Faking it
I have two conversations going on in my head right now. One part of my brain is writing a blog post. I have plans today. I am committted to going to a friend’s house. Three weeks ago when we made these plans, I was so excited. Now I just want to go home. But I wasn’t really any happier at home.
Fuck. I already started this post and it was going well and then somehow my stupid hand hit something and the browser went back, back, back. Now it’s all gone. Should I start over? Cry? Fling myself on the bed?
We are in Phoenix. We are here to see friends and have fun. I will go because I am supposed to, because it is expected of me, because I feel compelled to go. And I don’t know what else to do.
I don’t want to be here. But "here" isn’t Phoenix or the hotel or the houses of our friends.
I will go. I will act normally. I know how to do that. I think that is one thing schools do. That’s what people mean when they talk about socialization. That’s why people object to homeschooling. Because homeschooled kids don’t always act "normal." They don’t go to school where their peers will bully them or make fun of them for every little thing. I went to school. I know how to act normal. I know how to talk the talk, even if I don’t walk the walk. I know how to talk the talk even if I don’t feel like it or want to.
I don’t want to go anywhere. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to be here.
I might interrupt more than I should, more than is socially acceptable. That comes from being constantly interrupted.
"Mommy," Moira says in a whiny voice. She is whiny and upset because Aidan locked her out of the bedroom area of the hotel room. The upsets are mutual, the upsets have a long history. Yet the upsets start out small and escalate. I don’t know what Moira wants. Or, I do, but I don’t have it in me. She wants to be heard and comforted. So I change the TV to something she will like to watch.
I am a horrible mother. I don’t want to mother.
Other than interrupting more often than I should, I think I do OK. I don’t mention Moira’s nursing or family beds to anyone unless I know they will be supportive. I don’t talk about vaccines or politics or religion with anyone. I don’t really talk about anything important to anyone because what is important to me doesn’t seem to matter to anyone else. How I feel doesn’t matter. I can force myself to smile and laugh and make others comfortable.
I don’t feel like smiling or laughing. I have no sense of humor. I don’t have fun and I don’t know how.
I think I do OK, but then after almost every social situation I analyze it in my head. I am definitely my worst critic. I see how things I said could have been misinterpreted and hurt someone’s feelings. I think about my tone of voice and how I sounded angry when I wasn’t, sounded confident when I wasn’t, sounded uncertain when I knew what I was talking about. I think about every stupid thing I’ve ever said, like the time I asked a realtor if the power company turns off power in the summer if people don’t pay their bills. She was worried we wouldn’t pay our bills. I was just thinking about how in Philadelphia, the power companies cannot turn off power in the middle of winter because people can DIE. Does it work like that here? Is Phoenix compassionate (even if that compassion is legally mandated)? That was what I wanted to know, but my comment was just stupid.
We drove by our old house yesterday. I don’t really feel sad. I don’t miss this place at all and I don’t want to move back. But I do feel SOMETHING. I feel so much sometimes that I can’t think, I can’t process, I can’t make decisions.
I just want to be left alone. Why doesn’t my brain work? What is wrong with me?
I think about a time at playgroup where one mom and I were talking about how smart our kids were. I said to another mom that it would be cool to see if her son were smart, too. What the fuck? I thought about that later and how it sounded and how I meant it. Partly I suppose I was being full of myself, but mostly it was that her little boy was younger. I didn’t mean it like THAT. But she never came around again. I saw her out in public once and she didn’t look at me or ackowledge me. Maybe she didn’t recognize me.
I’m sure she hates me.
I think about my brother-in-law who I adore. He is such a sweet, sensitive person. He is also quiet. If he doesn’t want to talk about something, he doesn’t talk. So that means mostly that he doesn’t talk about anything important. I think we are probably a lot alike, except that instead of being quiet, I talk. Too much. I chatted with him online and asked him how something went with his dad. I was concerned about him, but I suppose I was also being nosey. He stopped chatting. I feel like shit.
Sometimes I think he doesn’t even like me anyway. I would be devastated if he didn’t. But I wouldn’t blame him, either.
I think I should just talk less. If I can’t talk about important things, then why talk at all? I know that my brain works differently than a lot of people’s brains. It’s not that I’m smarter or anything like that. It’s just that I’m not normal. And I think I know how to act normal, but I really don’t. I just want to be myself, but I don’t know what that means anymore.
I don’t want to be me. I don’t want to be.
