My current status is with glass of La Crema Pinot Noir
and a hummus plate in an airport. I’m working on some work billing, waiting two
hours for my flight to come and ferry me home. I have an audiobook on my
headphones, although I’ve paused to type through this. What waits for me at
home? Husband and son will be at baseball practice, younger son will be riding
his scooter around the fields, I have fundraising orders to pick up and
organize, dinner to make (not gonna lie, I’m thinking veggie ramen). I’m in the
middle of reading or listening to five books and I stalled in the third season
of The Good Wife.
I haven’t been here. I’ve been around; I’ve been reading
and commenting and twittering. My Instagram is up to date (today is a timehop
photo of Henry fighting the Dark Side naked! Classic!) I’ve been trolling the
LulaRoe facebook groups and watching the political races with fascinated
disgust. I’ve been somewhat wandering around in the dark, feeling around for a
lightswitch.
Personally, I think there are some things I could use
working through, but I can’t figure out how to talk through it. How to write
through it, how to type through it. Words haven’t formed in my head yet. C
keeps asking me if I’m okay, and … I don’t know. I think I am? I think I have
hit the point where I’m ready to accept needing a therapist. That’s a big step,
right? I was a psych major for a bit, and us psych majors – we have all the
answers. We know all the right words to pretend everything is okay. “I know such and such isn’t my fault, I know it’s an ebb and flow sort of
nonsense ….” Ad nauseum. I can fix other people’s problems. I’m a fixer. But I
don’t know what’s wrong with me to fix me.
Unfortunately, I don’t think meds are the answer for me
anymore. It would be nice, right? I was on meds for a long time. I still have
the scripts, just in case. I have nothing against prescription meds, and I won’t
hate being on them again. I stopped because even though it tempered my anxiety,
it also dulled every feeling good and bad. I stopped caring.
Over the next three months, I have thirteen work trips. S
has 15 baseball games and twelve practices and somehow I need to get H doing
something extracurricular. Or I think I do. Do I? There's laundry and dinners and cleaning and cat litter and homework and so much actual work.
I know that my marriage has taken a backseat to the rest
of our lives. I know that’s dangerous. I don’t know how to turn that around. I
love my husband. I know he loves me. I know we are solid. But I also know
neither of us are trying very hard right now.
I feel on the verge of crying, all the time. I find myself zoning out like it's my job. I'm feeling constantly over-emotional and yet I think I'm emoting at a level zero. I feel like I’m playing fast and loose with my life and
with so many balls in the air, something is going to hit the ground. I'm lost.
I haven’t
had the time for here. This has been a ball I’ve dropped. Hopefully I can find a place for my blog, but in the meantime, I’m here. I swear it. And in the meantime, I'll stop weeping in airports.
