So a weekend or two ago, Mr. W and I decided to push up the wedding.  I still haven’t figured out why, or even more than that, why I’m ok with it amidst our seems-like weekly (or at the least bi-weekly) blow outs that leave us shaking and reaching for the door.  But somehow we pull back together (it’s the love, I tell you!) and we figure it out, and still like each other enough to want to make it official (whatever that means).  I know, I’m sounding a little cynical here.  But seriously.  Take two non-religious people, add two failed marriages apiece, add four kids (oh, and now a dog…more on that later), sprinkle it with life, you know, work, school, exes, bills, and give it a good stir…do we really need a pretty piece of paper to make our love official?  But he wants it, like now, and yes, that geeky-girly part of me really, really, really wants to marry the (thankfully) found man of my dreams (and I call him Mr. Wonderful).

The new date, instead of the laid-back cushiness of two years away, is now a little over a year away.  We’re looking at Fall of 2010.  So now I’m freaking out a bit.  Not at all in a cold-feet sort of way, but rather a oh-my-god-how-am-I-going-to-get-this-planned sort of way.  My dress, bridesmaid dresses, locale, catering, flowers, photographer, rings, officiant-oh-my!  And then there is the money side.  Apparently weddings are expensive.  I wouldn’t know, since I haven’t really had a real wedding yet.  While we are doing well on the day-to-day living, we are not paying down our debt in any hurry, nor are we saving anything at all, so with braces (W’s girl), college (W’s boy), possibleprobable lawyers (ex#2), the end of my deferment on my student loans, and the hope of buying a new house next summer looming on the horizon, there isn’t much left–ok, there’s a deficit left for wedding planning.    I swore I wouldn’t let the wedding planning get me stressed, it’s a happy time…right?  But the money thing, whoa, nelly! That might just do it.

So I’m trying to figure out what is important here.  I want an outdoor wedding, so that will be cheaper than renting a hall.  We aren’t all blingy and stuff so the rings won’t be uber-extravagant, savings there.  Although I didn’t do a big wedding, I did do a big, princess-style poufy dress for my first one, and hated it, so I’m definitely going with a simple, flowey sort of thing this time = less expensive.  So far so good.  Catering…hmmmm…I have no idea, but the food must be good.  And then there is the photography.  That’s where the money is going to get complicated, I’m afraid.  I have this image of what I want, and it’s really important to me to get it.  And it will cost to get it.  Hmmm…if only I could take my own pictures of the wedding with me in them……if only……..

In light of the new deadline for planning, I’m sure my blog will reflect the new focus of my spare time, either in lack of posts (I really hope not) or posts all about the planning.  I will try to keep it entertaining, I promise!  There will be some creativity involved, I’m sure, as the budget requires creative thinking.  In the meantime, wish me luck!

There is a point in every relationship when assumptions, behaviours, and reactions change drastically; like a paradigm shift.  Unfortunately, those involved in the relationship never really recognize when it happens.  It’s weeks, months, years later that they realize and are all, “WTF??”  These shifts aren’t always a “bad” thing, nor do the less favorable necessarily have to become a bad thing with a little effort.

For example, Mr. W doesn’t have to leave for work as early as I do, however since returning from Iraq, he gets up every morning while I’m in the shower, makes me coffee, and has it ready with all it’s steamy goodness by the time I’m out.  This is beyond sweetness.  (…and I call him Mr. Wonderful…) I would never have expected it, because, really, why should he get up extra early just to make me coffee, and deliver it.  I was very good about thanking him and fawning over his sweetness for awhile, but then the days he would opt to stay in bed, I found myself a little irritated.  Soon after I realize my thank-yous became less fervent and sometimes would slip away completely.  It is no less sweet that he makes this effort for  me, but with time there has come an expectation of it on my part.  Not good.  I’m not sure how long it’s been since this shift, but in recognizing it now, I know I need to make the effort to continue my appreciation.

Similar situations would include flowers, foot rubs, breakfast treats, whatever your significant other does in those early stages of the relationship that inevitably slip away as time goes on.

