Unhealed

 Ive been imagining stabbing myself in the stomach quite a lot. Something in me prods me on. “Do it for the plot. Maybe if I was injured, they’d cut the whole thing off. And if I was smaller, I wouldn’t feel so valueless. Self-centered, indulgent, goth. Healed people don’t seek validation from other people, I will never be healed because if it means giving up feeling pretty because someone tells me I’m pretty, I will die unhealed. 

Everyone feels like a burden. No one knows how to ask for help. So we all resent each other when someone comes to us for support. “Don’t they know I’m sad? Can’t they see I’m in pain?” Of course they can’t. Because you never say. 

I don’t want to keep going. I don’t know what its all for. I’m tired and I’m restless, I’m sleepy and unsure. 

I could live forever on being wanted lusted after and loved. But who lusts after the fat girl? The mom? The slug?

I’m run down. I feel worthless. I’m ruining my children’s lives. No one deserves to be treated poorly for what’s going on inside. I hate that they feel less than, because I can’t love myself. I wish I could do better. And improve my mental health. 

Do it for the future. Do it for him. Do it for them. Do it for anyone but me. Nothing motivates nothing. And nothing motivates me. 

I’d thank myself for starting a long journey today. But I’d rather rot and hate myself. It seems easier in some way. 

Triggered

     Petal loves Pickle ball. I'm pretty sure he would play every day if was available and I would let him. The thing about loving Pickle ball is... you cannot take the smalls to it. Maybe if it were just casual playing. But this is a league. He pays to play. And you cannot spend two hours paying to chase your own children around. So sometimes on Wednesday, sometimes Thursday, a few times on a Saturday... once or twice on a Sunday. And Monday. My husband will once again announce he's been "invited" to Pickle ball, like it's a social occasion and not something he pays fees to do. It's always at dinner and bed time. It always gives him an awkward amount of time between work and the sport. And I'm always left on duty until the kids are settled in bed. 

    And for the most part, I don't really mind. It's a nice hobby to have. Mostly old people play, so I know there aren't any hot young lady Pickle Ballers distracting him on the court. It's not too expensive. He loves it. And it's helped him meet a couple of lads that could be friends in this foreign country. But the later it gets in the day, the more dishes I have to wash or food the children refuse to eat, the more angry I become. The more resentful I am that I'm alone. Again.

    Last night was particularly bad, because he had also played the evening before, and I tried to say no. I tried to explain that I didn't want to do it again, a second night in a row and that I was feeling under-prioritized and a little resentful. And he looked disappointed. So I compromised. Like a good wife does, right? I asked, "Well, could you maybe pick up dinner for us? So I at least wouldn't have to cook? And it could be food I know the kids will eat, so it won't be a fight? Could we do that?" And he thought about it, and then agreed, "Yeah! I can figure that out. I can make that work." 

    But he picked the kids up from school and returned without food. And he faffed about, not helping with them, not getting the house ready or even helping me make dinner before he was decked out and running out the door for Pickle ball. I was just in single-parent mode, despite my one stipulation to make Pickle Ball work for the whole family... had not happened.

    He argues that I should have made it a bigger deal. I should have reminded him. I should have... I should have... I should have... It's my fault, right? Because he was here and I didn't nag him down the stairs. I didn't reprimand him for not picking up the food. I didn't command him to give me the time between the older kids coming home and him leaving to decompress and rejuvenate for dinner, clean-up, getting the littlest ready for brushed and dressed and read to and to bed before I did it all over again with the older two. That was my fault.

    I have been trapped at home for over two weeks, car-less and stuck. My dearest friend here in Germany is moving away soon and I haven't been able to see her or spend any time with her. I'm just stuck. I try to go on walks to feel human, but walking with an almost 3 year old who has NO fear is stressful. And I don't get much out of the walks we take. I spend every day doing the same things: Take care of the kids, make food, clean up food, clean the house. Re-clean the house. Circulating rooms. Processing laundry. SO MANY DISHES. And the house is NEVER clean, the kids are unhappy no matter what food I make, and there is always at least three dishes in the sink at any given time. Even now, after doing laundry for 4 days straight, there is a load in the washer, a load in the dryer, and three sorted baskets that need to make their way into dresser drawers. 

