Well, you folks have just been sweet while I've been toughing out these last couple of weeks. So much kindness and concern out of the dark void of the Internet -- who'da thought?
Things are on a more even keel for right now. A few things have changed. C. came home one evening last week, walking into my office and started yelling at me for not paying off his credit card. I snapped.
Anger is a lot effort for me, so I save it for special occasions and the people I love most. It is a momentous and awesome event. I black out a little bit, but I don't get violent. I don't think I even raise my voice. I just reach in and take your heart in my fist and squeeze the blood out, until you are born again as someone I can love.
When I was twelve I snapped on my father for the first time, and by the time I knew what was happening I was on the front porch of the farmhouse, eight feet tall of cold and righteous fury and he was down in the yard, wide-eyed and looking toward the road like maybe he could make a run for it. After I let him back in the house he was better and we were close for a while.
I'm careful with it, because I don't want to scare people into doing what I want. I just want their lives to flash before their eyes so they can start taking their decisions a little more seriously.
Since that day, C. has picked up another day at work and voluntarily quit smoking weed. We've talked a lot, and I understand his position better. It's easy to say that he has a sweet life -- a life of art and school and a stripper girlfriend to pay for it all. He does have a sweet life. He knows he does.
On the other hand, it's hard supporting someone who doesn't support themselves, and that's exactly the untenable position I've been putting C. in lately. In times of stress, I get into what might be called a pathological state of generosity. Or maybe "generosity" is too nice a word. Basically, I will do anything for anyone, but no one can do anything for me. I can't even do anything for myself. I can't rest. I can't have fun. I can't even eat. I even stopped taking my anti-depressants because I decided we couldn't afford them. Oh, my. Was that ever a dumb decision.
After the dust settled that day last week, C. pointed these things out to me, and I understood with a new humility. I started taking medication and eating breakfast and resumed yoga and meditation and things came back into their correction proportion. I've bitten off a lot in the last years, and I'm still chewing, but everything is going to be OK.
So, just in case you were concerned, I'm going to be fine. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.
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4 comments:
Going off antidepressants to save money is such a false economy. I've had to learn that one the hard way...several times. Because I suppose I'm not that bright :)
Glad you're on an even keel, back to mocking customers!
Are you a Scorpio?
Sooooo glad to hear things are getting back to good for you. I knew you'd pull through, but it's good to hear it from you.
Incidentally, my boy of the moment is having a hard time taking care of himself, too, and not letting me help him, either. And also not communicating very well. Bleah. I can't really blame him, 'cause right now he doesn't even have the time or energy to let me help him. But he refuses to slow down, too. He really thinks the whole world will collapse if he so much as sits down for an hour for a massage.
Good thing I'm currently in a strong, happy place. My equivalent of anti-depressants (or should I say pro-happinessants) is sitting in Pronto, the Italian restaurant overlooking the municipality park, drinking lattes, listening to Bob Marley and Robert Earl Keen, and thinking and writing. Kind of obscene how happy it makes me.
Patrick and Nafis and I are currently working on coordinating coming out to visit you approximately the last week of January. Three of my favorite people in the world, all in one place! Yippeeee!
Basically, I will do anything for anyone, but no one can do anything for me. I can't even do anything for myself. I can't rest. I can't have fun. I can't even eat.
I do that, too. In fact, the more money I make the less I want to spend any on myself - the easiest way I can do so is to get something for work. It becomes incredibly ironic: I feel bad about buying bottled water for myself (because of the plastic bottle, not the cost) but I can go out and spend $250 on lingerie from Bloomingdales. In the same week I'll end up giving money to my brother, best friend, and ex-boyfriend-lover-kinda-person. What is going on? Please enlighten me if you have any insight on why we do this.
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