Left in the Dark

I’ve had poor self-esteem since I was a kid. It hasn’t really gotten much better over the years. My new therapist pointed it out the first time we met back in December.

“That’s something we need to work on.”

Yes, just one of many things to take a closer look at. But if the many therapists I’ve had (and I mean, many) haven’t been able to plump up my self-worth, then I truly wonder if she’ll be able to fix this chronic problem of mine.

“You need to get your power back.”

When she says shit like this, I nod in agreement but deep down I’m shrugging and rolling my eyes.

What the almighty fuck is my power?

I’m always questioning myself and wondering if I’m doing this right (“this” meaning life in general.)

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I think I’ve mentioned that I recently put my condo up for sale and last week we snagged us a buyer. Sadly, my once-beloved home turned hateful prison isn’t worth what I had hoped for.

The proposed deal has us needing to find a new house and moved in by March 4th.

My daughter and I excitedly went house hunting this past Monday. The first two were absolutely gross and unlivable. (We have like $47-$48k to work with.)

The 3rd house that we lovingly nicknamed “yellow house” was perfect and my realtor said that he’d put an offer in but it was a longshot.

The 4th house was a no-go although he seemed a bit put off by the fact that we disliked it. We needed an “option B.”

Well, this one ain’t an option, dude.

Monday evening he emailed me a bunch of papers to virtually sign. Because we’re not fluent in legalese and he’s not the best communicator, my daughter and I thought that we got the house. I went on Facebook to share the great news with everyone.

But the following morning, when I realized that I hadn’t received a call from him, I found out that I had only signed the offer.

Now here’s where my shitty self-esteem comes in to play.

Aha, there is a method to my madness!

I instantly decided that I’m an idiot and that my mom was correct; I am stupid.

Stupid for even thinking that I could sell this place and get a redo.

I felt (still do) like a damn fool for sharing the good news that wasn’t yet mine to share.

This morning there is still no word from my realtor, my daughter and I are about to give it up, plus I’m just fucking exhausted.

Deep down in my soul tired.

It doesn’t seem to matter what I try to do. Even when I decide that I’m gonna get my power back, the electricity always starts to spark.

And yet again I am left in the dark.


Sorry about not replying back to comments. I’m not doing so hot right now.

White Flag

My daughter and I decided to start our own jewelry business back at the end of August. She saw a package that I had ordered from Etsy and asked me if she could open it. Keep in mind that she’d had no interest before that day in my little hobby whatsoever.

I said sure, go ahead.

I’d gotten a mix of charms and as she looked through them, she found an S…L…and an ornate O.

Sandra Lee O’Leary. My mom’s initials.

She kept those for herself and asked me if I’d make her a car dangle thingy for her mirror. I obliged. It seemed like some sort of sign (gift?) from her dear grandmother.

That’s how it all started. We began to make stuff…bracelets, necklaces, shiny car dangles, key-chains and my daughter’s specialty, earrings.

It was just the two of us, usually late into the night. I taught her what I knew from watching videos. We laughed, talked and bonded, spending valuable time together.

I saw a craft show that needed vendors at a local VFW hall. The cost to rent the spot was $35 and it came with a table and two chairs. We decided to give it a try, because why not? Maybe we’d make a profit. (We didn’t.) But what’s more important than money was the time that we both shared as a mother and a daughter, becoming closer and grieving together over our beloved person.

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My daughter and our amateur display of twinkly stuff.

We were supported by family. My best friend Cheryl made an appearance. A good friend of mine even printed out business cards and other things with a logo that she created especially for us. Bless her beautiful heart.

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My mom used to call me her sugar plum. The dreams part was added by my boyfriend. 

Speaking of him, my boyfriend helped me set up the night before, as I was having a major panic attack and had made myself physically ill due to the thought of failure. Thank God for that man. There’s nothing greater than having your arms folded across your chest and then being wrapped up in a giant, gentle hug.

It was more of a marketing event than a craft show. We would have had better luck selling Tupperware. In fact, only 3 or 4 other tables were selling handmade items. The rest were direct marketing sales. We were extremely disappointed, but still happy that we did something so out of our comfort zones together.

Yet the entire experience has exhausted me. I can never outdo fibromyalgia (you’d think that I’d have figured this out by now!) and thus I have put up my white flag. I need to stop running around pretending that I’m some kind of healthy person.

Working an 8 hour shift kicked my ass mentally and physically, although I spent most of it sitting down. There’s a real reason why I’m unable to work and on disability, yo.

My sister-in-law is going to try to help me set up some sort of online store to try and sell our jewelry, but I am no business woman. I mean, I couldn’t sell an igloo to an Eskimo. There’s an indoor flea market that runs once a month until March and we might look into that, but it means plunking down more money for a spot and table rental. My daughter and I are going to think about it.

The last two and a half years has finally caught up with me. I’ve lost so much. My sham of a marriage and my beautiful mother. But I’ve also gained many things as well, such as my dignity, self-respect, a better relationship with my kid and a loving, devoted boyfriend.

But I sure do miss my mommy. The holidays are going to suck major monkey balls.

Of Dead and Morbid Things

My bills are paid. I have food to eat, a place to live (I wanna move so badly!) and a decent car. I have great people in my life who love and care about me.

I own at least 25 pairs of fuzzy socks. My dogs are loyal (although oftentimes difficult for me to care for due to my chronic pain ick) and I love them dearly.

Then why, I ask, am I so damned anxious and still experiencing suicidal thoughts, especially in the morning?

That’s a great question and I betcha that there’s a few of you who are reading this that might relate to what I am putting down here.

Why?

Some days are much better than others.

I’ll notice myself recoiling at the thought of dispatching myself. I have too much to do! It’s not over yet, I’m still kind of young. I still have a chance to make up my past mistakes and being so miserable for the greater majority of my 15 years with asshat.

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Getting cracks in at the expense of asshat will never get old. Expect to see more.

I have dreams to fulfill, jokes to laugh at, hugs to give and to receive. I might even have a grandchild someday, you never know. I’ve got tons of love stockpiled up to dole out to a good man who finally wants and deserves it.

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I think we look happy together.

I should want to be alive!

Living with fibromyalgia isn’t easy, in fact it’s downright exhausting. But seriously, it’s far more pleasant than fighting with a brain that just won’t get the fucking hint that life is still worth living.

I’ve tried it all going on close to ten years now. Group therapy, one-on-one talk therapy, outpatient, inpatient, drugs, supplements, kale suppositories…yet I continue to deal with this unwanted pest that keeps whispering of dead and morbid things.

Since I was just a kid, might I add. Is this just the way that I was made? Is there no hope to rid myself of these intruding, destructive thoughts?

Should I just learn to live with it and hope that perhaps in my next life I’ll be a perky, happy person who has never been depressed a day in their life?

*True story, I had someone tell me that a few years back and that they had no idea how I could feel the way that I did. All I could do was restrain¬†myself from saying, “bite me.”

It’s the worst feeling to chronically daydream about all of the various ways to off yourself.

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I have a “suicide buddy” that I contact when I start to get overtaken with these thoughts. It’s pure mutual understanding and no judgement, no overreacting and no threatening to call 911. We’re able to be as detailed as we’d like, without any restrictions.

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It goes both ways. Usually one of us are in better form that particular day to help talk the other one down.

It’s not an easy topic to openly discuss at the family get-together or with someone who will freak easily and call the funny farm.

I’m excellent at hiding it…after all, I’ve had over 30 years of practice.