Marathon Memories

Today is almost over. It'll probably end before I post this. But still, here I am, on a day I'm sure I've posted about before.

It's Patriot Day in Massachusetts (not to be confused with Patriots Day, which is federal holiday, and something else entirely) and two other states. For me, this morning, that meant that I was very sad, because one more of my old traditions was missing.

On Patriot Day, the Boston Red Sox play an early day game, which lets out just in time for all of the fans to pour out of Fenway Park and go watch the end of the Boston Marathon, for Patriot Day is also Marathon Monday. This was the game that Daddy and I always went to (with one exception that I can remember, although possibly others). We would go, watch the game, watch the Sox kick some ass, and then we'd wander down to catch some marathon runners finishing. Of all the traditions I had with my father, this one I think I cherish the most. More than the boat show, more than father's day car show, more than the Beach Boys, summer cook outs, or going together the the BCF. Patriot Day is our day.

This morning, I posted this as my facebook status

 Today is Marathon Monday, which means I should be with my dad at Fenway Park. We used to go to this game every year and I miss it.

I watched the scores of the game on the MLB app on my phone while I was in class. I watched the Sox win, as they always do on Patriot Day. And then I came home. I turned on my computer to put on some music, and checked my facebook. When I heard the news, there was only one news website who had an article up, and it was only 3 or 4 sentences long. I was one of the first to hear about it. And I was instantly crying. Not sobbing just yet, for I thought it was some sort of accident and I didn't know anyone was hurt. I thought it just scared a bunch of people. So I was crying, and then I found out that people, dozens, were hurt, missing limbs, and I got scared.

My father doesn't break tradition. I couldn't call him. I needed to know if he was okay, but I couldn't call him. I didn't have the guts. What if he didn't answer? What if someone else answered and told me he was hurt. What would I do? I was shaking. It took me three minutes to write a very short text message, but I didn't have the guts to call him.

He was fine. He had broken tradition. Later, I found out cell phone service had been cut off, so if he had been there, he wouldn't have answered. Most of my friends in Boston were on facebook immediately, posting links, expressing fear and outrage and hope that everyone was fine. But one friend, I didn't see among the crowd. I had to go to work, and spent much of the night fighting off the fear and anxiety and the urge to vomit. I put on a good face of fake cheer. Customers probably thought I was just some ditzy girl, but my co-workers were concerned. They knew that my smile was fake, and that I didn't usually make the sort of mistakes I was making over and over and over.

Until finally, the last friend I was worried about posted on facebook about being stranded. And I laughed and laughed, and no one understood when I explained "oh, no, nothing is funny" because I was falling over in hysterical laughter.

But my heart is still breaking. I can't make it stop hurting. That's my home. And they broke it. I could have been there. If I weren't in Virginia, I would have been there, in that very plaza. And I have never been so scared.

Open and Honest

In repairing my mental health I made a promise to myself and a friend (and maybe posted it here on my blog? I can't remember) that I would post at least once a week. I had to hold myself accountable. I had to do this, if I ever wanted to make myself feel pleasant again. I had to, if I wanted to get rid of everything I hate about myself.

So can we add to the list of things of things I hate, "not keeping my promises"?

I've always, always, prided myself on being a very honest and open person. But I'm coming to realize that I've been lying. Not just to people, but to myself. Open is not something that I'm good at. It never has been. Sure, I put on a good face. I talk CONSTANTLY. The endless babble that flows from my mouth and fingertips annoys the piss out of some people. No one cares that I just painted my nails. I do that two or three or more times a week. It's not news; it's not special.

Everyone knows about my family drama, and that's "personal" so of course I'm open, of course I'm honest. Except that I'm not.

I don't feel like I'm very honest. I don't feel like I'm very open. I share actions, but I don't share feelings unless they are the obvious sort of feelings. My last post, I really got into my feelings, and it scared me away from the blog for... how long? A few weeks, anyways.