There are also behavioural shifts.  In the beginning, you were you and he was him, and for one reason or another you liked eachother.  Of course, you were probably a slightly different version of yourselves.  There are certain things we don’t share with the everyday people around us.  Certain behaviours, certain opinions, certain attitudes.  As time goes on and the comfort level with that “other” increases, the less watered-down you comes out.  Several things can happen at that point.  You may discover you don’t actually like any of those less public behaviours/opinions/attitudes, and you fight or go your separate ways.  You may continue on, growing together in a beautiful harmony of vine-like goodness, intertwining in all your behaviors and attitudes, living a flowery and fruitful existence together.  You may find that some of the early behaviors that were perfectly acceptable become not so acceptable with the newly discovered closeness you now share.

Mr. W and I are dealing with that last scenario.  We have had quite a few of the vine-like moments, when we realize we both feel the same way about something, totally get eachother on something, or share a healthy obsession with something wonderful.  Those moments are fantastic.  But then there are the other moments.  When ways we have always been suddenly take on a whole new life under the light of our deepening relationship and newly discovered attitudes.

Mr. W has a habit of interrupting and/or not being an “active listener,” you know the whole looking at the person talking, responding thoughtfully with “uh-huhs” and “yeahs” in all the right spots, that kind of thing.  I’ve realized over the last couple years that people don’t really care about what anyone else has to say.  Most people are more concerned with what they are going to say next to actually listen to you, so when the everyday people interrupt me or are clearly not paying attention to me, I’ve figured out how to let it just roll off my back.  I don’t care that Joe Schmo doesn’t really care about what I’m saying.  Who the hell is he in my life anyway?  But, with the deeper nature of my relationship with Mr. W, it hurts.  He is supposed to care about what I say.  He is supposed to listen and be part of the conversation.  He is supposed to have respect for me enough to not interrupt.  That’s his role.  I open my heart, and he opens his arms to receive it.  At times, he has problems with this, and I end up cranky, which makes him cranky, and we do the roundy-round dance of growing irritation until one of us either blows up or gets over it.  Always fun, that roundy-round dance!

Of course I’m no princess either.  I have a sharp sense of humor (I think that’s the word to describe it.)  I pick (in fun) and I tease (in fun) and I can be a little harsh at times (but really, all in fun).  I don’t intend to be mean or hurtful, and most people (I think) don’t take it that way.  But I’m not in a relationship with “most people” either.  Mr. W used to go back and forth with the teasing and taunting in our early days.  We would laugh and poke fun and it was all good.  But under the light of our deeper feelings, it’s not so good anymore.  I still poke, but I end up hurting his newly exposed soft underbelly, and I need to stop.  That’s my job.  I’m supposed to protect that soft underbelly.  He has opened his heart to me, and I’m not supposed to stab at it here and there.  I’m supposed to welcome it with open arms, protecting it from harm.  I’m kinda sucking at that.  So I poke, and he gets hurt and cranky, so I get cranky… and we are back to the roundy-round dance of growing irritation.

Behaviors that used to be perfectly acceptable, are now not.  Things that used to be appreciated and cherished have become expectations and sources of disappointment.  Attitudes that used to just roll off now get stuck in the feathers causing a nasty irritation.  But I love him, and he loves me and we are meant to be, so we will work and we will try and we will figure out how to live up to our relational duties.  We will not impose unfair expectations on each other.  We will actively appreciate even the smallest moments of sweetness.  We will stumble our way in this dark moment and find the light switch, together.  We will, dammit!

My wonderful, fabulous, super-great fiancee, Mr. W, in all his wonderfulness, did something so super-sweet yesterday that my teeth hurt just a little bit!  After the emotional volcanic eruption of the other night, he said that he “heard me,” and I think he actually did. 

Mr. W took the day off (since my sitter took the day off) to watch my kids.  He had high hopes of home organization, but I figured it would be a day of play and relaxation, not expecting much when I got home.  Boy was I in for a surprise.  I walked in and said hello to all my loved ones, sloppy pizza kisses all around (the kids were eating pizza and ranch).  We had plans to celebrate at a local restaurant with a friend who is graduation college on Saturday, so after my hellos I ran upstairs to quicky change before heading out. 

I walked in our bedroom, and there it was!

…a beautiful desk that is just my style, in a clear space in the room, with my laptop sitting on it, and a comfy new office chair!  (The bedroom is really long, so there is this whole area between the end of the bed and the closets along one wall that is pretty much bare…or was anyway.)  I was ecstatic!  Mr. W came up shortly after to see my reaction, and I hopefully fully expressed my delight.  He explained that he go the desk, but was unsure what I wanted for storage so he held off for my input.

