#despression

I just don‘t want anymore…

My mother relapsed Tuesday.

Earlier that week I had spoken with my therapist about the state of my relationship with my boyfriend. I explained that my feelings toward him had changed, and I feel guilty about it. I knew he was struggling with his anxiety and depression but I could not, would not, should not try to fix him. I offered support when I could, but when I saw him fail to make any improvements to his situation (find a doctor, for example), and resigned himself to his melancholy I decided I needed to be done. This, of course, wasn’t the only reason. His cocaine use, his passivity, his tendency to put me on a pedestal where I felt so much pressure to live up to the image he had of my in his mind. And simply, I had fallen out of love. I could no longer feel comfortable continuing a relationship that in my heart I didn’t feel right about anymore. So on Monday, I texted him and set up a meeting for Wednesday night.

I woke up to my father calling me, Tuesday, late morning.

He left her. Again.

She’s drinking. Again.

She’s refusing treatment. Again.

I felt little stirring in my chest. My father began to break down and all I felt was resentment. I kept thinking, “I AM NOT YOUR PARENT.” He blubbered and begged me to call my older sister to break the news that yet again our mother fell off the wagon, yet again our father left, and yet again we were stuck with an uneasy feeling about the future.

In fact, my older sister called me. And only about 10% of our 1.5 hour conversation was even about my mother’s addiction. 

The only other thing I could think about was our five year old dog, Lulu. Once my mother refused treatment, my father left her in the home with the dog. I couldn’t bear to think Lulu was being taken care of by someone who couldn’t even take care of themselves, so I called my work (a vet office) and drive the hour to my parent’s house, hellbent on finding a safe home for my family dog. 

I had a dog, too. He passed away in July. He was my everything. Morbidly, I thought about how relieved I am that he did not have to be uprooted from his home like I did to Lulu.

I took a deep breath and inserted my key into the lock, unsure of what state my mother would be in. I turned the corner to our living room, and my mother was asleep in a drunken stupor. She slowly stirred, surprised, but pleasantly surprised to see me. My chest tightened at the sight, because I hated the circumstances of the visit. I then became frustrated and angry. I drilled her, asked her why she wasn’t getting help, that I was disappointed in her because I love her.

She lied and said she wasn’t drunk or drinking, through slurred words. I decided this was a losing battle and took Lulu, innocent, naive Lulu, who thought she was just going for a walk and treats out of the house.

I drove the hour back to the city and banked all my hopes that my work would let me keep her there for a temporary amount of time. When I let her out of the car, she was scared and nervous - she’d never been in a city. I shut the door distractedly and Lulu began to scream. I realized I accidentally closed the car door on her tail. I frantically freed her and she didn’t seem wounded.

Ironically, luckily, I don’t know - the fact that she had a minor injury to her tail actually allowed to to be medically boarded at my work. I feel like a monster. A somewhat lucky monster. I didn’t do it on purpose, but I benefited from it. 

I was supposed to work a 10 hour shift after all this, but I left. Even my boss hugged me. I was so distracted and numb that nothing seemed to be real. I felt exhausted. And on top of that I had been texting my boyfriend, who had no idea how serious the talk on Wednesday would be, and he’s offering his place to keep Lulu and being supportive. It made me feel miserable and self-loathe.

I came home and refused all calls and texts after that.

Wednesday. I go to a work meeting, check on Lulu. She is stoned on sedatives. I feel awful.

Later that afternoon I drive to Ian’s. I can’t breathe, I can’t eat, I can’t feel anything but tenseness, tightness and dull panic.

He comes home, we chat, we make dinner. 

Dinner is never eaten.

I tell him everything - my feelings, my lack of feelings, my confusion, my hard truths. He takes it so well, but I can tell it hurts. He asks me if I love him. I tell him I’m no longer in love with him, but I love him; I care about him. He doesn’t want to break up, he wants to work on it. I feel reluctant because I don’t want to continue to drag this on, but he asks,”If you’ve been in love before, you can be in love again, right?” And I agreed, and I said I must try to do everything in my power to try to make this work so that if it doesn’t, we can feel good about ourselves that we did everything we could. We decide to cease communicating until Sunday, so we can think things over. I left there, braving a torrential rainstorm (it seemed to mirror how I felt), feeling less uneasy but still tense.

I watched serial killer documentaries after that, to distract myself.

Today is Thursday. I can’t. I decided I can’t keep going with him. I can’t continue dating him knowing that I’m not in love and banking on the hope that I MAY fall back in love. I can’t. Now I torture myself thinking about the conversation on Sunday and how I will hear the pain and disappointment in his voice and I know he will hate me and I have to live with that and I have to keep telling myself I am a good person, I am a good person, I am a fucking good person.

Pure Might.

B2 (500 x 700)

Photograph I took of a friend in an old forsaken farmhouse.

Drawn over with markers

Typhoid Fever