And a lot has happened in these past few weeks:
1) My mother had a custody hearing about getting Lauren back. Originally I wanted to write a whole post about this. I am so torn, so broken up over this. Lauren doesn't know what she wants, and I just want her to be wherever she's most happy. I think things are perfect just the way they are: Lauren with her nice, big, family, and Amanda home with my mom (provided my mother continues to stay sober). Lauren visits my mom on the weekends. But Lauren sometimes feels out of place with Mindi and her family, and also feels obligated to go back to my mother. She misses Amanda when they aren't together. But then, at other times, she's so happy where she is. She's happier there than she ever was living with my mother, and feels obligated to stay with Mindi, because she was taken in and loved just as much as any of the other kids. Right now, nothing has been decided. I don't trust my mother, probably never will, but I trust my sisters enough that if the situation ever got dangerous, they would say something, so I'm okay with them living with my mom. They go back to court in June.

2) I bought an antique sewing machine. Remember how I said (or did I say?) that I had almost entirely stopped writing? Well sewing has been filling the creative void for me. I'm very slow, and end up having to rip things apart constantly. I've been working on this one quilt for ever and have to keep taking out stitches, but I'm enjoying it, and I have completed a few things at least. Anyway, the other day I was out with my future Mother-in-law and grandmother-in-law at an antique shop. I saw this pretty old table, and then realized it was a sewing machine cabinet, and then realized that it still had the old machine. When I found out that it was only $20, I decided I had to have it. The table alone is worth twice that, and if the machine works (it definitively needs to be cleaned and oiled first. Cobwebs everywhere and it squeaked like a seal when I turned the wheel. BUT all the parts moved so that's a good sign) it's worth a small fortune. I'll keep you posted on how that goes. I had to leave it at my MILs house, because Jeffrey made me promise to stop bringing home stray furniture. He's right. I do have a problem. I can't walk away from a pretty piece of furniture unless I know it's in a good home.

3)  I'm in disgustingly bad shape. I knew I was in bad shape. I've been in bad shape for years now. And Jeffrey hasn't been in the best shape either, so we decided to go for a jog. I didn't make it out of the parking lot before I felt like dying. I suffered from a headache for the rest of the evening. It was horrible and embarassing, but mostly, scary. I can't even run an 1/8th of a mile. I can't even jog that far slowly. I decided I wasn't ready for jogging yet. I need to get in shape, but I can't make myself feel so sick again. I'm too busy for that. So I went for a walk last night instead. It wasn't more than 3/4 of a mile. I was panting by the time I got there. WALKING. Not even walking briskly, but just walking like a normal person walks. Even at my previous worst, I could do that. I used to be able to walk endlessly without feeling anything. And now I cant. I'm scared. I don't want to be that sickly. I need to get better.

4) My coworkers have changed! I have worked at Wendy's for over two years now. And it's greasy and gross, and the smell of french fries has permanently permeated my skin. It doesn't wash off. Customers are rude asshats almost just as often as they are kind. It's surprisingly hard work, in a physical sense, and I don't particularly enjoy any of it. It doesn't pay anything and we end up with a new manager, on average, every 3 months. Half of them are jerks. My favorite manager was transferred about a month ago to a new store. We were really upset. She loved our store, and we loved her. Yesterday, I found out that she had been transferred again, BACK TO US! The new manager that had replaced her (whose name I never even learned. I never worked a single shift with her) hated our store so much that she threatened to quit if they didn't transfer her. So now we have V back and it's super awesome. I don't really have friends outside work, and she was the closest thing I had to a best friend in the area. I was heartbroken when she was transferred. All of us were. On night shift, my shift, we are a group of best friends. There are only two people I don't like.  And on the same day that I found out V was coming back, I found out that M (one of the two I don't like. She's a bossy rude bitch, and she likes to push and shove people. I'm clumsy enough on my own. Please don't knock me into the fryer.) had put in her two weeks notice. All in all, awesome.

5) And most importantly, and the reason I started this post, Jeffrey and I had a pretty serious argument/discussion. It started about grammar (just because I don't write much any more doesn't mean I don't still care)  but that was more just the surface stuff. What it came down to was that whole "open and honest" thing that I kept trying to pretend when it wasn't really the case. I don't want to go into particulars here, because it's fairly personal (I'm not opposed to sharing if anyone is curious, but I don't like to air my dirty laundry online so publicly). It was crappy, and I still feel awful about some of the things I was thinking and feeling, but eventually I shared them, and he had no idea that I had been thinking and feeling such miserable things for so long. There are not a lot of things I hate more than arguing with Jeffrey, but, as crappy as it was, I think it was probably a good thing. It cleared the air in a lot of ways.

