The lack-ness ( when lack just isn't enough to express ... _) of the entirety of my little blue pills is causing me to cry daily. My oldest son doesn't like this, understandably, and, because he is sixteen and a boy in our culture, cannot find a way to express how distressed and uncomfortable this makes him, so instead he gets pissy, irritable, rude. Being a teenager who neither drinks nor smokes dope just sucks. High school is a place where 90% of the population drinks every once in a while. We drug test, alcohol test, so he's in a no fuck up zone. He's dealing with other things to, other difficult and painful emotions. Tonight he blew up at me and left the house against my explicit advice to do no such thing. And ended up spending the night with his biological dad. It is the mother in me that instead of feeling angry or hurt at his bad behavior, I'm wracked with guilt and worry over him. I know he's struggling and I hate that I can't be 100% for him right now. It makes me feel horrible.
And I'm getting worse every day, face it folks. I cry more and harder. Please don't give me advice: My mother does that daily. I am exercising. I AM taking fish oil. I am doing every goddamn thing I can but nothing can change the fact that I have severe anxiety disorder and won't put a hole in my Ever's heart so that I can get through this pregnancy with a smile on my face. At this point I'd be happy not to depress my entire family by the time it's done. And my marriage has been awesome, my husband so incredibly sweet the last five months, working 6 days a week and 10 to 12 hour days because it's his busy season, and then coming home and cooking dinner and kissing my cheeks and telling me how beautiful I am and putting the kiddos to bed and trying to get in my pants. Nothing cheers up a girl like her husband trying to get in her bloomers, especially when they are size Large and she's not feeling so hot these days. But he's having a hard week and the last two days been distant, not a crime but a reality in long marriage, the need for space, but something I can barely handle when I'm so .... fragile barf Fuck that because it's a true thing I hate. And also it's possible he might be struggling with bipolar. Too soon to tell. It scares the living daylights out of me because for both of us to be bonkers at the same time.... I am making a therapy appointment for Mr Curry and I, hopefully for next week, and Dakota and I will be seeing his therapist next week too. Modern family, modern weapons, oldest problems in the hills.
The problem seems to be cellular. I was juiced young. Electrified, see. And so when the fever rises and the crazies begin, all my cells juice and release the electricity of past wounds horrors and fears. And the anxiety is like this great big pulley, this horrible machine with ropes and chains and great giant wheels that spin and drag the entire thing- me, see- down the hills of crazy and lonely and scared right until I'm about five years old and standing at my Daddy's brown loafers, sick with misery.
I'd have a stiff drink, but.
Yes, all those buts.
So- onward Christian soldier. **I've always wondered where that expression came from.