The biggest thing is that he not only listened and held me when I exploded, but he also heard me.  He gave me a space. 

And I call him Mr. Wonderful!

I’m not the best at expressing my feelings.  The commonality in my various bouts with counselors has been that I 1) hold everything in too much, 2) desperately need to find a way to express those pent up feelings, and 3) if I don’t, I’m going to have a breakdown.  Mind you, this part-diagnosis has been steady since my first visit to a “professional” back when I was 14, for reasons having less to do with me and more to do with my parents’ concern with me after their (much needed) break-up. 

Last night I had an epiphany-like moment with Mr. W after a couple days of building on a fight.  And an explosion of emotion ensued.

I’m a cranky person at times.  Yesterday was particularly bad.  I had a rough day at work, entering conflicts with a couple of my resident assholes towards the end of the day.  Mr. W had plans with his kids, as he does every Wednesday, so I knew it was just me and mine after work.  And they started from the moment I picked them up. 

I’m the sort who needs a little downtime in the transition from work to home life.  Yesterday was a sore example of that.  I didn’t get it.  I tried, but it was Mommy-this, and Mommy-that from the moment I walked in the door of daycare, and it just multiplied from there.  By the time Mr. W got home, I had resigned to full on frustration and screaming (never a good moment for me) which of course led to guilt and more frustration over screaming.  He was at a loss at the situation, trying to avoid conflict, keep quiet, and help, although in the wrong way, but he tried. 

Kids in bed, the night went on fairly uneventfully, until we turned of LOST and decided to head to bed…and it started.  That tension.  That half-fighting thing we do so well.  The knowledge that he would not sleep, but instead creep out of bed once he thought I was asleep to head to the computer, leaving me to come find him at about 1130pm, pull a conversation out of him, and end up resolved and back to bed by 2am.  I wasn’t going to let that happen.  We climbed into bed and I made him talk.  And talk we did…and fight…and get frustrated and angry.  I tried to explain, he tried to explain, and we both spun up to  a place of no eye-contact and bitten tongues. 

He made a comment that I was punishing him for all the pent up anger that I don’t take out on the ex-men, and possibly a little for my dad.  He said it’s not fair, and I realized he was right on that note, but I wasn’t angry at anyone…or was I.

And then it happened, my epiphany.

I am angry.  I’m angry at the ex-men.  I’m angry at Mr. W.  I’m angry at just about everyone.  I’m angry because I am jealous.  It’s not fair.  I’m a mom.  I’m a single-mom and pretty much always have been.  Everything I do is for someone else.  My life is not my own.  I don’t get to make choices based on my wants or needs, it’s always about someone else.  First and foremost, my kids, then Mr. W, then my dad and my mom, then everyone else just falls in line.  I don’t get choices.  I don’t get to have anything that is just for me, just because that is what I want.  I don’t get a space, a thing that’s mine, an outlet, a time for me because all my spaces and things and times are wrapped up in someone else and it’s just not fair!  The ex-men have their parents to back them up at every turn, to support them and give them what they need when they need it, to give them whatever breaks they need or want whenever they may-possibly-in-th-sometime-near-future want it.  Mr. W gets his space in the basement, gets to go to the gym for his outlet, gets to work whenever he wants, gets to see his kids whenever he wants, or not hang out with them if that’s what he wants, to take classes and know he will have time to do his work.  No one else has to think of the kids first because it’s my responsibility to bear alone.  So, yes.  I am angry. 

In an effort to share my epiphany with Mr. W, the tears came like a torrent, wracking my body with forced words and ragged breathing.  The whole thing came spilling out of me, uncontrolled, like a volcanic eruption.  It’s like all that emotion and feeling I’d been holding in for however long all came rushing to the surface at once, unbridled and uncontrolled, leaving me struggling to even breathe. 

After my ragged explaination, he held me (the most perfect thing to do at that time…seriously, boys.  If she’s crying, don’t ever just sit there.  Hold her.  Even if she begins to push you away, hold her.) and the tears slowed.  My breath began to normalize again.  My tremors in my chest and body began to subside.  He loves me, completely, unconditionally, (even when I’m a little crazed with snot spewing from my nose) he loves me.