And already, I'm starting to see that I'm getting better. My first blog post after the break* I mentioned an argument I had with Jeffrey, in which I said nasty and hurtful things. I didn't do that this time. I wasn't even tempted to. I didn't even yell. We just talked angrily. And it was good. It was awful, but it was good. We both have some things to work on, but we are working on those things.

I'm going to be more open and honest on here too. Because I want to be. Because I need to be. Because I want to be someone that I like, again.

______________________________________
* What do I call that break? The post I made on Feb. 12 feels like the first post on a brand new blog, but I've chosen to keep this on my old blog (because back story is nice, right?) It's like a different timeline though. I feel like it needs a name.

While You Weren't Sleeping

These past couple weeks, I haven't been sleeping properly. I've been suffering from anxiety attacks that keep me up at night, and nightmares what wake me up once I'm finally down. I got no sleep for so many days in a row that I couldn't remember my last good night's sleep. It was so brutal that one night, I had to get out of bed, and turn on the lights to fight off the anxiety, and then I was so frustrated and tired that I lay on my living room floor, sobbing.

When I first started not-sleeping I wished for a fast-foreward button. I just wanted to be a few years ahead of where I am now. I'm making progress towards what I want, but it's slow-going. I was miserable with everything. I started to write a blog post about it. About how I felt miserable even though my life is great, even though everything is going in my favor, about how confused I was about feeling so awful. Things for me a great, so why did I feel so down?

By the end of last week, I was so tried, and so miserable that I wanted to kill myself. It's been a while since I felt like that, and admitting it right now makes me really uncomfortable. I think it was just the lack-of-sleep. Right now, I don't want to die. Not at all. At the time, I just wanted the pain to stop, and sometimes I get caught thinking that's the only way to make it. Not usually, not often, but sometimes. Sometimes, when I'm emotionally drained and phsyically unwell, when the anxiety is too much, and the exhaustion is overwhelming, I think like that. I think it would be easier to just roll over and die. Just to make it stop.

And I think that's why I stopped blogging last year. And I think that's why I don't talk to my best friend anymore. Because when I feel like that, I know better than to share. If they believe me, they will be worried, scared. No matter how desperate I get, I wouldn't do it, because I couldn't do that to the people I love. Jeffrey, Amanda, Lauren, all of my friends, would be hurt. I couldn't hurt them like that, no matter how desperate I was. One person's pain is nothing compared to the pain of three, four, five or ten people.

So if my friends realized how serious I was, they would be concerned. And more likely, they would think I was just attention-whoring, and that would be even worse, I think.

I don't think like this very often. I need anyone who reads this to understand that. The big, the bad, the bold "I want to kill myself" is not an everyday occurrence, or even an every month, or every year thing. It just happens once in a while.What I'm really talking about is that miserable feelign that proceeds it. That "fast-foreward button" thinking that I do. That's why I stopped talking. That's why I shut down. That's why.

Sometimes I fall apart. And I'm okay. I will eventually be okay. I'm blogging right now, because holding myself accountable is something that will, I hope, help me be okay, and stay okay.

Even when I fall apart, it's not that bad. While I was drowning in exhaustion, I made a friend. I'm not good at making friends. I have friends in Massachusetts, and I have friendly acquaintances everywhere I look, but I don't really have any local friends, besides Jeffrey and his family. I am friends with my manager at work, but if she gets caught hanging out with me outside work, she'll be fired, so we don't very often. I don't want to. I don't want her to get in trouble, and I get nervous. I worry. I care. But now I finally have a friend who I wouldn't be afraid to call up and say "Let's go on an adventure, today." Of course, he's moving at the end of this month, so that sucks. I already have plenty of friends who I talk to online only. I want an adventure buddy while Jeffrey is at work! I want someone who I can invite to have dinner with Jeffrey and I!

And now I've totally changed topics, but I'm going to leave it, because I think it's also good to remind myself that there is hope. There are good things.