my anxiety writes a poem

if my oldest son
never comes home
i will have to take his homemade ship
to the river myself
to launch it
after so many times of telling him,
“no, not today…”
i will have run out of days to spend
with him
maybe i will set it on fire
have a viking funeral
as i wish he would come home
if my second son
never comes home
i will never be able to return the movie
we are supposed to watch together
i will have to keep it
and pay the library
for it
knowing i could buy a cheaper copy
i will never let go
of the movie we were supposed to watch
as i wait for him to come home
if my daughter never comes home
i will build a shrine of
barbie dolls
and tutus
i will sit and sing to myself
surrounded by her special things
i will wish i could hear her
speak words
have a conversation with me
just once
just once
as i hope for her to come home
if my youngest son never comes home
i will die inside
knowing i wasn’t the mother to him
that he needed me to be
knowing that i failed him
from the beginning
and the only way i can save him
is to save myself
and bring him home to me

sometimes when my kids go to visit their dad, i go to a special hell reserved for moms. sometimes i breathe and relax and enjoy my alone time. other times i climb the walls and let the demons chisel at my thoughts.

i didn’t intend to be a stay-at-home mom. however, when it came time for me to go back to work after fidgit was born, i found i couldn’t do it. at first i tried taking him to work with me, which was strangely tolerated. but i realized i was doing two jobs half-assedly and decided i needed to make a choice.
i chose being a mom.
and it has been a hard road. a very hard road. my ego has suffered a lot and sometimes i find myself wondering, “what if–” about my choice to be a mom at all. and then the catholic part of me kicks in and i live in fear that i have hexed my children with such thoughts.

being a mom is so fucking complicated.

i just want my kids to come home so i don’t have time to think about it.

trying to save the dead

i have been working on the same inking for days now. playing sick (and actually being sick with a vicious head cold) from my art and blog life.
i think i am afraid to finish a new picture because i will have to blog something here about my life…& i’m not so happy about my life right now.seems i am back in re-runs again…but the inking is almost done, and i will post it tomorrow.

…so i buried a newborn lamb this morning.

not the cutie in the picture, but the twin that was later born…stillborn…sometime in the night or early morning. i found her curled up in her sac. perfect, still, and cold. i buried her, and then spent the rest of the day–first obsessing that i should have checked on buttercup (the mom) through the night and earlier in the morning. and then obsessing that maybe the baby wasn’t dead and that i just needed to get her out of her sac, rub her vigorously, warm her up, maybe give her mouth to mouth….

and then i wondered if i was doing the same thing with my relationship with dusty. obsessing over all of the things i’m doing wrong…trying to resurrect a dead thing.

because this just isn’t working out.

again.

his being here.

what went wrong?

other than everything.

it’s very possible i cannot be in a relationship with anyone. i have a touch of the OCD and am very particular about so many things…and he takes it personally. i have been trying to not let it get to me–you know, when he moves things from the place i keep them…or leaves things in a state that i would not have…. when i was nineteen, i thought if i ever got married i would have separate houses.

and then there are his issues. he goes on the defensive. he has started accusing me of gaslighting him (after i pointed out how he gaslights me.) he goes on the offense when he feels he has to protect himself. like mean & shout-y offense. an offensive offense.

and then i shut down.

and the circle spins. our vicious circle.

the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. but i get so hopeful & deluded so easily.

maybe it’s not hopeless…but it sure as fuck feels that way.

i’m writing this because no one ever responds when i ask for feedback

when i was nineteen, i started going to therapy because i was dating a guy who i knew was bad for me, but i could not break up with him.
i knew he was bad for me before i even started dating him. me & another friend would make fun of him all the time calling him “geek lord” and telling each other horrible true stories about him. lets call him “lester.”
lester was all industrial & goth (it was the early 90’s.) he owned a “mystic bookstore” and was a total pervert. he would brag about how many times a day he masturbated–while attending to his store. he was so lazy he would pee in a pitcher instead of walking to the bathroom.
so i knew he was gross.
but i also knew he had the hots for me.
and somehow i started dating him. i’m not sure how it happened. i only know that i have extraordinarily low self-esteem and just want people to love me but cannot believe that anyone can actually love me.
so i started dating the “geek lord,” and he would do things like lock me in his basement to keep me from storming off. he once called my answering machine (the 90’s remember) and ¬†left between 20 & 50 messages starting with “fuck you, bitch,” and ending with him softly moaning along to a ministry song.
everyone i knew told me to break up with him.
“i know i should,” i would answer, but i would stay.

so i started going to therapy.

among many other things, my therapist told me i had the social skills of a five year old. i was nineteen at the time.

the social skills of a five year old.

crap.

i eventually broke up with him for good. i was trying to shop & he wouldn’t let me shop. that is a weird line in the sand especially considering i really don’t like shopping. however, i had decided i needed to change my wardrobe. if i just changed my wardrobe, everything would magically be better, right?
so i needed to change my wardrobe.
years later i realize that this is part of having anxiety & ocd…but back then i just recognized it as a need that i need need needed.
lester went shopping with me. but every store it was all about him & what would he look good in? then he got tired of shopping and insisted i was done.
i refused to stop, and he tried to force me into his car.

so i ran. literally.
and then i changed my phone number.
i changed my locks.
i stopped going anywhere in that small college town that i might see lester.

it was the first time i had to go to extremes like that…but not the last.

so i am sitting here. feeling defeated about no one responding to my blog. no one responding to my facebook. and jenny lawson not validating my existence. so i am alone; alone and arguing with children and dogs. all while i have just gone to extreme measures to break up with yet another abusive narcissist whom i desperately looked for love from…

and i wonder…where are my social skills now? have i made it any further?

and wondering if maybe my therapist was being generous in her assessment.

why am i so needy? why am i always searching for that love i believe i will never find? why does it feel like a knife in my heart when i look at someone else’s blog and their “about” page has more likes than my blog has in its entirety? what does it matter…or why does it matter?

but it does, somehow.

fuck. i just feel so alone.

and i read jenny lawson’s book, and i sob because she might be fucked up…but she has people who love her. i don’t have that.

and worse…i can’t even imagine having it.