Are You My Mommy?

When I'm most upset, I find myself often crying for my mother. Yeah. I cry for my mommy. I do. I cry, and I cry, and in the midst of it, all I want is my mom. Or I think I want her. I think I want her, the actual lady with the soft hair and the nice face. But then, again, I don' t know.

The actual lady is nice in many ways. I've never doubted her love for me. I've also never felt that I'd ever be able to make her happy. I've also spent years of my life repairing the damage that her anger did to my insides. I'm still working on it.

I'm not sure, today, that what I want is her. I'm not sure what I want, which is scary, because it means I don' t know where to go to find it. I'm fairly sure that she, my mother, the actual woman, is not a tool for my recovery. I'm pretty sure that she hurts me.

What do I want? I want love. I want the kind of love that is maybe from a mother, the kind of love that doesn't have a price. I want to give that love, and I want to receive it. Sometimes I get close to filling up that space in myself. I was close for a moment. I think it's god, it's that diamond that is at the center of my heart. It's me, my inmost me...or maybe it's not that. I think I've got that part of my spirituality...the part that is inside me, that is quiet. That is the part that I can call on when my world is in the most turmoil to find quiet and peace, at least for a second. That is where I find the eye of the storm of the rest of me...

But tonight, it seems like that quiet place is a half of something. There is an outside thing, an outside other half to the thing inside of me. There is a Mother that I'm seeking. It's the God that I'm seeking, that I can't quite see and hear. It's the thing outside myself, connected to the thing inside myself, that is protecting me, that I want to trust is there...but that I can't feel. I want to know this Mother. I want to follow her will. I want faith and confidence in her love. I want to know that all the things that are happening to me right now are part of a plan...but I don't trust it yet. I don't hear it, and I don't see it, and I don't feel it, and as much as I want to, I'm not sure of how to let go. I'm not sure of how to hear the response from the person I'm crying to when I'm asking for my mom, my Mom. It's like there's something there, guarding the portal to what I most want and need.



Photo Credit: Cathy Rositano

Fuck Everything.

Yep. Fuck everything. I need a new job, a new husband, a new car, a new house, a new wardrobe, a new body, a new mind, a new past, a new present, a new future, a new mother, a new father, a new me, a new birthday, a new God, a new passion, a new vision.

I need more time. More pleasure. More money. More friends. More sex. More sleep. More food. More gas for my car. I need to go to the doctor. I need to be able to go to the doctor when I need to go to the doctor. I need stability. Security. Serenity.

I want cake. I want love. I want a kitten. I want to be left alone. I want to be understood. I want to be recognized. I want to matter. I want what I contribute to matter. I want to count. I want a voice. I want privacy. Peace.

I want a long, hot bath, and I want to cry in the bath tub. I want enough water. I want somebody to pay my water bill. I want some new shoes. I want to go on vacation. I want to see something wonderful. I want to see. I want to feel. I want to feel like myself again. I want everything to be ok. I want everything to be like I thought it would be. I want ease and delight. I want happiness and enough.

Photo Credit: Copy Me Happy

Zombie Love.

Sometimes, I look at my love for my husband, and I feel a little like the lady in "A Rose For Emily." I am keeping his body in my bed even though the man himself is gone. There are glimmers of him still there, but maybe that's just me fantasizing. Maybe there's nothing left.

I love him. I know that...it's just such a sad, sick-seeming love sometimes. He's all Frankensteined together from the original parts, and his head is such a mess. I wonder if he'll ever be himself again.

Last week I was looking at some old pictures. There was one of him I found when we'd gone on a work trip together. He was so excited about his job. I was so excited about mine. We were both so happy. He looked so handsome, and he was holding our dog. She was still a little puppy. It was a different time, a different place in both of our lives. I was so hopelessly in love with him, so hopelessly lost to myself. I do miss feeling that way, in some ways. I'm healthier, stronger now...but I miss that hopeless passion for him. I miss the feeling of rushing home to be with him. I miss the man that he was, that I thought he was, or that I thought he could become.

Photo Credit: Create

Still here.

Still tired. I bet I'll have a post again one day soon. Stay tuned.

Oh, let me try...do I have anything to say? I guess I have a little...

Sometimes, I realize that my husband does stupid stuff not only because he's an addict. The addict realization was so elegant (did everyone read MPJ on Spitzer?) that it makes me forget that there are other ways that he can do things wrong. My father always used to drive my mother crazy when he'd attempt to help her clean the house. He'd do a bunch of actions, and he'd accomplish some things, but it's almost as if he had a blind spot when it came to understanding the difference between a dirty floor and a clean floor. He'd push the broom around for the same amount of time as someone who was actually cleaning, but he'd just kind of stir the dirt all over the floor. Nothing would actually get any cleaner.

My husband does the same stuff. He meant to be helping me clean this weekend, and I kept getting really frustrated with him because nothing was getting cleaner. He was doing stuff, but nothing seemed to be done. My first instinct when his behavior frustrates me is to think of it in terms of his disease: he's acting like an addict. He's not doing what he said he'd do.

But as I was cleaning behind him today, re-cleaning what he'd already made motions of cleaning, I thought of my father pushing the dirt around the floor with the broom. Maybe it's not that he didn't do what he said he's going to do. Maybe he thinks he did do what he said. Maybe he's just kind of a dumb boy, doing the best he can and making something of a mess of it.

Funny.

Overwhelmed.

I am working too much. I'm tired, and I've got too much on my mind, and I can't focus or turn my mind off.

I realized that I did something kind of stupid. I got a little part time job, and it made me feel better. Instead of just enjoying feeling better, I got some more part time jobs. A little made me feel better, right? So a lot should make me feel great!

Now I'm working way more than I should, and I can't get anything done, and I'm kind of falling apart. It's a temporary situation, as I'm contracted for a few months for the part time work...but man, oh man, what a long few months it's going to be.