"Better" is relative, really...
What a sucky way to end the day. I sit here in my darkened living room, somewhat illuminated by the strings of globes and chili lights, the Christmas tree in the corner. This time of year makes me wonder, "are we better?" I'm trying to be thankful of the holiday this year, a long day that started with group and peaked with a dinner of steak while my husband and mother excitedly talked about cats. It was encouraging; it was hopeful.
But then my Christmas night was stolen from me due to a conversation with an in-law whose girlfriend can't be bothered to spell my name. And for some reason, that just hurts. It hurts more than I really would have expected, and something that has made me realize how much I really don't matter to those people. To come from such a small family that even though they didn't quite understand him, my parents tried to engage with Fidget and help him to feel like he mattered, and to show me that even though they couldn't engage him, he mattered to them because he mattered to me.
And there is this miserable cunt of a woman, and I do not use that term lightly, who has bothered me from several hundred miles away because she can't be tasked with spelling my name correctly. And the man who is with her can't be bothered to tell either me or even his son that we matter to him.
I woke up today in the morning, going in late because of working the daylight shift on Monday. And I puttered around in a dirty kitchen, trying to improve my mood by pasting things into my planner. Work was fine and short and we had good interventions and people got through the holiday sober. That was successful.
On my way home, I called my mother who wanted me to come over because her knee hurt and I realized, why? I am tired. I am tired of getting the calls when she is not doing anything. I am tired of making his life easier? When I am finding research studies and collapsing veins and doing all sorts of things to keep us in the black, and out of the three of us, I am the one hustling.
I am a hustler. I know this. I make Shit Happen. But I am tired of being the one to carry this weight and try to make sense and problem solve. I am tired of being reliable, the one that keeps the lights on, the one that navigates the appointments or looks up job postings.
I think it is unfair to think of these things so soon after Christmas. I don't think the business world will be functional until after the new year. What demands can be made? If I can't manifest it out of thin air, how can I cope that it will ever get done? How can I even think about doing things for myself or trying to be hopeful when 2020 comes when I don't even know how to negotiate with the minutiae of day-to-day life?
Now, the sirens come. It's as if my father heard my thoughts as I've been typing them. The sirens come when I've talked of him in jest, or miss him, or desperately want him to give me an atta-girl because of how desperately hard I've been working. When I think of going back to a meeting or even talked about possibly finding another therapist, the sirens take off. "You're doing fine, Jessie. I know you are."
And logically, I am. But I am tired of this dumb roller coaster. Sweet Jesus, am I enabling both of them? Have I been enabling them since he died? Will I ever get better?
"Better" is a loose term, obviously. But I don't know how to improve on what I have been doing, this hustle I have been hustling for the past several years...
... there comes a time when the hustle needs to stop.
But then my Christmas night was stolen from me due to a conversation with an in-law whose girlfriend can't be bothered to spell my name. And for some reason, that just hurts. It hurts more than I really would have expected, and something that has made me realize how much I really don't matter to those people. To come from such a small family that even though they didn't quite understand him, my parents tried to engage with Fidget and help him to feel like he mattered, and to show me that even though they couldn't engage him, he mattered to them because he mattered to me.
And there is this miserable cunt of a woman, and I do not use that term lightly, who has bothered me from several hundred miles away because she can't be tasked with spelling my name correctly. And the man who is with her can't be bothered to tell either me or even his son that we matter to him.
I woke up today in the morning, going in late because of working the daylight shift on Monday. And I puttered around in a dirty kitchen, trying to improve my mood by pasting things into my planner. Work was fine and short and we had good interventions and people got through the holiday sober. That was successful.
On my way home, I called my mother who wanted me to come over because her knee hurt and I realized, why? I am tired. I am tired of getting the calls when she is not doing anything. I am tired of making his life easier? When I am finding research studies and collapsing veins and doing all sorts of things to keep us in the black, and out of the three of us, I am the one hustling.
I am a hustler. I know this. I make Shit Happen. But I am tired of being the one to carry this weight and try to make sense and problem solve. I am tired of being reliable, the one that keeps the lights on, the one that navigates the appointments or looks up job postings.
I think it is unfair to think of these things so soon after Christmas. I don't think the business world will be functional until after the new year. What demands can be made? If I can't manifest it out of thin air, how can I cope that it will ever get done? How can I even think about doing things for myself or trying to be hopeful when 2020 comes when I don't even know how to negotiate with the minutiae of day-to-day life?
Now, the sirens come. It's as if my father heard my thoughts as I've been typing them. The sirens come when I've talked of him in jest, or miss him, or desperately want him to give me an atta-girl because of how desperately hard I've been working. When I think of going back to a meeting or even talked about possibly finding another therapist, the sirens take off. "You're doing fine, Jessie. I know you are."
And logically, I am. But I am tired of this dumb roller coaster. Sweet Jesus, am I enabling both of them? Have I been enabling them since he died? Will I ever get better?
"Better" is a loose term, obviously. But I don't know how to improve on what I have been doing, this hustle I have been hustling for the past several years...
... there comes a time when the hustle needs to stop.