello, women are AWESOME social networkers) and cleaned the house. But I still feel funked. No, not fucked, f u n k ed. You know, funky but not in a good way.
Depressed? I don’t know. I don’t think so? I don’t feel like hurting myself or anyone else ever. I am very overwhelmed by the task ahead. <sigh> I need to get my shit together. Just, how?
How? I don’t know. Here are some things I have started with all of my new-found sleep. I need to loose some weight, I am 5’6 and weighed 168 pounds, so I am on the South Beach Diet and have lost 6 pounds so far. I need to start exercising. I got a bike, have even ridden it a few times and have been taking the kids to the pool all afternoon. (Show me one mom who will say that that is not physically exhausting). Getting there, but not there yet. I need to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I love designing and making jewelry and I love what I have learned so far about social networking. I love writing (huge surprise to me!) and have been getting a good response to my snarky, self deprecating, real, fun take on things. (Sorry, no link back to my blog this time.) So there is that. Now if I can just learn enough to make a living with my jewelry (Martha Stewart, here I come). AND I need to figure out my relationship with my husband.
Crap. No plan. No idea of how to start. We have talked about what is going on, and that there is a problem, but I don’t see a solution. We are actively looking for a couple’s therapist. I am hoping that this will be a good thing, but I am terrified of finally having to figure out a “fighting fair” way of telling him the following. P.S. please remember that this is the bitch fest version. (Why the guilt of spewing my angry truth?) Anyhoo, here goes…
When I got Pregnant with #1, I got sick. The miserable, every second of every minute of every hour of every day kind of sick. I threw up for 5 months straight, lost weight and didn’t pass my pre-pregnancy weight until 26 weeks. Oh, and I got sciatica at 10 weeks. Yippee! Not! I was definitely not a happy camper. Also, now would be a good time to mention that my husband is a pessimist.
I am the cheerleader in our house and I cheer him up, or explain why it’s not that bad, and I always optimistically put out into the universe what I want, and shockingly we get a lot of it. (Maybe some of the moo-moo, foo-foo, hippy crap did rub off on me.) So when I got miserably ill. He got morose. And sullen, and petulant, and unsupportive, and basically shitty. I was so miserable that it would take me and hour just to think up something I might be able to stomach. Then I’d have to make it, and force myself to eat it. Sometimes I threw it up so soon, I wasn’t even sure I should bother, I couldn’t possibly be getting enough calories. And then, every single fucking day, I would go pick him up at the train and he would say “What do you want to do for dinner?”
Nothing? Go to the hospital for an IV? That would better than having to deal with dinner. Have you deal with it instead, you insensitive fuck? Then he would suggest burger king, or greasy Chinese food, or some other crap American food that is bad for you. I finally (after months of this I think) would tell him every fucking day. Deal with your own dinner. So he would order take out from somewhere and I would go upstairs, lie on the bed and try not to barf before I got to the bathroom.
When anyone was cooking or if there was any food in the house I would continually ask him to open the window and turn the fan on and put the food away. I would continually be upstairs when the vomitous smell of say, Indian food, would waft up the stairs and I would go down, he would be there on the couch, windows closed, fan off, food all open and left out on the counter. Fucking asshole. AND last weekend, we had some friends over for brunch and he had a wonderful time telling them how irrational and hard to live with I was while I was pregnant.
Could he not put on a happy face just once in a while and try to cheer me up? Or be up-beat and sympathetic instead of mad at me for feeling horrible and not being able to put on a happy face for him. He just wanted me to pretend that everything was alright so he didn’t have to feel bad that I felt like ass. And frankly that just pissed me off. I wasn’t pretending to feel alright for him. No fucking way!
Oh wait, I forgot to tell you about some things like the “Are you okay?” He would ask me this or other variations and still does like “How do you feel” “So how are you?” multiple time a day. Like every hour or more. The same as the last 56 billion times you asked. I still feel like shit, I still don’t want to eat, and I still don’t like it when you ask me constantly how I am doing just like I told you the last 56 billion times. <arrrrgggg> And then there was the sex thing.
So hubby was never very fond of sex. Even before we were married he turned me down and much as not and when I got so sick, I really didn’t care. But then, after 5 really freakin’ long months I started feeling better. But he made his “icky face” and told me it kind of freaked him out, “with the baby in there and all.” Seriously? Now that we don’t have to worry about getting pregnant, and I’m having all these great wet dreams it’s a no go? WTF? Then #1 was born and I was cleared at my 8 week visit. Woot! I was nervous with all those stories about it being painful or dry, but I was game. It went pretty well, except that I was breastfeeding and well, milk went everywhere. Apparently, this was “icky” too.
Frankly, I am not even sure how we conceived #2 We must have done it at least 2 or 3 times since #1’s birth, but other than conception, which was purple stick timing driven, I really don’t remember any times other than that first one. Oh, and I was also still breastfeeding #1 when I got pregnant with #2. So I’m in double ickville this time. Well, except this time the barfing lasted 7 months and I had a toddler to take care of. I was so tired and beat down by the time #2 arrived that I couldn’t have cared less if he still though I was icky.
