Thursday, March 15, 2007

It's not you, it's me

I think I might have a problem. I think it might not be all Mr. Long-Suffering's fault. I think I might have some complicity in this mess, but I have no idea how to fix it. I think I might be a tad more than sad, possibly bordering into clinical territory. It's been 6 weeks and I don't think I have gone longer than 26 hours without crying. Some days, I can barely go an hour. Today is one of those days.
I took Chuckles for a scenic ride to an out-of-the-way mailbox for nap. When I got home, I put laundry into the washer and proceeded to fill it with my tears and I haven't stopped yet. It's been 45 minutes and I can't stop crying. That's not good. In fact, I feel a tiny bit hopeless, and I am starting to understand some very unpleasant truths. I want to get hurt (don't worry, I won't actually hurt myself), but I'd like to be mildly injured, stabbed perhaps, so that I could go to the hospital and get "fixed" because that's what they do there, right? You go in broken and come out a day later all fixed - just like with my appendicitis. I am starting to think that hating my husband might be some form of anger transferrence wherein I actually am not very happy with myself.
Am I having a nervous breakdown, some form of a mid-life crisis, delayed post-partum depression, or something else entirely (like low blood sugar, probably not since I just devoured a stack of granola bars as tall as one Thomas the Tank Engine on top of a Fisher Price dump truck)?
Every morning, I wake up and vow I will be a better person today. I will clean teh house and put away the toys and make dinner and get the boy to nap without a ride in teh car and balance the checkbook and vacuum the couch cushions and finish the taxes, and every day, when my big opportunity comes at (car-gotten) nap time, I wimp out and check email and do Sudoku until 3:35 when I realize nap is almost over and I run around tidying up like madwoman. I can't concentrate, I hate everything, I procrastinate, I cry, and I am completely unproductive (although in my defense, when Chuckles is awake, I am the model of a perfect, attentive Stepford-esque mother).
So, I gave myself three weeks from the beginning of Daylight Saving Time to get better before I called my doctor, but right now, 2.5 more weeks of this sounds like 16 million bajillion years. I feel like I have been sad for x times 19 months, where x is a variable that is really, really big.
And I think I am not thinking particularly clearly since I keep googling things about how to end my marriage painlessly. Although, right now, I am quite sure I don't want a divorce (because, my god, I have no job, how can I pay for a lawyer, let alone support myself, and really, I think my husband is a pretty good guy - just perhaps not aware of my inner turmoil).

So, I have to make a plan, because I always feel better with a plan.

  1. Tonight after Grey's Anatomy, I must confess the whole, horrible, most embarassing mess to my husband.
  2. Schedule counseling.
  3. Invite my dad and his family for corned beef and cabbage on St. Pat's Day, because really, on the outside, I look completely functional and a small dinner party for 10 won't make me any more stressed than I am already and will give me something to look forward to.

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