Tag Archives: parenting

Never good enough

Once you are wrong, you’ll always be wrong and can never do anything right.  And if you’re right in his eyes, you can never do anything wrong.

I’m in the first category.  Ever since I was little, everything I did was wrong.  There was exasperated sighs, hands thrown up in the air, yelling, shouting, pointing.  Always, whatever I did, whatever I tried, I was wrong.

I didn’t put my shoes where they were supposed to be.
I left smudges on the mirror.
I threw a wet sock down the clothes chute and it got all the other clothes wet and what was I thinking?  Do I even think?  Ever?

I left the light on.  I shut the door too hard.  I couldn’t remember the difference between a phillips head and a flat head.  I didn’t push in my chair.  I move too fast.

I took too long.  I put us behind.  I didn’t pay attention.  My head was filled with nonsense and always somewhere else instead of where it should be.

So now, here I am again, feeling totally inept in my adult life.  I just got a job, proud of myself, and immediately, it’s:  ‘well, that’s good, that will give you time to look for a real job.’  Lights out on any shred of self-esteem I might still have had.

And now the big stuff is coming out.  For a while, there was a lull.  But now the ish has really hit the fan, so to speak.  He broke.  He called us out on all of our flaws, all of our problems, hollered and shouted and pointed and said, ‘you, you, you.’  Should have.  Don’t you think?  I’m at the end of my rope.  Lost cause.  What do you expect?

Part of me feels ashamed.  All of me feels guilty.  And responsible.  I listen to every word as though it is absolute truth.  He is absolutely right and I am absolutely wrong.  About all of it.  I’m wrong.  Wrong, wrong, wrong.  Wrong for not working harder.  Wrong for not listening.  Wrong for making bad decisions.  Wrong for not figuring it out.  Not working hard enough.  Not caring enough.  Not doing enough.  Not moving fast enough.  Wrong at every move.

I’ll never be right.  I’ll never, ever get it right.  No matter what I do or how hard I try, I will always, inevitably, be wrong.



Dull Fuzzy Fog

I got the job.  They called me the same day.

All the stuff I was alluding to last night (in my last post) is right up at the forefront now.  There’s not denying it.  Here’s the basics:  marriage in shambles, finances in disarray, family breaking apart, personal mental health going down the tubes quickly.

I should be thrilled that I got hired.  But I feel nothing.  I’m in a dense, heavy fog, like I’ve been sedated.  It’s not just tiredness.  When I’m so exhausted and sleepy that I can barely walk to my bed, as soon as I lay down I’m wide awake with thoughts.

They don’t go away.  None of this is going away until it is dealt with.


I don’t have the answers.  I quite honestly don’t know what to do.  And I’m so godawful tired that I can’t think clearly whatsoever.  Any ideas?


So I’m in this place.

I intend to get right down to it and prepare for this interview tomorrow.  But instead, I sent a few texts.  Then I talked on the phone.  For an hour.  And a half.  Then I made my kids a snack.  And put them to bed.  And read them a book.

All of this with a meaty intention of getting down to it, getting right down to it and preparing, researching, reading, investigating, searching all about this place I had applied to that happened to call me back and say, ‘hey, we’d like to meet with you’ and here I am and the day is finally almost here and I’m going to be spit-shiny ready with knowledge of all things knowable about the job and who I am and what I have to offer and everything nice and tight and perfect.

And then I spent some time searching for my son’s library book.  Because his need for it was urgent and he said if he didn’t give it back tomorrow that we’d have to pay for it.   And I’m not paying for some rinky-dinky book he picked up that’s been looked at and chewed on and probably touched 10,000 times over the course of 15 years that it’s been in his school’s library.

And I couldn’t find it.

So then I toasted a bagel and put cream cheese on it and ate it.  And then I picked up the book I’d been reading and smoked some cigarettes out in the garage while reading the book.  And the book is about the author writing about writing.  And so here I am, really ready to get right down to it, buckle down and lean into it and really get focused on this preparing.

But when you read a book about a writer writing about writing, it’s kind of a tricky thing.  Because writing is not something I find myself doing much of these days.  Maybe it’s cause I’m avoiding.  Not just this interview preparation, but alot of things.  Alot-alot-alot of things.  Things I’m avoiding right now as I write because I’m only referring to them as “alot-alot-alot” of things to emphasize the point that they are really big things and there are many of them but still I resist specifying what those really big, many numbered things are.

Because if I put them on paper (so to speak), then I have to move to the dealing phase.  The recognizing, acknowledging, then handling these many numbered big important things.  And as much as I’m ready to buckle down and handle this interview tomorrow, I’m not even remotely in the realm of pretending or fooling myself into believing that I might just be even the tiniest bit interested in diving into all THAT.

Therefore, to avoid the avoiding, I’ll focus on getting ready for tomorrow.  Wish me luck on my great, big interview.  I’m sure I’ll write about it.

Wrong Way On a One-Way Track

Related image

FYI:  This is not actually me.

I feel like I’m headed toward a breakdown.  Like a runner who’s running a bit too fast and starting to lose traction but can’t slow down soon enough.  This is the exact scenario I work so hard to avoid, and yet – here I am.