    I'm never alone. My baby is clingy and whiny and never content to be left to her own devises (one because she hates being apart from me, and two... if she is alone she is making THE MOTHER OF ALL MESSES. Think live-action Cat in the Hat level chaos and you might have some idea of what I deal with all day). As I type this, she screams in my face excitedly that "IT'S CHRISTMAS! MAMA! IT'S CHRISTMAS!" (It is NOT Christmas, and it will not BE Christmas for almost a full year). 

    I'm not trying to say my husband owes me anything. He has had to take on the chauffeur job, the grocery shopping job, the errand running, the book returns, the eye and dentist appointments, and everything in-between, all while trying to figure out where and how and how to budget for getting my car fixed so I can have it back. We're both in this. In the thick of it. 

    I'm just saying that bringing home dinner because I asked for it would have been nice. And when he treated it so optionally... when he was dismissive and flippant about it even after he agreed? It hurt my feelings. It made already feeling like low priority that much more central. 

    As I showered for the first time in too long, I was thinking about it. Why this was so triggering for me. And I remembered that it used to be like this all the time. He would go to Pickle ball rain or shine back in Cali. Multiple times a week. But I had some connections in Cali. I wasn't quite so alone. I had support. It didn't always help to have that support. But it was something. And it was baseball and basketball at our base before. Just me, sitting home alone in a faraway state with my infant... feeling like the lowest thing on his To-Do list. In a lot of ways, when you're living the military life, the wife is sort of just another thing that gets carted from place to place. In the states you can work. You can find some community. But here, overseas, it's much harder. You're just a thing moving around like the rest of the furniture. Stuck at home, cooking and cleaning. Very "American Traditional Family". It can be very dehumanizing. 

    But I don't think him going to Pickle ball IS neglectful or abusive or even that callous. I love that he loves it. I just wish him going to Pickle ball wasn't connected to such an intricate web of memories and hurt that it FEELS like neglect every time he tells me... "I've been invited to play Pickle ball tonight."

The Long Weekend

     My alarm hasn't gone off yet, but I'm not dreading it because there is no school or work today, we have a glorious 4 day weekend ahead of us and I'm looking forward to not holding myself to the standards of a normal weekday. 

    My two oldest children (who are 7 and 5) have already joined us in bed hours ago. I'm curled awkwardly to make room for my son pressing in on me from the middle of the bed and my daughter snuggled on the edge. I don't have enough neck support and my right leg is freezing because everyone is laying on different parts of the blanket and I am far from comfortable. And then the recently acquired kitten starts attacking our feet. My daughter is awake. Thrashing. She giggles when the kitten is being funny and cries when he latches on too tight. My husband is snoring, tucked in, two pillows, neither shared. And any time I move, my son tries to snuggle closer, closing any gap that I can wiggle for myself. 

    Then I hear the baby padding down the hall. She's not really a baby anymore. In fact, she'll be three next month. But she's still my baby. She comes in ready for the day. She's demanding water and breakfast and needs to go pee and she joins her older sister in playing with the kitten who can be quiet aggressive in his playtime. I have the scratches to prove it. 

    Baby girl is on me. There is no where else for her to be. Balanced on my tummy, laying across my chest, fighting with her siblings and screaming her discontentment if they fight her back, angry that I am not bigger, or have more sides so they can all have an equal share of me. 

    And Petal snoozes on, occasionally being jostled enough to be awoken when he barks at us all to be more quiet. 

    I'm awake now. My alarm is minutes away from chiming still. But I don't want to fight for a few more minutes laying in the dark. My body hurts. Surprise! It's that time of the month. I deal with that with an audience standing around me on the toilet asking why I need a pad and what does it do and am I going to die. This is not their first time. I have no lock on any of the doors in this damn German house and my children have witnessed me through the aftermath of a miscarriage, so mom bleeding isn't news. That doesn't stop them from taking turns asking me the same questions they ask me every month. 

