So if you read all of my blogs, you'd know I posted about receiving this DVD in the mail the other day over at my yoga blog, Chakra Blah Blah. Still have yet to break the cellowrap on it. I also ended up getting The Fiber 35 Diet book, too. Same thing. Haven't cracked the binding. What's the point? None of it's going to work.
Had a fight with the husband today about getting "in shape" for our cruise in June. I was fat when he met me. I was fat when he married me. I had no idea when I promised him before we got married that I'd adhere to a set weight loss goal, that I would be so challenged in getting my weight off. It seems so impossible. Some days I just sit at my desk at work and sob. Some nights when we are out to dinner, I have to excuse myself to go to the rest room to sob.
I don't know if it registers with him.
He claims he loves me.
I wish he'd just kill me. And no, he's not a physically abusive man. Every gray hair on my head were put there with each put down, with each argument we've had, with each tear he's made me shed.
I don't think he realizes how much I think simply not existing would be a fine substitute for what I am doing right now. I think he might view everything herein (assuming he snoops, which is a crapshoot at this point) as me crying wolf.
L*xapro only goes so far. I wish I were truly dead inside. I wish I were already zombi-fied. I wish none of this mattered to me anymore. I wish the tears did not come anymore. I wish I could make my peace with this.
I'm wondering how much of this emotional disturbance is due to the PCOS, or if I have something actually chemically wrong with me, or is my husband TRULY THAT disgusted with me.
I live every day of my life knowing how embarrassed he must be by being married to me. He claims he isn't... but I live every day of my life knowing what a fucking disappointment I am.
Normal people, they wake up refreshed, thankful for a new day to be experienced.
I wake up and my first thought before my feet hit the floor is, "Oh shit... I didn't die in my sleep."
I broke a promise.
So did he, he claimed to love me, honor me, cherish me...
The only time he truly acknowledges my presence is to use me like his own personal glory hole or to berate me about my fatness.
250+ Pounds isn't "Oh She'll Need a Piano Case for a Casket Fat." Yet somehow...that thought, that feeling is bubbling beneath the surface.
I am the one living with this extra weight on my frame. I am the one who worries about what kind of life will I have when I am older, because I see the writing on the wall. I see how my mother is, struggling not only with her weight, but also with the secondary problems of her obesity, primarily her Type II diabetes and her cellulitis (on top of her lymphedema and rheumatoid arthritis, et al).
Every day it's a struggle for me. I'm not a glutton, despite what my husband and others might think when they look at me. Had I known five nearly six years ago the level of disdain my husband would have towards me due to what he views as me breaking my promise to him, I doubt if I would have married him.
There I said it.
And couple all of this up with the fact that over 30+ years of my life, I had been trying to survive the swirling vortex of dysfunction that is my family and my own depression... then the disharmony in my workplace... struggling with my feelings of invisibility and suicidal fantasies... knowing that my home and my husband are NOT my sanctuary, what IS the point in living?
I don't do a damned thing about it because I am a coward, or I might just be as lazy as the husband claims I am.
I have stockpiled enough of my blood pressure medication... however, I don't know how much would be sufficient to do the job... assuming I weren't such a whimp about it. With my luck, I'd take enough to make me a vegetable, but not OFF myself completely. Just what I would want, right? To spend the rest of my life in a state hospital, drooling on myself as I sit in a shitty diaper with bedsores the likes of which you can ram your fist into.
Actually, I think there you have it. The REAL reason why I don't off myself, being in a "permanent vegetative state."
Not cowardice.
Not laziness.
Not fear of eternal damnation.
**Update, 10:09 p.m.**
Barely speaking to him.
Showered.
Went to Barnes & Noble to buy one of those Bunny Suicide books.
Self-medicate at the Chinese buffet.
Came home in time to see the Sopranos' season opener...
