early a.m. angst

There is something so utterly ironic and frustrating about being sleep deprived on a regular basis due to your four toothed cheese eating crawling roving smiling 10-month old, only to have your husband thrash around at 3:00 a.m., get up to go to the bathroom, heave his 200 pound frame back into bed so hard that your 5 foot 9 inch frame literally BOUNCES off the bed, and pull all the covers off you. Then, you spend the next 60 minutes thinking about evey person you ever slighted, every shameful thing you have done, every decision you regret, and analyze all of these events and wonder if you were just truly manifesting your own shameful dysfunction, or if all of this was just part of what led you on the path you are on. Who the Hell knows? The path may just end up leading to elightenment. Fuck if I know.

I know I have cut people out of my life because they disappointed me. Because they made me feel small and ahsamed. Sometimes I cut people out because I was simply self-serving. My load was lighter without them. I am thinking back on a particular time when I was careening through life, gooning wine like I was being chased by someone who wanted to take it away, and trying so hard to make things feel right and they just didn't feel right at all. Doing things that hurt me, and hurt other people and feeling terrible and ashamed.

I wonder where that all came from. How long it built up and if I am really done with it. I sat in bed for an hour feeling the shame like a pall. Now that it's written into actual words, I see that perhaps it's not as huge and crushing as it felt an hour ago. I think maybe I can roll that huge boulder a little to the left and pull my squashed, pulpy mangled soul out from underneath it. I would really like to put my motherfucking soul back to bed where it can sleep and let go of this horrendous guilt and self-inflicted angst.

While I am at it, I hope to take that little voice in my head that tells me "you are a goddamned idiot" behind the house, put it out of its everlasting misery and bury it.

My therapist told me the reason I was feeling more keenly emotional about things was because I am writing more. I suppose that can't be a bad thing. I am just afraid of what rotting carcasses I might find as I clean my mental house and clear away the newspapers, take out boxes and beer cans that have been cluttering my landscape and hiding all the monsters that I can't see, but can hear. They make creepy rustling noises and I am scared to see what they look like. It makes me think of the time I was babysitting my younger sisters and Betsy, the youngest and probably six years old, came upstairs from the basement TV room looking pale and scared out of her mind. She told me there was something moving aound under her chair and she didn't know what it was. I went downstairs and there WAS something making a huge racket. I didn't know what kind of scary creature was under there but I just squeezed my eyes shut and pulled the chair away. A blackbird flew out from under it. We started shrieking and laughing and after it flew upstairs we closed all the drapes and opened the front door to giude it out. It flew right out the front door, never to be seen again.