And I'm clearly an addict.
Here's my morning:
I text Jason at 10 am. (It was hard to even wait that long, but I didn't want to seem desperate.) I check my phone every five minutes for two hours. Then I text him again. He texts me back, and I can finally smile. Then more waiting, impatiently, on edge. Feeling worthless. Irritable. Discontent.
Meanwhile, I'm only half-present for my son.
That's pretty much how my whole day went. I half-played with my son, took Melia to the doctor and the pharmacy, took my son to a playground and to the airpark, but never was my attention fully on him, or her. All I could think about, all day was, "When's he gonna text me again? Come on!"
We did text a little throughout the day, but it was sporadic, and it was mostly him saying he was busy...he was as at work (duh), then he was writing music (which he does), then his grandpa was in the hospital, and then he didn't feel well. I called to talk to him, but he didn't answer. It was right after he had texted me, too. Then in a text message I offered for him to come over so he wouldn't be alone, but he didn't want to. He just wanted to go to bed.
But of course, that was me being selfish, under the guise of being of service.
Really, come on, Adora.
Meanwhile, I texted 3 other guys today. Two were in response, one was initiated by me. All 3 platonic, but still...why do I need attention from men in order to feel okay?
I also called 3 women, so I didn't just focus on guys. But with the 3 women I talked to, two of them didn't have time to talk, and the third one just wanted to talk about her own problems, so we did, and I offered her solutions that I pretend work for me.
Even my aunt with whom I live has noticed something's been wrong with me. "Are you okay?" she asked me today. "You've been quiet." It's true; I told her I've been depressed. I've begun to withdraw, more and more. I'm starting to hide from people. I'm glad I'm going to be seeing a therapist twice a week now, but I'm nervous about that, too. At our first meeting she brought up damn meds.
I remember before Margaret committed suicide, she shared with me her desire to get off her anti-depressants because she just didn't like not being able to feel. She hated being numb. A week later, she was dead.
It scares me, the idea of being medicated. Why must it be? Hell, my therapist is even talking about how my son may have ADHD. Fucking a', bitch, he's four.
I'm sorry. I don't know what's happening to me. I did all my spiritual guru prayer meditation shit today, but there's still this part of me that looks at everything in existence as totally meaningless. I'm driving, looking at road signs, and saying to myself, "Fuck that sign. What's the point of that fucking sign? There's no fucking point. Fuck it." Yesterday on the way to pick up my son I fantasized about pulling into a row of palm trees lining the middle of the road.
I'm so glad I have my son. He makes me laugh. He astonishes me with his brilliance, his innocence, his unconditional love. I want to see him grow up. I don't know the future. For some reason I expect every day to be my last day here -- I don't know why I'm just feeling like it's pretty much all over, all ready -- but I'm not suicidal; I have no REAL desire to end my life.
Still, I'm having a hard time enjoying anything besides laying in bed. Writing's okay. Singing's not so bad. But even with writing and singing, I'm like, "What's the point?"
I'm so glad I have things to read. I need to read a hell of a lot more. All this isolation just coops me up with my own ridiculously drab thoughts. I need to go to more recovery meetings, too. I'm at maybe three a week. But even then, I go to meetings and I look down my nose at people. "You pathetic, lying humans," I think to myself. I think everyone's full of shit. How I became Holden Caulfield, I have no idea. That persona is so played.
My therapist thinks I haven't fully allowed myself to grieve my losses. My parents, my siblings, my husband, Margaret, my boyfriends (or at least Evan, the one I was closest to). My son for half the week. My innocence...my identity...my inner child...or some shit.
She also has noticed that I don't have any girl friends. That is weird, I have to admit. I have some female friends in recovery, but they all have the qualification of helping me stay sober and vice versa...like they're not real friends; they just serve a purpose. I don't know what the hell it's like to be someone's friend, really. I've always been a loner. I've always preferred reading and writing over interacting with actual people. I don't like it when people don't like me. I give them too much power, and yet I can't seem to stop doing that. And yet they probably don't even not like me.
I heard myself say today, as I was getting me and my son into the car at 2:00 pm to go get Melia, "That's it - he doesn't like me any more," just because Justin wasn't texting me off the hook. I laughed at myself and thought, "What if someone thought that about me? 'She didn't text me back right away; she doesn't like me any more.'" The idea was completely ridiculous. Just because I don't respond to someone's every text doesn't mean I don't like him/her. Duh.
And so then I circle back around to, "Why the hell am I being so selfish? Why do I need to be liked? Why can't I just love people, and leave it at that? Why do I feel so damn deprived?"
I don't know. I need to widen my circle. Be less judgmental. Stop thinking my shit don't stink. Or stop thinking I stink like shit. Whatever extreme, neither are real. Stuff matters. Life has meaning. There's a reason for all this. I'm not gonna be a broke-ass student working two part-time jobs forever...unless I keep dropping my classes like I did last semester and keep missing work like I've done five times in the past couple weeks.
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