Well. First post this morning was eaten by my own stupidity. 'Puter asked if I was sure I wanted to navigate away from this page and I did it anyway.
Up at five this morning after making a valiant effort last night to stay awake long enough to shower and clean house a bit. Didn't happen. Baby fell asleep and me with her, still dressed in work clothes. Wasn't the first time, won't be the last. At least I'm still kicking. The silly things in life just fall away in the face of that one basic reality.
I still look back to That Night and am bewildered. I feel like my memories past a certain point are not my own - as if I'm watching a good friend go through it and I have no ability to stop events or improve them. Which is essentially true, at least as far as the past goes.
Is it worth it to wish I hadn't done it? Is it even worth my time to return to that way of thinking? If it hadn't happened then, would it have happened later, when I could have taken someone else with me? I want to believe that everything happens for a reason - and as my wise friend said, I was where I was, and that's all.
Back to the routine. Getting up at five is great until you hit 2 PM. I'm so tired that I'm having to force my fingers to type. If I had toothpicks I'd be propping my eyelids open. Then again, I cleaned house this morning which means I won't have to do much tonight - and that's a blessing. But here I go again into mundanity.
Almost as good as cleaning house this morning was the hot shower I took to wake myself up. And the few cold minutes I spent rocking in my chair on the front porch, cradling a cup of coffee in my hands and looking at the white crescent of the moon against a black pre-dawn sky. Dogs starting to bark to each other, howling from the hills, cat throwing up on the porch. Ah, life in the country. Oh, and a second day of breakfast before I get to work - will wonders never cease?
Hard not to think about my marriage. Hard not to dwell on it when things are quiet and the TV isn't on. Wondering about the future, which is useless, because who knows where we will be or what we will be feeling in a month's time. Not I, that's certain enough.
Another piece of good advice from a friend last night - paranoia is a symptom of depression. I'd forgotten. Good to keep in mind. I noticed last night that it's worse with fatigue. And it slips up on me, quietly, so I'm not really aware that it's happening until I hear that oh-so-unique note of simultaneous concern and frustration in my friends' voices.
Oh, I think.
I'm at that verge again, right? No, silly reader, not that verge, the other one, the verge of neurosis, where rational advice and input is needed from sources outside myself.
Right. Pull back, baby. Go to sleep. Let the dishes and the unfolded laundry and the high chair covered with spaghetti and the toys squatting in the living room and even Cold Mountain go for now. Sleep is more important, as I have so recently learned.
I am just going to have to get used to depending on my friends again. I hope they will put up with my frightened phone calls and occasional weepiness for a little while longer. It's just that I sometimes feel awfully isolated at home, encroaching trailers notwithstanding, and it's easy to forget that there is a world outside of the house and motherhood. So I'm making different choices now, choices that I sincerely hope will result in some measure of peace for my soul.
When it comes down to finishing the two braids in my hair or rushing to my daughter's side when she has just woken up and is hollering for me, I guess the braids are going to have to win out. If they don't, how is she supposed to learn that I'm still in the house and it's up to her to come get me? What's the point of being a perfectly attentive mom if you can't survive the experience?
When it comes down to spending one more long sleepless weekend with her or calling in the troops (her daddy, in other words) and escaping for a priceless evening of unbroken sleep, the sleep is going to have to win out.
First counseling session was today. I liked him, and I can work with him. He prefers to work with present-day material (God knows there's plenty of it) and let the past come out as it will. Which is fine. I asked him to watch out for my tricky habits of veering away from difficult subjects and pretending that everything is all right.
Apparently I'm a little too good at that for my own good, doncha think?
He seemed to agree.