A wise person suggested I keep a private journal for some of what’s in my head. I pointed out that I already have a place for all my secret thoughts, and it lies between my ears. I spend a lot of time in my head. Too much time, frankly.
Do I write about the most personal side of me because I need feedback? Do I write it so that other people know that they aren’t alone? Do I write it because it’s some form of exhibitionism? Do I write it because I’m a little fucked up in the head and don’t know when to be quiet? I have a feeling the answer is yes to all of those.
Something is wrong with me. Something different. Something that has crept up on me, and while I guess I could blame it on the grief, I don’t want to do that. Not everything is about that. Is it?
I just don’t care.
Ok, let me clarify. I care about my children. I care about being a good mother to them. I care about keeping them alive.
I don’t care about me. I eat crap that I don’t really want to eat simply because it’s there. This isn’t even emotional eating. I get no temporary thrill from it; it provides no comfort, not even for a few seconds. I haven’t worked out in days, which is nothing to many. Exercise was always a form of therapy, a way to clear my mind. I don’t care. I just don’t fucking care.
I’m scared. Not caring is scary. I’m the badass who lost 90 lbs with no drugs, no supplements, no help. Just me, myself, and doing it because I cared, because it mattered to me. I’m the badass who puts her mind to shit and gets it done. The only thing I want to get done is the day so I can hide in my bed. I’m a goddamned lump.
I look around at my life these days and I don’t recognize myself. I’m tougher than fucking nails. I’m strong. I stand tall. I put my mind to shit and do it, even when it’s hard, especially when it’s hard. I get a sense of satisfaction out of doing things that other people say is too hard to do. What the fuck is my problem?
I feel like I’m whining. There are people who have real problems, real grief, real sadness. There are people who would kill to have my life (poor things, they really don’t know any better, do they?). I’m faking my way through it. I’m playing the part again, and I hate it. And it scares me. Because I couldn’t tell you what would fix it. I don’t know. I don’t care, and it doesn’t matter.
Except it must matter or I wouldn’t spend time and energy writing about it, would I? Fuck, what is my problem?
Don’t answer that, please. I know what my problems are. I’m very aware.
I’m feeling sorry for myself, and I can’t make myself stop. I’m waiting for someone to swoop in and rescue me, and that’s never going to happen. It was never going to happen. I’m bemoaning a situation that is extremely common and I really should stop fucking whining. I’m losing myself to something stronger than I am, and I don’t know how to stop it. I’m not sure I care enough to stop it. Just let it fucking happen. Whatever it is.
Fuck. I just want to feel like myself again – whoever the fuck I am.