And I love him.  The night ended *ahem* nicely, twice.    And we slept, soundly.  This morning I felt refreshed, although physically a little tired.  My mind and my heart felt cleansed and new again.  Over coffee, he confirmed that he heard me, and that is good.  I love him, too.

*ok, this post has nothing to do with The Raven, or any other ravens for that matter, nor does it have anything to do with actual plates…-oh forget it, just read and bear with me and all my literary, metaphorical madness!

Here I am, being totally useless at work.  I have a week off school, so I don’t even have homework to (not) do.  In trying to find something constructive to occupy my time with (sans actual work, or school, or the ability to just go home) I scheduled an appointment for a Lasik evaluation appointment (free) to find out 1) if I can actually get it, and 2) how much it will cost.  Of course, this will inevitably lead to me actually getting Lasik surgery sometime in the near future I’m sure.  Mr. W and I have been coordinating our calendars/planners/schedules over the last week or so, so I sent him a quick email to add this appointment in. 

He replies, “ok.”  (“only this, and nothing more…”)

So, in true WTF fashion, I ask, WTF??  No questions, no concerns, no inquiries about something that seems as though it is leading towards a large sum of money and, oh, yeah, surgery??

To which he replied, “ok, elaborate.” (“perched and sat, and nothing more…”)

So elaborate I did.  I explained, in detail, the cost, financing, what to expect at the appointment, surrounding schedules with children, and my thoughts about the kids being gone for the summer and that it would be the perfect time to get the surgery. 

And then he started talking about my plate.  (as in, how much is on it.)  I hate this particular euphemism.  After all, my plate is my plate and whatever I put on it is my own business!  But, the thing is, it’s not anymore.  It’s his business too, if only because when if I overload said plate and start to lose my grip on said plate, he’s the one that will swoop in and save said plate before it hits the ground, shattered, and scattering my various plate-held items all about.  He’s that guy.  Yeah, ok, it could possibly be because he knows if I drop my own plate he will undoubtedly be the closest person to me at the time and will suffer the brunt of my demonic wrath and he would rather save himself us me from the pain and suffering that would bring.  But also, because he loves me.  He loves me.  Like, real and true love.  Like it’s supposed to be, all supportive and caring and stuff. 

And I give him a hard time for it. (“Quoth the raven, ‘nevermore’…”)

I have to stop.  I will stop.  He cares, and really, what more could I ask for.  So I told him about my plate, that it is actually a fairly sturdy, pretty big plate.  Besides that, my plate is way more accustomed to handling big meaty items without much wear, as opposed to she-who-shall-not-be-named’s** plate (we are calling his ex that in an effort to completely erase her from our lives and minds, although we both still read her blog, we live in their/her house, and there are just enough similarities between her and I to keep me paranoid…but I digress), which is accustomed to extra light, vegitabl-y things.  I can handle more.  But in my effort to nip any of his attempts to compare her with me or me with her, I find that I end up doing the comparing for him.  *blah!*

So this post has accomplished nothing, just as our round and round conversations about me and my plate have accomplished nothing.  He will keep caring, and I will keep letting him.  But in the meantime I will keep being irritated about his caring, which he will in turn be irritated by.  But he won’t stop caring (and I don’t want him to), and I won’t stop being irritated by it.  It’s a vicious circle, really.  So this is what true love is??     (“this is it, and nothing more…”)

**(“nameless here forevermore…”) 

I’m an only child.  My parents had intended to have more children, which in the end is probably better they didn’t.  (Pretty bad marriage, horribly divorce, etc, etc)  My mom is 4th oldest of 14 (why do poor families continue to have child after child after child??) and my dad is second youngest of 4, so they both came from big families.  Their hopes to continue that trend, at least in the form of one or two more children, were cut short when I was still a baby/toddler and my dad got testicular cancer.  He had seminoma, which if you are going to get cancer, that’s apparently the one to get.  He lost a testicle, and had massive radiation treatment, but came out in the end with only the inability to have more kids (and he lost his fantabulous metabolism that kept him hovering for most of his life way below average weight for his 6’1″ frame.)  I don’t remember any of it, the rush back to the states (we were living in England at the time), the months in the hospital, living with my grandfather in Colorado to be close to my dad, the sickness from the radiation treatment, none of it.  All I know is the stories.  And the fear that cancer will once again touch my life, although that fear was always centered on me.

25 years later, my dad has cancer again.  In the other testicle.