I think it might be nice to be a Stepford wife. To be happy doing menial chores around the house. To not expect anything in return, no appreciation, no help. I want to be able to do all the things I do with love, but the truth is that I don’t always. I do the menial stuff because it needs to be done. I have the most time. I care the most about what kind of food we eat, where it comes from. I care if the house is somewhat clean. I feel guitly when people can’t find things in the house, as if it is all my fault.
I am the worst feminist in the world. My ltitle girl wears pink and wears make-up. She is super girly. My boy is a boy. He is rough and tumble. She is empathetic and sensitive. He is nearly oblivious to the feelings of others. What does that have to do with anything? Nothing. Except I think of myself as a feminist, but I don’t even know what that means. I feel like my kids watch too much media and that is why Mo is into being girly, why they think calling names is normal. I waffle all the time. Too much TV or no limits? Loving electronics and yet feeling disconnected because of them. I still do not have any new friends in Illinois. I am not making any on the computer, and I know this but still I persist.
"Mommy, can you hit start? I can hit 3 and 2, but I just can’t hit 3 and 2," says Moira. I don’t know exactly what she means. I’m trying to figure it out and type what she is saying at the same time. Yelling ensues because I am busy typing what she is saying instead of getting up and taking care of her.
The kids don’t want me. They just want someone to wait on them. They probably hate me. I deserve it, so I wouldn’t be surprised.
Now she is eating leftover Taco Bell. We got the kids Taco Bell for dinner last night because that’s what they wanted and I was too tired to fight it. Too tired to just say no. I should say no more often. Or maybe less often.
I have no idea what I’m doing as a mother.
The kids fight. A lot. Every day they hurt each other. My reaction varies. Sometimes I am indifferent. Sometimes I am enraged. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I do nothing. Sometimes I talk to them and try to help them work it out. Nothing seems to help or work. I’m sure they hate each other.
"Mommy, I’m really hungry," she says as she is rooting through the hotel fridge. I know there isn’t much in there. I say, "We will go get food soon." She says, "Mommy, can I spray whipped cream in my mouth?" I say sure because why not? It’s longer I can sit here and write and feel sorry for myself. So I take a few minutes to teach her how to spray the can into her mouth.
What a great skill to learn! I am the best mother ever.
I hear her doing it wrong. I hear the air coming out, but no whipped cream. I yell at her for not doing it right.
I sound mean and horrible. I hate it. I hate myself.
The kids are hungry. We need to go. I still feel like crap, but at least I’m not trying to drive while I’m sobbing. I’m not lying on the bed sobbing and feeling sorry for myself. So I guess I am OK. I will seem OK, even though I am not. My friends will not know the difference. They might notice that I seem down or upset, but they will never guess the extent of it. I will never tell them or let on, either.
I don’t know what it means to have a best friend. I don’t have a best friend. I have friends, but I never call them to chat. I never call when something is wrong. I am the worst friends in the world and I don’t deserve to have any friends anyway. Why would they want to be around me? I find it hard to believe that some of them are rearranging their schedules just to see us. What’s wrong with them? Don’t they know me at all? If they did they wouldn’t do this for us.
Tom will know I was upset. I was already upset and crying last night when I picked him up from work. I cried on the way to Taco Bell and to the hotel. He asked if someone was mean to me at playgroup. I said yes and that is what started the tears. The person who was mean to me was my own son.
I have a breakdown and the kids go on as if life is normal. Mo asks me what is wrong a few times, but gives up after I fail to answer or explain. They act like this is normal because it is. I have mood swings. Sometimes I am hateful. I have hateful thoughts about myself in my head. I have these horrible thoughts and I almost don’t know what is in my head and what I have said out loud.
I am depressed. Why is it so hard to say it, to admit it, to OWN it? I don’t want to be depressed. I just want to be normal. Maybe I’m slightly bipolar. I felt great a week ago. Now, if I ceased to exist, that would be fine with me. I think the kids would be fine. In the deepest part of my mind, I think they would be better without me. The guys would be better without me. They both seem to love me. They do love me. They say so but I don’t believe them. I treat them like shit. I do not deserve them. I don’t know why they put up with me. Someday they will realize they would be happier without me.
The kids are yelling. Mo shared the whipped cream with Aidan, but now it’s gone. They are scrounging in the fridge. I said if they get dressed we will go. They didn’t hear, they didn’t listen. I don’t know which and I don’t care. They will do what they want to do anyway. It’s time to go before they hurt each other again. Thank God for the TV because now Aidan is in there and they aren’t fighting. It’s time to go.
I don’t want to go. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be me. I don’t want to be. I think I can fake it, but I don’t know if I can for much longer. If the kids fight at playgroup or someone asks what is wrong, I might not be able to fake it. I have to fake it. It’s time to go.