Over the next two years you could count on fingers how many times we had sex. Then all of a sudden, he has decided he wants to have sex, and he wants to have sex all the time. WTF? I have been turned down and been made to feel disgusting for 5 years and now a “oh, sorry about that” is going to turn me on? My body is very well trained not to be interested at this point and a “come on baby” while he is dry humping my leg while I do dishes isn’t going to cut it. It’s just not funny. There is way too much history for that to be funny.
Then he started asking 2 or 3 times a day. Never any romance or foreplay (not that I’m a wine and roses kind a gal, I’m more of a World of Warcraft expansion pack kind of girl) but maybe some hand holding or being nice to me or some kissing for fuck’s sake? It felt like he was setting me up to constantly be the bad guy. This is all my fault because I was saying no all the time. I just started to ignore him and even avoid him.
Then, he came home early from work and brought me beautiful long stemmed roses as a peace offering he explained. Awww..sweet! Then he went on to explain that we really need to change something that guys need sex. It’s part of their physiology and it’s how they express love and intimacy and that he doesn’t want to end up divorced. Are you reading the same thing I am? I want sex or I want to ditch your lame ass? Thanks for the roses. Oh and for wrecking my day and making me cry.
So I laid out how I was feeling. The incessant pestering, the belligerent, silently radiating at me anger was making me tense, angry and very, very NOT in the mood. That was when we decided to get some help. I told him to not ask any more. Let me relax and come to him. Then my grandma died, I left for her funeral, and to pack her house. The day I came home he left on business for three days and then I got my period. (Another icky.) So it’s been like 3 weeks since we had that conversation.
Also, I have been on a screwed-up sleeping schedule, going to bed at like 3 or 4 in the morning for a long time. I was the night parent and I was okay with that, but it has been hard on my circadian rhythm. I am trying to get back to a more normal schedule, and (of course since I am into more natural, non-invasive techniques and they don’t work fast enough) he has been pushing me to take sleeping pills. I have been drinking herbal sleep aid teas and they have been helping, I am tired around 2 am and sometimes 1:30. But this is not good enough, fast enough, so I took some valerian. It made me deliriously tired. Stumbling to the bed, groggy and in this crazy fog, tired.
I basically fell into bed (at like 1:30) and hubby decides it’s time to get his groove on. I remember him groping me all over (I am totally lead limbed and unable to even say knock it off) forever before he finally gave up. And in the morning, when he came up to wake me so I could clean the house before our guests arrived for brunch, that valerian stuff still hadn’t worn off. I felt horrible and was desperately fighting to open my eyes and focus. I needed water and could barely string words together, he tried again. With a 3 & 5 year old unsupervised downstairs, like that won’t distract me, and feeling pawed and grossed out because I was feeling totally drugged. Again he finally gave up, but then let our 3 year old jump all over me while I tried sluggishly to shake off the sleeping pill and get up. Like this is my fault?
That was the brunch where he rolls his eyes and “jokingly” tells our guests about how irrational and hard to live with I was while I was pregnant. Then, later that day (or was it the next?) he tells me he really want to have sex again, but he knows he’s not supposed to tell me, so he is just going to try to avoid me so I don’t have to be subjected to his silently angry raging. Oh gee wiz, thanks! Why don’t you go fuck yourself? No, really, go fuck yourself.
People ask us all the time if we want more kids. Especially if we want a girl. The answer is emphatically no. Well for me, I emphatically don’t want to have more children with him. I couldn’t take it. It’s hard enough without a petulant, unsupportive ass bag as your partner. And while he is an awesome dad, who loves his children dearly, who spends a lot of time (possibly more than his share, especially on the weekends) with them, he doesn’t particularly like having kids. The fatigue, the hassle and the altered life of it all. I’ve always wanted lots of kids, ever since I was like ten years old. Angelina and Brad style, before it was cool with adopted and biological making no difference. At least 5 or 6 of them. But I absolutely don’t want to do it with him. I have been willing, and in the past, happy to make this sacrifice for our life together. But now, in my worst moments, I think, even if we didn’t make it, who would want me anyway the way I am, with two kids, a love of video games and apparently a pretty significant self-esteem problem. I may be a 34F (yes, that’s 3 cup sizes larger than a D and, of course, he’s an ass man) but I’m definitely no Angelina Jolie.
So seriously? What the hell am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to in a “fighting fair” kind of way, describe for him the anger and frustration that this has built in me? Describe the loss of the cool, fun, funky in a good way, confident woman I was before I let all this happen to me? That I don’t feel like having sex. That for women, there is also an emotional aspect to getting turned on and that being angry and annoyed, I am emphatically not. He’s got to miss the me that I was as well, right?
I want to try. I do. This is my rant so I haven’t described what good friends we are and how we always have something to talk about and that we have the same kind of sense of humor and that we (the unit that is us) are worth saving. I love my kids more than I had any idea was humanly possible and I know the best thing for them, is the best me I can be.
Hummm. I really did think this was going to be a post about how my stupid mom and middle sister ruined my littlest sister’s birthday by being totally self centered assholes, but apparently I needed to roar for a different reason today.