My anxiety is getting worse. I mean looking back at my prior posts will be proof of that but it finally crossed the line into insanity this past weekend. If my dainty heart and mind are not prepared to encounter a certain situation, I turn into a ball of despair and tears.
How in the world did I let myself become like this?
All these years I tried to do things the safe way. I took the less dramatic, dangerous routes in my life. I wouldn’t allow myself to become vulnerable to anything that could possibly kill me or make me full of regret and have the world (i.e., mainly my family) judge me. I wasn’t an angel about shit but I wasn’t exactly fucking things up so badly I’d end up on The Jerry Springer Show throwing chairs at people.
My husband has been able to just have fun and not give a fuck all his life. The luckiest shamrock in the world had stuck itself up his ass and literally gave him a shield that allows him to just experience the craziest shit one could experience and still be on top. Well, mainly his logic and intelligence is what’s keeping him on top of things. Many others would have gotten lost in the paths he took and gone downhill.
But I never let myself ever not give a fuck and…it sucks. Fear of experiencing pain or loss always kept me from venturing too far into the deep end. Any time I even slightly let myself not care, bad things would happen. Though when I cared too much bad things would still happen. I can’t win really.
I went to a dark place Saturday evening.
Sean dropped the “I want to be at the pub with my friends” unexpectedly because one of his friends is leaving the company. I was halfway into the drive to pick him up (though I accidentally set off an hour earlier than I meant to) and he told me to go home, that he’d head home around 8PM and not drink too much.
That was his first mistake. Inputting the expectation into my now uneasy mind that he’ll at least be home around 8 and won’t drink too much. I say uneasy because it isn’t fun dealing with a drunk Sean. It’s like dealing with an unruly, rebellious 2 year old who has no control over his limbs. For example, what would be intended to be a hug would turn more into a clothesline.
I was alone with the dogs at home. It was dark outside. Eerie quiet. I literally know now how it must be for the dogs to be stuck at home waiting for their beloved humans. My parents didn’t come home until very late. Sean didn’t come home until very late.
I was left wondering how drunk Sean would be because he didn’t come by 8 or 9 or 10. He pushed it off to have fun and not give a fuck. While I was giving a million fucks multiplied by worry and loneliness. I felt angry. He gets to have this occasional social life that I don’t. He gets to be the irresponsible drunk while I can’t unless I want to make my endometriosis attack me full force. Well, that and beer seems to make me throw up once it goes past half a cup in my stomach.
When he blacks out from drink he doesn’t remember a thing. He didn’t remember cheekily smiling at me and blowing cigarette smoke into my face when I unhappily noticed that it wasn’t his vape that he was smoking. He didn’t remember falling everywhere. He didn’t remember locking himself in the bathroom while naked and then collapsing on the floor. And then randomly kicking the door every minute.
The only bit of satisfaction I received that night was being able to pour a pitcher of cold water onto his body while he was passed out on the bathroom floor. I had to push the lock on the door with tweezers first to even get into the bathroom but god it felt good to actually shock him awake like that.
I couldn’t talk to him though that night so I was left simmering with thoughts. After I told him to go to bed, which he did so without complaint, he passed out into a deep slumber. While I cleaned up the water on the bathroom floor, his body took over the bed as he decided to sleep in a diagonal position. And the dogs took whatever space was left.
I was left to fume on the floor. I was so angry. Even when I told him all this, I don’t think he understood right away the intensity of how bad my mind was. He just knew I was having anxiety problems and he didn’t help. Heck, he didn’t see anything wrong even with having blown cigarette smoke into my face. Everything was just humorous to him. I got a laugh out of some of it too but that was after I got to pour my heart out to him early in the morning.
He isn’t sorry for wanting to drink with his friends and I totally understand. He doesn’t need to feel sorry. He’s 25 years old and people need their nights out. But I told him I need him to help me out a little. To be my freaking husband and just either keep to what he says he’ll do or have someone keep in contact with me so I’m not left thinking he’s going to fucking end up in a drunken car crash or some random shit.
The reason I said that my mind was in a dark place that night was because my anxiety had messed me up so bad; so horrifically bad that coupled with the pent up frustration, I reached a scary point. A point where I felt like the only way of release was jumping off into the air—in other words, I imagined jumping off a bridge. I imagined being free from myself, free from the shit in this world, from the expectations of it all, from caring too much, and from feeling like I have to care.
I told him this and he seemed worried. Heck, I was worried too. I felt a thousand times better though after I told him everything and he said he understood. He said he’ll work with me on days he decides to go out to the pub late instead of leaving me hanging in the dark. And that we’ll go out on a date soon which is something I need right now.
I know life isn’t bad right now. It’s irksome a lot of the time but there’s a lot to be thankful for. But I no longer have a filter for my emotions or thoughts. And I don’t get to have a time out with people I want to be with. I’m either at work or at home. And Sean and I hadn’t gone out on a date in a long while so I’m stir crazy in that department.
So if anything I’ve written sounds overreactive and/or scary, my apologies. I have a lot to work on with myself and this blog is my only way to let it out. I’m just venting. And I don’t plan on killing myself. I just want freedom from my mind once in awhile. I just don’t know how I’ll get that yet.