Starting to flail my arms and trying to maintain my balance, but who am I kidding?  We all know I’m about to fall.  And I’m going to smack the ground.  Hard.

I could write about how hard it is as a mom with bipolar disorder.  I could write about how my husband tries to support me but we’re having marital problems.  I could write about how I’m terrified that my oldest son will develop bipolar disorder and my worst fear is that one day he will commit suicide.

I know my coping skills.  I am to:

Image result for running and almost falling

This is just a pretty picture that reminded me of a place I used to go to on my dad’s farm.  It was an old train track in a wooded area behind the acres he farmed.  When Mom got sick and there was no one to take care of me, I’d ride with him in the tractor.  If I got bored he’d let me out at one end of the field and I’d wander down the grassed-up tracks till he came back around to pick me back up again.

– write
– take walks
– utilize my support system
– stick to a routine of regular sleep
– eat healthy

I haven’t seen her since…October?  That is when I realized that my insurance isn’t paying for my visits (and won’t until February).  This is what stirred up problems for me last time, too – I wasn’t seeing a psych nor a therapist for months leading up to my breakdown.

Tomorrow I’ll call the office.  I’ll make an appointment.  I’ll find a way to pay for it later.  I have to see someone.

Summer Life

Hot.  That was the temperature last week.  My kids were begging me to break out the water balloons and the off-brand slip-and-slide and the water hose.  I resisted at first, not wanting to be bothered running around outside, getting wet and fighting the heat.

Surprisingly, I started to have FUN.  I can’t even remember the last time I had fun in all caps.

Winter was long and it was brutal.  Two words:  sump pump.  For those of you unfamiliar with a sump pump (i.e. anyone NOT living in the country), it is a pump placed inside a hole in your basement that continuously runs to keep your basement from flooding with water.  If it shuts off, your basement floods.

So during a horrible winter/ice/sleet/freeze-your-ass-off storm, the power went out. My dad – who I am indescribably grateful to for always being there for us in my lifetime of child, teen, and adult emergencies – brought a gas-powered pump.  Then we (me) had to shoot the water out of the basement with a big hose.  Someone (me) had to hold the hose out in the freezing cold and shoot cold water out into the blowing wind and piling snow drifts.

I did this on the hour every hour for 48 hours.

So even though I don’t like summer’s heat, this year is a little different.  My sister-in-law (another one of those persons who always seems to be there in my (emotional) emergencies), came over, and the water fun began.  The kids loved chasing me, my sister-in-law, and their daddy around the yard smacking us with water balloons that broke on contact, drenching us in the clean, cool, fresh water from the well, as we screamed and shouted and pretended we didn’t want to get soaked.

The day wound down with some trampoline jumping and sunning, along with a BBQ and an adults-only bonfire under a glowing moon and a sky full of twinkling stars.



Brutally Honest Breakdown

The nitty-gritty of my perpetual excuses for NOT ever doing ANYTHING:

First, get the kids on the bus.  Yes! There. I accomplished my thing for the day.

Second, prepare a list of all of my highest ambitions for the day, like folding seventeen loads of laundry and washing ALL (and seriously, even the dirty pots I hid in the oven) of the dishes (we don’t even have any clean forks.)

Third, eat cereal while watching my YouTube shows.

Fourth, go in garage and smoke cigarettes while watching my YouTube shows.

Fifth, slowly make my way to the couch.  And here’s where all the Not Doing begins.  Instead of folding the laundry, I lay down on top of it and cover up with a nice, warm blanket and remind myself of how I was sick.  With a cold. Three weeks ago. (Cough, cough.)

I blow my nose a few times and based on the snot-ness I’m sure it’s better if I get some rest before I start my strenuous day.

I nod off.  For four hours. Which brings me to lunchtime.  At which point my husband will inevitably call and I will pretend the sleep out of my voice and act as though I’ve been Doing.

I eat, then back to the couch. Nauseous. Must have been something I ate.

Watch my favorite tv show, then grudgingly get up to prepare a snack for kids getting off the bus soon.

I am a disgrace to house-wifey-ing. I am ashamed and embarrassed of this post. I know how hard everyone else is working; I used to be one of you.

Here’s the beacon of light and it’s sincere and it’s true: when I get them off the bus, I’m 100% in-the-game.  Playing, homework, dinner prep, making memories, sharing, caring, being there fully, all together.

I might be completely useless from 7:15 to 3:42, but until they are cuddled in, warm in their beds, I am giving them my all.

And that’s my Brutally Honest Breakdown.





Letter for Help

I’m really stressing over these next five days with the kids. Honestly all I want to do is check out. I’m not going to be able to take care of anyone because I’m struggling to even take care of myself right now.

I know I should stop thinking about escaping and should instead think of solutions. I need to prepare lists and things to do with the kids and ideas of how to handle the breakdowns that are inevitably going to happen.

Can you help me to do that? I feel like I should be able to do that myself, especially with all these stupid fucking meds I’m on but I really can’t think outside the box right now (or even inside the box.)

I feel horribly guilty that I can’t get a grip lately. I hate this mental illness so much. I often think if you had known what you were getting into you never would have married me.

I feel like I burden you with worry and stress because of all my fucking non-problem problems.


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