    I help get them ready to go downstairs, find glasses, special toys, and we move down the stairs as a unit. Two hyper girls, one discombobulated boy, and one very grumpy mommy. I am not a morning person. I need time to start the day. Uninterrupted time. Where no one is talking to me. But that's not an option when you're a mom most of the time. I set them up with drinks and an easy-light breakfast and try to wake up the rest of the way on the couch as they bicker about who gets to choose which inane cartoon to watch. My baby will not participate in this as she knows she will NEVER get to pick and it's pointless to try. My back hurts and I just want no one to touch or talk to me. I didn't get enough sleep, I have a cramp in my arm from it being someone's pillow in the early hours of the morning. And I have never hated my husband more than right now. 

    When the whining gets too much, I finally get up and make a real breakfast for the kids and feed myself, the edges of my bad attitude softening a little, but my grump comes from so many places, it's not fixed so easily. I find myself staring at two days worth of dishes and decide if I'm going to be pissed anyway, I might as well take on the sensory nightmare that is washing too many dishes. I have to empty the dishwasher first. So I do. Meanwhile, now that mom has become mobile, the army of children has too, and they follow me in the kitchen complaining that they don't like the fluffy cheesy eggs I made for them, they want toast, but not cooked. They want toppings we don't have. They want endless glasses of juice and milk. "He hit me!" "She won't share!" "The cat scratched me!" The kitten following us as well, meowing wildly, but his bowl is full and his water is fresh, so what more do you want, you tiny striped dictator? 

    I hand out what I can, say no to what I can't, I break up fights and I try to regulate myself, but I'm buzzing, there's too much going on, I don't want to scoop a slimy chunk of old milk out of the drain AND tell you not to strangle the cat. Please can I just help you in a minute?? Can I have a minute?? JUST A MINUTE!!!

    I snap and bear my teeth and start to yell and then its physically removing them from the room and shutting the door and trying to breathe. But all that's inside me is rage. I don't want to be doing this. I don't want to when I'm having a good day, and today is a bad day, I have cramps and I heard and I feel bloated AND constipated and it's almost 9:30 now and my husband is still asleep. 

    I can survive for another half hour. But 10 is my limit and I'm going up there to wake him up AS SOON as 9 is no longer on the clock. 

Faith or Folly

     I just watched "Surprised by Oxford". There was a time in my life where a story of a religious boy saving himself for marriage looking for a girl who was doing the same would have been everything I wanted from a movie. Now, as an adult, watching a movie about a girl losing her dreams of a doctorate to become a religious christian and fall for a boy who "knows" more about God, causes me to roll my eyes. 

    I have lived the way that you're "supposed" to live. And the more I read the less I agreed and the less I agreed, the harder its been for me to hold on to my faith. People who are convicted into faith and belief in God have a lot in common with people who grew up in it and leave it. They are both unsatisfied with the meaning we are told to find in life. We are frustrated about the ways you're supposed to pursue it. And we turn from what we have known to something new at some point. 

    Construction and deconstruction are the same at their core. It's just people living meaninglessly finding meaning in nothing. There is no point, we all die. We all end up returning to the earth. One promises life after death. One promises eternal rest. Both can't be proven and neither have witnesses. Black nothingness, or everything forever with no connection to anything of the earth. 

    You aren't married in heaven. You aren't related to your family. There is an argument for whether those who never heard the story of Jesus's sacrifice never being in heaven. So the babies we've lost before conversation, tribes in the middle of nowhere... cavemen who lived hundreds of thousands of years before Jesus was even born... None of them will be there. Break a rule and you're not allowed.

    He could be bigger than that. He could want more of us than we as "Christians" ever give welcome or acceptance to, and I want to believe in that version of spirituality. But Religion hangs around me like a toxic ex. I don't want to be associated with the tribalism, hatred, and bigotry of anyone who claims to be Christian. 

    Life giving faith, like the faith of Bob Goff or C.S. Lewis, to live whimsically and joyously outside of society's norms. To give so generously there is nothing left but pure love and acceptance, That makes sense to me. I don't know anyone personally that does that. And I don't know that I could either. It's scary to force yourself out of the norm and pursue a life of absolute service. Most Christians don't. So how can we see ourselves as Christ-Like? It's just hypocrisy and self-congratulations that you live in the time and place that HAPPENED to end up with you being religious.