In an effort to be honest and not be one of those types that says I have something going on in my life but can't say what, I'm transcribing this entry from my paper journal.

The Bottomless Pit

I'm figuring things out today, not that I haven't "done" that a million times before. Even though I've been writing more, it's been less for me and more for an audience. I get things out of it, but I don't get the same emotional ventilation I get by writing whatever. I worry about grammar and being boring. I'm afraid to talk about how sad and out of sorts I feel. I don't want to dwell on things even though my heart and mind are stagnating in insecurity and self-loathing. I want to put on the face for that world of people I don't even know. I still want to be liked and considered a valuable member of society, so I keep quiet. I don't talk about how much I'm not exaggerating about my house being a pig pen or how unproductive and lazy I am. I don't talk about what a thoroughly shitty mother I am. I don't talk about how lonely I am. I don't talk.

I ramble and rant and mutter and put a lot of too-sweet icing on a rotten, burnt lopsided cake. Sadly, despite the sugar coating, I still come off a loser, which further supports how pitiful I've become. I can say nothing and still be pathetic.

I just don't want to be sorry for myself all the time, even though that's exactly what I am. What I really want is to sulk and cry and whine, but I can't seem to manage that either. I want to sob on John's shoulder while he nods sympathetically, dabs my puffy eyes with tissues and tells me how beautiful I am, even though my nose is red and swollen to twice its size. I want to mean the world to someone other than myself.

Part of the reason I think I don't cry is because once it starts, it doesn't stop. It's ugly and ragged. I feel like the very life within me is seeping out through those tears because they are hopeless and vain. I don't feel better when it stops. I feel spent and lifeless, and only cleaned myself out for more bitterness and despair. I don't cry because I hate the cycle. Exploding seems more palatable.

Am I depressed? Likely. Why don't I do something about it? Same reason as many. The stigma. Going to a therapist because my marriage was failing was acceptable. Seeing a psychiatrist because my ex was troubled and affecting me was understandable. Seeing one of those because I can't get my shit together is weak. I don't want to be weak. I don't want to be that weak.

It seems bad enough that I can't manage my life. J has a great job that provides very well for us. He loves me and is the most faithful man I've ever known. I have two very bright, lovely children. I have a good extended family and friends who love me. I get to stay home, and my job is flexible and simple. What kind of screwed up moron can't be happy with all I have? Obviously that would be me. But is it just that I don't know how to count my blessings? I've tried that damn Gratitude Journal ten times in nearly four years and always ended up dreading it. Am I that ungrateful and pessimistic or do I have valid reasons for feeling this way?

There I go again, in need of validation. I have to be told I'm OK. I have to be liked and wanted and needed and justified and right and normal and smart. Nobody tells me these things anymore. I always had school or men or friends who did that. I need that to create the confidence I don't have. I never learned to do it on my own. It was always based on the opinions of others. I have no self-confidence because it never came from me.

Part of me thinks this current lull is a monthly thing. It does get worse every time this month but it's not because of this time of the month. It's an undercurrent of my life, not a visitor to it.

As much as I want to blame this on some thing, I know it is me; my inability to cope, and as much as I don't want to be flawed and wish to be perfect, I am flawed and not perfect. That is normal. What isn't is I still try, as if that's some attainable goal.

But really, it hasn't so much to do with wanting to be perfect as wanting to feel loved. And there's a grand chasm between feeling you're loved and knowing you're loved. I've known I'm loved my whole life, but I never really knew what it was to be wrapped up and cuddled in that until I began dating. Then I felt loved. If you've felt it, you know the difference. Some people don't know the difference because they've always just felt it or just known it. Some people can accept that. I'm not one of those people. That's why growing up in a loving family that didn't express itself was difficult for me. I don't think my parents did anything wrong. They were and are really great, but they are also different than I am. So I came across as needy, overly emotional and self-centered while I thought for years they were cold and controlling. It took me at least seventeen years to realize we're both operating by our personality blueprints. Finally the blaming and anger stopped, and I loved them more than I ever have. God help me if it takes that long with John.

My challenge in life must be finding love for myself within myself or some such thing, or I would not have chosen John. He is just like my parents. He doesn't express himself and tries to do what he can through deeds rather than interaction. I have to say, he's rather poor at deeds too, so mostly I'm left with his word. As much as I love words, they only go so far with me. Deeds go a little father. Expression goes right where I need. I'm not asking for romance or candlelight dinners. I just want to be told I look nice once in a while. I want him to want to go out with me other than band gigs. I don't want him to wonder why I make it a point to tell him I'm showering. I want to hear dinner was delicious. I want to hear I'm a good mother. I want him to hold my hand once in a while or tell me he loves me on the phone.

There. That was a big, ugly meltdown, partially in front of my daughter. She made me a get-well card and told me she loves me. At least she seems to be quite capable of loving others and expressing it.