Blood tests and scans show that it hasn’t gone anywhere else (a good thing) and apparently it’s seminoma again (another apparently good thing).  His urologist is trying to schedule the removal asap, which apparently will be an outpatient procedure.  He may not be able to do any more radiation due to the amount he received the first time around, so chemo may, or may not, happen on a small scale.

The thing that worries me is my dad’s heart. (well, worries me more since I am worried about the cancer as well.)  My grandmother died of a heart attack in October of 2004.  While I was on the plane flying to LA for the funeral, my dad played a round of golf to calm his nerves, and had the first of 3 heart attacks he would suffer over the next 4 months.  He has been in and out of the emergency room (probably more than he will ever tell me about) over the years since, mostly due to stress brought on by his relationship with my step-mother.  (You can read all about her here) Apparently, he went to see his cardiologist last week because he wants to start working out again, a request to which his cardiologist quickly responded a resounding NO!  After some blood work, my dad’s levels are high.  I don’t know exactly what these “levels” are, all I know is what should be low is high and what should be high is low and that isn’t a good thing.  He is on the block for another stress test, and probably more blood work to determine what to do about these “levels.”

Now, I asked my dad if his cancer treatment would effect his heart, to which he responded, “no.”  But I can’t shake the feeling he’s keeping something from me.  I offered to come out for his surgery and take care of him, three times, to which he responded, “no.”  Normally my dad jumps at any opportunity for me to visit.  Normally my dad would have already had my tickets booked.  But in light of this, he’s saying, “no.”  I’m concerned.  He said his cardiologist and his urologist are talking and this is all no big deal, but I still have that feeling.  I’m worried and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.  I can’t stop my worrying.  I can’t make him better.  I’m useless in this, and helpless.

This is definitely not the conversation I was planning on having with him.  We haven’t talked in a while, and we were planning on chatting this weekend so I could fill him in on my stress/anxiety/possible up-coming battle over the girl (dozens of posts to detail this in the future, I’m sure), and also so I could finally tell him that I’m getting married, again. I did get those two tid-bits out in the end, with a follow-up conversation planned for Sunday.  He told me to fight for the girl, and he would help (primarily in the financial aspect) as much as possible, which is actually quite a bit.  He also seemed genuinely happy about my engagement, which was only heightened when I informed him it would be a long engagement.  The fact that he seemed happy worries me as well.  Mr. W proposed on our trip in February, and I’ve waited this long to tell my dad because I was worried about his reaction.  Is he really happy?  And if so, why?  I expected concern in his voice.  I expected disapproval, or at the least good-natured ribbing about me jumping into another one, or being taken advantage of, or something of that sort, laced with genuine concern about me jumping into another one, or being taken advantage of, or something of that sort.  But he was smiling, I could hear it.  Why?  He hasn’t even met Mr. W yet, and while I have talked extensively about him to my dad, he would normally take my swooning as my silly-girl-in-love-ness.  It’s hard to even say (type) it, but is he happy because he’s worried he won’t be around much longer to take care of me and he doesn’t want me to be alone?  I’m worried.

Maybe I will get some answers, or more information on Sunday…but knowing my dad…probably not.

I’m worried.

I’m in a rut.  Actually, a number of ruts.  Just about every facet of my life right now involves a rut.  The boy, Mr. W, work, personal growth, health, inspiration…with the upcoming ruts of school and ex#2 on the horizon.  Even in writing this, I am feeling very ruttish.

Basically, I feel like crap all the time.  Migraines, upset stomach, sore joints, constantly tired.  I’m eating like crap.  I’ve gained weight (size 4 to a size 8-ish) in like a month, so literally nothing in my closet fits.  I can’t sketch.  I can’t write.  I can’t bring myself to pick up my camera.  Work sucks more and more every day.  Mr. W and I are a little on the shaky side.  And the boy, well, he’s five.*  All these things are affecting all the other areas of my life, which in turn affect the affecting areas until it snowballs out of control. 

And now I feel like I’m whining.  *argh!*

Mr. W and I had another bout of  “having it out” yesterday on our long drive up the road to pick up the boy.  We yelled and then went into silent mode…never fun.  We came out ok in the end though…after about 2 hours of the above.  At least we both want this relationship, want to make it work, want to work on it.  That’s a start. 

