Rock Bottom

These are the lowest moments. When I realize that my deliberate, desperate attempts to avoid becoming the model of womanhood I saw in my mother growing up have failed. I've circled around and landed in the exact circumstances that made her miserable. Uprooted and lonely surrounded not by your own friends and family -- or even mutual friends of you and your husband -- but by people that are his and only his. And you're always on the outside, playing this secondary Mrs. role instead of being considered on your own merits. And there's expectations, unspoken, about your house and your clothes and your hair and your ... class.

And I get so scared. Because I know I'm not the woman I used to be, already. This place is grinding down my soul.

Here, he is his better self. But I am my worst. Morose and standoffish and depressed and sullen. Soon, it'll be too much. The sensitivity and worry will harden into resentment. Then he'll lash out. And then, one day, he'll realize that I have become an albatross.

I feel like this is some kind of ghoulish epiphany. I know exactly how my mother felt and I know exactly why she has become the woman she is. There's no way to truly be happy if you're not emotionally grounded in the place where you live. And without that grounding, there's no connecting to anything or anyone. Because you don't want to be around long enough to give a fuck about them.

But you can't leave. It would tear every fiber of your being, because that's how deeply you love him. You just. Can't. Won't. Leave.

This is hell. Stronger women than I have been driven nearly mad. God help me. I am going to lose everything.

Old Photos

I copied a disk filled with very old family photos. And I see that once, my parents were happy. And happy together. In love, even. And then, slowly, almost ghostlike, my father is gone. From the pictures and from our home. What happened, I wonder? Did the shine wear off? Did we somehow diverge from his expectations of childhood? Was it simply because we are female? Sometimes I think that in the everyday fight to provide for his family, he forgot to nurture his own. Making a living isn't the same as making a life. Or so I'm told by a church billboard.

But my mother. Was always there. She is the reason I am, and the reason I am who I am, for better or worse. Even the hang-ups and the quirks are a connection, a reassurance that there is someone out there who will always open her doors to me, but more importantly will always open her heart.

But don't be fooled. She's not a pushover by any means. Let's just say ... my mother has stared into the abyss, and the abyss flinched. I want to be a mother just like her. I hope one day Cameron will look at this and tell me, "Yes, Mom. You were." That will be the greatest honor of my life.

Regression

I am, to put it bluntly, freaking the fuck out. I'm questioning everything about my relationship and my marriage and it's completely unnecessary and yet ... my brain can't stop running through all the old patterns.

I'm not pretty enough. I'm not skinny enough. Smart enough, thoughtful enough, interesting enough. I'm not working enough nor bringing in enough money. I'm a poor excuse for a wife. I mean, hell, I'd cheat on me. Why wouldn't he want to? Surrounded by smart, interesting, successful, beautiful people all day? People who are engaged in the world around them, who don't sit at home all day popping pills and having baby-talk conversations and fretting about developmental milestones while covered in spit-up. People who are far more worthy of his attention than I am.

I guess I need to ask why? Why doesn't he want to come home? Why would he rather stay at work until all hours? What can I do to change these though patterns that have me doubting everything about myself and my life?

Random realizations.

I don't care enough about myself not to smoke. And that has to change.
One day, my son will realize that I'm not infallible. And my heart will break.