In a Moment of Sheer and Utter Honesty

For most of my life, I have suffered a deep, slow, brooding kind of suffering. Internal struggles are a significant part of my daily routine. I spend most days wondering “what if,” wondering if X, Y, or Z was different, would I continue to suffer? If I had plenty of money, would I continue to feel guilty so often about nothing? If I had the perfect career, would I continue to regularly dislike myself? If I could be a stay at home mom and got involved in things I find meaningful, would I continue to have fledgling confidence?

Sometimes I wonder how the rest of the world sees me, especially when I don’t always do the right, most polite, or most sincere thing. Sometimes, I just don’t have the energy to do what I think is best. I often wonder if my friends worry about me or think, “oh, she’s just that way” or "Cathy's just always been like that." But I'm not "like that." Or at least I don’t want to be. I want to be the person I envision myself being, but I just seem to find it impossible to get there. Apparently, this is what this depression that afflicts all the women in my family is doing to me. Harnessing me, keeping me from getting up and living the exuberant life I want to live.

Every day I wake up tired.

I spend most of my days at work not liking myself, how I’m doing my job, or what I’m doing at all.

I spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to change my life, but I never end up with any actual plans. Go back to school? Get another job? Hope to win the lottery? Whatever. It seems that no matter what changes, I’ll still live in this gray haze.

I am holding in tears and faking being well adjusted most of the day.

I feel like I’m becoming one of those angry and belligerent people who is never a pleasure to be around.

When I get home, for the most part, I don’t talk to my husband about my feelings. The only time it comes up is when I have a REALLY bad day, and I explode in a fit of tears and blame him for not caring about me. It’s completely irrational, wrong, and unfair, but it’s the way my feelings often express themselves.

I spend time with my son, and choke back tears much of the time I’m with him. The tears are partially because of my love for him and how truly wonderful he is, but mostly they are due to anger and sadness because I really only get to spend about 2 hours with him each day in the evening. Weekends are nice, but too short. (I know this is the same old working mom rant I continue to complain about, but it’s always nagging at me) I feel like I am missing his life and it totally pisses me off. I am jealous when he says “da da” and reaches for him instead of me. Now, I know that children go through mommy phases and daddy phases, but I don’t think it’s just coincidence that this started happening the week my husband started watching him each day at home.

I know that I am not alone in this thing called depression. I know that millions of people deal with it daily and millions of people seek treatment. My mother, sister, maternal aunts and grandmother ALL suffer from this disease and most are medicated for it. I used to think medication was not the answer; I thought my sister was weak for taking medication, but now I’m beginning to understand that for some, it might be necessary. I am ready to do something about it and quit denying that something might really be wrong with me. I’m ready to face the fact that I have been angry with myself and the world (for no reason really) for the past 20 years. I am ready to get on with life. Rather than imagining a brighter future or a someday when (fill in the blank with illogical desire here) happens, I want to find a way to feel satisfied with today and yesterday and look forward to tomorrow. I am on my way; the next step is treatment for this mean, nasty, and suffocating disease.

Weary

I worked late last night because of an event we had at the school. And boy am I tired. Driving home at almost 10:00, I got flashbacks of working in my high stress long hours job, and I wondered how I was ever capable of getting out of bed each morning. I guess I just got accustomed to working late hours regularly, and that might explain why I used to be a complete bitch most of the time. My routine existed of schlepping myself out of bed each morning, getting ready for work (tossing on whatever clothes were comfortable because after a while I stopped caring), heading to the office, project managing proposals for the entire day (hardly ever taking lunch break), coming home any time between 7:00 and midnight (sometimes even later), flopping on the couch, tossing back a few drinks to ease the pain, going to bed to do it all over again. Yes, that lifestyle made me a completely enraged depressed bitch.

So last night, while driving home and remembering the not so good old days, I was grateful to know that this particular evening was a one time only gig. It was a special event to introduce a wonderful new archive to the public and get feedback on how our team can make it even better. It was fun, inspiring, and overall, a nice experience. But, the fact that I HAD to be there did put a bit of a damper on things.

Not only did I work a 13 hour day, but because of the long work day, I only got to see my baby for about 15 minutes at 7:30 yesterday morning. It was hard not getting to see him in the evening and kiss and hug him and ask him about his day. I did not get to assist with his bath or cuddle him in those final moments before he fell asleep. I also missed what the Professor described as a landmark occasion, when C-Dog Baby drained a sippy cup of juice and water for the first time ever. He usually just slurps a little and looks at us as if to say, “Look! I took a sip!” But yesterday, the Professor reported that he tilted the little cup back and sucked it dry. For the first time. And I missed it.

Now I know that such an event is not a monumental occasion. It’s not like he said his first coherent word or took his first step. But I hate that I missed it just the same. It is a moment in his life, a first, that will never happen again. This brings me to an even bigger sadness/regret/whatever you want to call it – I wonder what other special firsts I am missing while I sit in front of a computer all day in an office with horrible air circulation wishing I was somewhere else.

C-Dog Baby spends most of his time awake with people I hardly even know. I feel like they may possibly even understand my child more than I do because they spend almost every one of his conscious moments watching him, witnessing those small events that probably do not even seem all that special in their eyes. Each day when I pick him up from daycare, they say, “He did so well today!” “He’s making a lot of progress.” “He had a really good day.” Now, I know they mean well and want to report that he’s happy and well cared for. But what I really want to know is what made his day a good day? What happened to elicit a report of good progress? I know I can ask for details, but really, these women, like me, just want to get out of there and get home to their own families. And, when I actually do take the time to prod for details, I get very vague responses. In essence, it really doesn’t matter what the response might be anyway because all I really want is to be the witness of progress at each and every moment.

See what being tired does to me?