So here are our starting points (which coincidentally we are totally failing at already):

• Get to bed earlier. Aim for 9pm, hoping to be sleeping by 945pm. (Last night we went to sleep around 1030)
• Get up earlier. No more rushing in the morning.  (3 snoozes had me up at 535am…10 minutes earlier than normal…I guess that’s a start…)
• Work out in the morning.  He bought me a Wii Fit a couple weeks ago, so that’s my goal.  He will resume his morning gym routine.  (Of course this means we both have to be up and working out by 5am…you can see how that worked out for us this morning above)
• Eat better.  Fruits, veggies, eating home-cooked, well-balanced meals, and little junk food.  (Yesterday we had Starbucks for breakfast and Pizza Hut for lunch.  This morning I hit Dunkin Donuts…although I only ate half of the fat pill bacon, egg, and cheese bagel…)
• Communicate. Here is where we really struggle.  We re-implimented safe words.  His is “mean,” for use when my tone begins to stray to the dark side and I, for lack of a better term, hurt his feelings (he is not a wuss in any way, but I can be pretty mean at times without even realizing it and I need to be called on it).  Mine is “explain,” for use when he’s asking the same question over and over, despite not getting the information he is looking for with said question.  We shall see…
• Chore list. We touched on this briefly.  The state of our chaotic, cluttered (yet very clean) house is a root to all the stress and tension for all of us.  We plan on decluttering by tossing or donating what can be gotten rid of.  This will be a challenge for the both of us, as we both tend to be rather rat-ish about our stuff.  Besides that, we will set up a basic chore list (dishes, laundry, etc) to avoid any future eruptions about the dishes being left in the sink (both assuming the other is going to do them) and the lack of clean underwear. (side note: the boy has only one clean pair of pants right now…which he is wearing…and the list hasn’t been accomplished yet…hmmm…)
• Trust. I have trust issues.  He has trust issues.  Our individual issues are very different, but have the same result: lack of communication, assumptions all around, and general crankiness/fighting.  Not fun.  I think if we work on all the other areas, the trust will follow naturally.  We don’t really have a specific plan for trust so I hope my thoughts turn out to be correct…again…we shall see. 

If nothing else, we love each other and are willing to work at this, together.  My issues, his issues, our issues, together. 

*The girl is not mentioned in this post, because, well, I don’t know.  No issues with her as of late.  No real issues with her father either, although one is coming.  She is my bright spot at the moment…but give her time, she’ll join the pack soon enough I’m sure.  She’ll learn a new way to say “no” or develop a case of swine flu, or possibly just decide she wants to be five too.

I have a “crazy neighbor lady,” or at least that’s what Mr. W calls her, as would most who came across her on a bad day.  She screams at her daughters, at her grand kids, at nothing.  She beats on the walls or whatever else is in her house.  We live in townhouses, so we can hear her clearly through the walls.  Sometimes they are harsh words she is screaming, and sometimes it’s just screaming.  Not the scream of fear or physical pain, but rather something darker.  A strong, almost gutteral scream that sends chills through me.

She has been through a lot in her life: loss of loved ones, betrayal by those she trusted, and depression.  She says she’s trying to get her life back together.  Has been trying.  But still she screams.  She had help at one time, in the form of those happy little pills and a new someone she trusted.  But he convinced her to stop taking them, that she didn’t need them, and then he betrayed her too.  And tonight seems to be another bad night for her.

I worry about her.  I understand her.  I want to help her.  I’ve been there.

I’ve had my bouts with depression, the last one bringing out that voice, that scream, that sound that is so familiar when I hear it echo through the walls of my home now.  I never knew I had it in me, but I do and it scares me at times.  I took the happy little pills and things got a little better.  I found my support in Mr. W and things got a lot better.  But the struggle still exists for me, probably always will.  My next round of betrayal hasn’t come, and may never, so I may be able to stay off the pills…maybe.

I remember how I felt in those moments.  The helplessness.  The overwhelming feelings.  The total loss of control.  I remember my screams and how it terrified me.  And on nights like this one, when I can hear her through the walls, the feeling returns just a little.  It angers me to think that so many are content to look down on her and dismiss her pain.  “She’s nuts.”  Yes, in all probability she has a chemical imbalance in her brain which makes her predisposed to depression and inhibits her ability to deal or function as a so-called “normal” person does, but that doesn’t make her crazy.  She’s in pain.  She needs help.  She needs support which I know she isn’t getting.

