Been Brewing

This is going to be long post. It's been brewing for a while.

Things at home, with Jb, are getting rough and rocky, and I know it's my fault. But I also know I can't control it. He's as much a victim of my mind as I am. I'm reading John McNamanay's book on living with bi-polar/depression, and he talks about how your mind drives your body around. And it's true, though these days it seems like my mind drives my mouth around.

My mother used to tell me that we were "discontented souls," and that was why we were never happy like other people. And worse, that we'd always be that way. I believed her. After all, wasn't I always critical? Wasn't I always aggravated by people who couldn't keep up? Wasn't I judgmental? It's one of the main reasons my mother and I could never co-exist.

That's how I feel lately. Discontent. With everything. Myself, Jb, the world, our situation. I'm resentful of things I'm expected to do, and I'm resentful of the people who ask me to do them. Jb tells me he wants me to do something, heavy emphasis on the something. As if I do nothing. As if I don't battle everyday to maintain some facade of equilibrium.

It comes on worse at night. Sometimes, it even starts in the morning. I'm aggravated, angry. I feel slighted. Any form of neglect, any perceived rejection, and it cuts right to my heart, which is like a discolored bruise that cowers from a touch. Instead, a mere touch feels as if someone's socked me in the heart, and there's a physical pain to it. Words cut.

Tonight, trying to expend some energy because my mind wouldn't stop, I laid on the bed and kicked my feet, and turned around restless, and stretched and twisted, and took some slim enjoyment from hearing the muffled impact of my shins on the mattress. Jb asked me if I was having a seizure, calls it having a tantrum, tells me I'm childish, seeking attention. And perhaps the last part is somewhat true. I do want attention. Because I feel like the Tinman, an empty shell where a heart, or some sense of self, should be.

Mostly, I am trying to deal. I am trying to tire myself out. I am trying to let things out, and yet keep them inside. Jb says I talk too much, tells me to shut up. That's a dagger. Who is this person he despises so much that she's not even allowed to speak? He says I'm always bitching, always whining and whining and whining. And I don't see the whining, I don't. But the bitching... yeah. When I'm in that mood, when the aggravation takes over, when nothing anyone could do would be right, I'm witty as hell. The comebacks come quickly and painfully. They hit below the belt. They're meant to hurt. It's the way my mother used to treat my dad.

And then there's the fact that Jb thinks he gives me his time when, to me, all I see is that he gets up around 9am, logs into the computer, and stays on it until well past midnight. I'm left alone. To my own devices. And it's like living with Greg all over again. Once upon a time, Jb would seek me out, would stop playing simply to connect with me. Now it's a battle. Requests and expectations are known, but not acted upon. And that hole inside aches more. Except, it's me who's driven him away. It's me who makes him shrink into himself. It's me.

I can't expect someone to fill that gaping abyss that is self-loathing, guilt, a need for constant reassurance, for someone to cherish me and hold my hand, the way someone might take care of you if you were physical sick in bed with a high fever. I'm overly needy now, and I don't think Jb can handle that. I think it's part of why he retreats into World of Warcraft. I think that's why Greg retreated into his games, too. Both were good at looking out for themselves. And here's me: unable to even know who I am apart from Jb.

How do you get across things like you can't be bothered to cook when your boyfriend is constantly telling you he's disappointed in you. Everything seems to worsen everything. I don't want to play WoW, I don't want to play Spore, I don't want to watch tv, I don't know what to do with myself online or off. I wish Jb would read the bits in McNanamy's book that were taken from replies on his bi-polar/depression site. If only to catch a glimmer of what I'm thinking, going through, dealing with. Because I can't put it into words.

I feel lost, and alone, and as if there's no one to turn to, no one to take care of me. And it's my childhood all over again. So many expectations, and all I can do is try to build walls. But these days, those walls never hold strong. They crumble. Let things in. They don't keep me safe. And so I shut down, I recede, I walk around in a third person narrative, where things never happen to me, they happen around me--and slowly, oh so slowly, so that the world looks strange to me. But the world is as it always was. It's me who's out of step, out of time.