A Fine Mess

A theme that has been discussed ad nauseum on this blog is the total mess of a life that I have.  With the recent twist of having a sick mother added, this piss cocktail is just perfect.  I'm fugmangled (still working to keep that Lenten promise not to curse).

I had a bad argument with the husband last night, fueled by a very good Belgian beer that loosened my tongue to express my sentiment that the husband is, in many ways, just as selfish as the members of my family that he is so fond of casting himself as more supportive than.  My proof was his declaration that if a certain deadline was not met, then he would not participate in the activity.

I told him that he was putting me in an uncomfortable spot.  He felt that his decision was going to help.  We disagreed.  The discussion continued in the car and again, I stated that it just seemed that whenever these ultimatums are made, my feelings are not generally considered.  That while I am critical of my family for acting in a way that places me in a very uncomfortable place (because their denial, selfishness, obstinance, etc. rarely considers the impact and toll this is all taking on me), it does not help that he expresses his discontentment in ways that put the blame on me as well.

I will not recount how the argument ended, but I will focus on how I feel today.  Because for the life of me, I am sitting here trying to figure out why I have not walked out on everything--my family, my obligations, my marriage--EVERYTHING.  Clearly since it would take extreme overreaction on my part to get anyone's attention anyway.

Two months ago, there was some drama at a meeting I attended and as a result, the event at issue was a smashing success.  And it should have been, but for my stuff, not nearly the same type of response.  Even if I did cry (which I did over another matter), my tears move anthills, not mountains.  And I show up and do my very best, often ALONE without much help from anyone else.  I don't want a parade.  I just want someone to know that I give it the best that I have without the manipulative theatrics, and just would like for it to mean more than just the occasional pat on the back.

Take last year when my mother-in-law passed.  I never said a word about how I felt completely slighted by my in-laws, but especially my own husband.  I took the bus to New York to be with him.  I stayed up half the night packing for him.  I wrote his mother's obituary and planned the funeral program.  I had to miss most of the repast because I had to take my brothers to the ferry.  And I spent that night alone in her apartment because he went out with his best friend.  NOT once has he even asked how I felt about any of this.  He just took it for granted that I did not mind.

And here is the kicker--I feel guilty about even expressing how I feel. 

And that is the story of my life.  I do the best I can to be present, to give it my best and I have nothing to show for it.  I am supposed to be content with a warm fuzzy glow or with the illusory promise of heavenly reward.  What crap.

I don't even know how to be selfish.  What else would I do if I were not taking care of my mother?  I'd be sitting around writing pieces like this about feeling guilty that I left her care to someone else.  As much as I need professional help to tackle this house, I would feel guilty about having to pay someone to clean up after me.  I love my niece, but I want my own family; clearly that is not going to happen for me at 38 years old and counting without the miracles of modern medicine.  And since I'm being so honest, I need the help of modern medicine because things are not working the natural way at all.  I want to make my own money, but I have failed at every turn--jobs and businesses alike and for the same stupid reasons.  Because I always have work to do for the things that need to get done, there are not that many invitations that come my way. 

I am a miserable.  I am a failure.  I am a miserable failure.  That is something I do well, but again, no one notices.

Circles

We were doing very well for a time, but then there was Friday...

And after listening to the most deluded monologue of ostrich-head-in-the-sand-because-the-truth-is-just-too-unpleasant-to-accept craziness, I am now wracked with doubt.  Maybe I am the deluded one?

A moment to review the last few weeks...we started a new medication and despite a few bumps things seemed very promising.  We were stablizing, and though I have to admit that a part of me had begun to experience the could-it-be euphoria that almost always means that things are too good to be true, it felt great to get a lot done last week without any major hiccups.

Then it was time for a refill and the decision was made to consolidate two doses into one.  And another decision was made to administer those doses in the morning.

On Friday, my mother walked home from the hair salon after waiting 15 minutes for me to come get her.  She denounced me as her daughter.  I left my brother's car running on Minnesota Avenue.  I think the guy who stopped to offer to help us probably was a cop who was trying to justify his gut instinct to have me arrested for assault. 

Then I took my niece to the museum to see the dinosaurs.  Today I took Mom to see a Monet.

This is taking a toll.  I gave up cursing for Lent, so that has meant more alcohol.  I refilled my anxiety prescription and have been using it.  I worry about my blood pressure and what would happen if I dropped dead--what in the world would I wear to my grave?

I have no other way of expressing how this is making me feel except for off-beat and inappropriate humor.  I have to carry on because no one is all that interested in feeling my pain.  Not even the folks who are supposed to be enduring this same nightmare.  Which is why I am questioning whether I am actually caught up in the Matrix...or in the Adjustment Bureau.

Here is the thing--I've been having my doubts about whether I am forcing acceptance of something that might not be as severe as I have imagined.  But every time I get through one phase, I get some independent confimation that no, I am not just some masochist who hates her mother and wants her to be sick so that everyone in the family can depend on me to make up for the fact that I probably will not have anything else going on in my life for the foreseeable future.  This is really not about me, is it?

But I swear, every single time I think we've turned a corner...we have, but it is a wall, just like in a maze. 

Better yet, I feel like a dog that keeps chasing its tail.  I see it, I can almost bite it, but I fail.  Of course, if I actually succeeded, I'd be biting myself in the a$$.