The worst part of it all?  I can’t bring myself to help her.  I’m afraid of her in a way.  I’m afraid of her reaction to me “butting in.”  I’m afraid of the reprecussions of it all.  And I’m afraid of the memories of myself.  So I sit, and listen, and hope with all  my might that someone will help her…and I’m ashamed that I’m not strong enough or brave enough to be that someone.

I have been a working adult for the last 10 years, beginning with the military, then background investigator, then on to my current job.  While I haven’t yet fully experienced my “dream job,” work has always been something I enjoyed.  An escape from my home life.  A place that I could find 8 hours of peace in the chaos that is my life.  That is until recently.

When I joined the military, I was going through a massive depression stage brought on primarily by my abortion.  It was my first real bout of depression, and while joining the military served as an escape just in itself, going to work provided me with a daily distraction that helped to get me through.  I lived in the dorms, hundreds of miles from my family and friends, so when I wasn’t at work, I was alone…not really a great thing for me.  So work was my escape. 

When I married my first husband, and the problems started, work became my escape from the stress of my home-life.  I could be me at work, something that was cause for conflict at home.  I could have adult conversations without fights.  I was important.  I was doing something.  This continued through my second marriage, with the added escape from my children and the massive responsibility of being a mom.  Don’t get me wrong, I love my children, and I love my time with them.  But I could never be a SAHM.  I need adult interaction.  I need logic and reason in my life.  I need things that fulfill the other parts of me not connected to being a mom in order to feel like a whole person.  Not that SAHMs aren’t whole people, this is just me I’m referring to here.  I have the utmost respect for SAHMs.  I envy their patience and overall mothering skills.  I just couldn’t handle it.

Towards the end of my second marriage, I landed my current job.  It was the intense distraction I so sorely needed in that end.  I was training.  I was working.  I had multiple adults around to talk to who liked to talk. (something that was missing from my investigator job)  And when that marriage ended, it was the escape from my failures.  It was the escape from the pain of possibly losing my son.  It was the escape from the pain of being alone once again when the kids were with their fathers.  It was the greatest escape.  Then Mr. W came into my life.

Mr. W became my escape, and the scales began to tip.  I began enjoying my time at home almost as much as my time at work.  Sure there was still a lot of stress and drama in my life, but he was making it seem less difficult.  He gave me a distraction, something to be happy about, thankful for.  I didn’t need work as fervently as I had for the last 8 years.  Then the on-again-off-again started with him and work became a less desirable place to be.   We worked together, our desks literally next to each other, so in the times we were split up work became the last place in the world I wanted to be.  The tides were turning.

Finally, we sorted it all out, and were happy again and work became more of a nuisance.  The assholes began to rear their ugly heads.  All I wanted was the peace of home.  The peace of being with him…but then he left for Iraq.  Once again, work was my escape despite the assholes and the frustrations involved with it.  Work wasn’t the big empty house I was now living in.  His house.  The house that so easily allowed me to wallow in my sadness of his departure. 

But now Mr. W’s back.  The boy is home almost full time.  We have a family.  We have a home.  We are whole again and work, well, work sucks!  The assholes are being worse than ever.  There is a giant cloud of negative energy that is parked in my office, fed by my co-workers, growing, pulsing, and raining down more negativity on us all.  None of us enjoy coming here anymore.  There is little conversation.  There is little laughter.  There are few smiles.  The office is filled with hate and discontent, and the cloud keeps growing. 

My friend, Y, and I were talking about it the other day, and we find ourselves physically tired from all the negativity.  It’s draining.  It’s painful.  It’s toxic.  We joked about getting some sage and smudging the space, but of course we have smoke detectors…so maybe not.  I want to help change the energy.  I want to bring peace back to our little group, but I often find myself caught up in the cloud and actually feeding it more.  It’s like a sickness we can’t escape.  It’s like a fast-moving plague overcoming us, ever worsening, ever growing, ever spreading.  I see a major storm coming.  I see myself being involved.  I have had to bite my tongue too often lately for fear of saying something I shouldn’t.  I’m worried about those who won’t bite their tongue.  What will come spilling out of their mouths, fueled by anger.  What the resulting backlash will be.  I see it coming, and I feel helpless to stop it, and all I want to do is crawl back in bed, at home, until the impending storm passes…

…at least I hope it passes…