Writing posts like yesterday’s carries a certain
terror vulnerability with it. I was so emotionally spent exhausted afterward. All I did was sit on the couch for hours, watching Dateline and eating food crap. My favorite go-to when I’m nervous, anxious, self-medicating.
At 10:30 this morning, I had breakfast in bed (props to the best husband on earth) and didn’t get out of bed until
well after 1pm. And by that I mean: after eating, cleaning up and watching the umpteenth viewing of one of the Star Wars movie on network TV, my husband came up for a nap and I (who had never gotten out of bed) slept with him.
I dreamed of wandering a crowded, seedy downtown core, with
scary strangers… hopelessly lost.
Sometimes, I dream of empty streets. Trying to go home but walking alone along street after street, vaguely familiar but never getting to where I’m going. I’m always in California. The dream teases me with the notion of home. Where is this illusive, magical place?
When I woke up today, I was still tired. One cat was asleep above our heads and another was curled between us. My husband was breathing quietly (thank you Jesus for the C-Pap or we’d never be able to sleep together!). Our window was open and a lovely breeze wafted in. I could hear a baseball game being played at the park down the street. I remembered we were supposed to be somewhere at 1:30 and were missing it.
Yesterday, I spoke of crashing. This is what a different kind of crash looks like. This is not the kind that sends you to the Psych ward. It’s the kind that comes after you’ve given all there is to give.
If I told you everything I’ve gone through in my life – and I mean from birth until the present – you might
not believe me. Do you ever wonder … like I do… if you opened yourself fully… and by that I mean… until there was nothing secret left… would others stand up and say…
HEY! ME! I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT! I HAVE BEEN THERE! I AM THERE!
I mentioned yesterday that I used to hide under the house when I was a kid. It was a crawl space. Dirt floor. Spiders. Maybe mice, snakes. I didn’t know. It ran the entire length of the house. I would go back as far as I could to the furthermost corner. I couldn’t be found. I don’t know how long I did that before someone noticed… it was an ingenious hiding place, really. But my guess is that I got caught when I was bitten by a Black Widow. I still have a scar. I should write about scars one day. There’s so much to say. But I digress.
What was I hiding from? Whatever it was, I honed my hidey skilz and found better places to hide… both physically and emotionally.
Hiding feels safe. Keeping the scary stories to myself is safe. If only you knew…
And now you know one of my stories. In 2014, I wanted to die. You’d heard about 2014 before… many times, in fact. But I was afraid to say how broken I was.
There have been other “broken” times… and not just from my old friends depression and anxiety. Though, I suspect they played a part.
We had something happen recently that upended our finances. We had to speak to our landlord… not for the first time. As my husband and I discussed it, we pondered aloud how so many things could happen to us? He’ll never believe us, we thought.
And that made me think of you, dear friends and readers.
If I told you… if you knew… would you believe me?
Would I make a fool of myself?
It has happened.
It reminds me of another story:
I was around 8-9 years old. We lived in a close-knit neighborhood with lots of kids, all around the same age. As a chubby, freckled kid with asthma, I did not blend in with the skinny, tanned, athletic (and, by the way, rich) kids.
One day, they invited me to one of the backyards… they were having a party… FOR ME! They asked me to wear my favorite party dress.
When I arrived, someone told me to close my eyes, which I did, as I was led to the center of the lawn.
“Keep them closed,” she said, as she walked away.
When I opened my eyes, the sprinklers came on. I stood alone and got soaked, as the children on the patio laughed and laughed.
There is no happy ending to that one. I ran home. I hid. I didn’t tell my mother what happened until years (and years and years) later, after a therapy session where I finally shared it out loud for the first time since it happened. I was over 40.
This is how sharing as I did yesterday makes me feel. It scares the living shit out of me.
And there are more stories to tell. Will you believe me?
By the way, the little face in the featured photo is mine. Who could hurt that child? I want to scoop her up and tell her she’s loved and that somehow, she will make it out alive.