Had blood work done/drawn: 7/24 a.m.
Onset of current cycle: 7/26
Last one: 6/8
Mood: No great improvement; however, I have suspicions I am not "just a little blue" at times. I believe I'm either cyclothmic or bi-polar, and though the episodes come out of nowhere, they are most pronounced when I am PMSing, if I've overstimulated/stressed myself, and if I've gone too long between meals and start to get that "bottomed out" feeling.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Apropos of Something
T-Minus 34 days until I see the specialist again.
T-Minus 34 days until I tell the specialist what my decision will be, re: gastric bypass.
Still need to get my blood drawn for my 8/19 appointment.
Started riding my recumbent stationary bike, starting off with five minutes, and increasing it by five each night. Tonight should be 25 minutes. So far so good.
Mood: Bleak.
Laid down for bed around 11 p.m. last night. Strapped on the CPAP, took my first few breaths to get it started, and lay on my side for about a half hour, giving my bedroom curtains the "thousand yard stare," until I could feel sobs welling up inside me. I took off the CPAP and headed to the living room, to sit and sob in the dark.
I haven't been "necessarily compliant" with my Lexapro, I know this is part to blame. Lately I've felt very overwhelmed and distant. As I lay in my bed and I could feel the sobs creeping their way outward, forced outward by demons of the past mixing with the present.
Repressing and suppressing sad things is a coping mechanism. I haven't accepted a good lot of negative crap in my life, and in order to simply survive, I try to laugh at what I can, and ignore the rest. But "the rest" has its way of finding its way to the light of day. "The Rest" lays in wait, for those moments of vulnerability, when I am on the precipice of being on auto pilot, as one normally is as they lay waiting for precious sleep to take hold.
Last night as I lay next to the husband who was sound asleep by then, I felt so very alone. So distant. My mind wandered. My past and present intermingled in a copulation of sadness. I lay there wondering what truly connects one of us to the other? I feel so distant.
Even for sex, he doesn't seem pleased by my touch, and certain touching or touches that normally would lead any other man to the natural conclusion of coitus, just merely annoys my husband.
No amount of words can fix this. I've tried. No touching, caressing, kissing, sweet talking. No interest in me. No interest in pleasing me. No obvious indication I am pleasing him, whether by action or by my physical appearance. I walk around with this devastation daily. Yet I ignore what I can, as I can't fix any of it. Talking about it accomplishes nothing. His ego can only take so much. Me and my ego are just expected to accept it.
All I've ever craved was to be loved.
The past indignations of being told the evening of my first marriage that my exhusband should have listened to his brother; that marrying me was a mistake. And how two years later when I was going in for laser surgery for a recurrence of a cervical pre-cancer, my father took me, as my then-husband couldn't be bothered, and intoned, "If this means you cannot have children, then marrying you was the worst mistake of my life." And six short years later it all finally came crashing down like a sandcastle, "I never loved you. Marrying you was the worst mistake of my life."
It's been ten years since I walked away, and nine and a half years since the decree came through, and I relive this uncalled for sadness regularly.
It is difficult NOT to do so when you factor in the emotional distance I'm experiencing. Here I am going every three months to a specialist, and how it looks like I won't be able to have children of my own afterall... and it looks like eventually I'll be going in for gastric bypass... and yet all of these appointments I go to alone, much in the way of my sex life.
If I want to be loved, if I want comfort or to be taken care of, I have to be the one to do it. Even rigid oak trees planted side by side occasionally touch each other with a stiff breeze. I feel so alone; a sick kind of alone.
I need so much more than he is obviously able or willing to give me.
I'm tired of talking about it with him.
I'm sitting here at my desk at work pecking these words out, hoping to keep from crying from the stress of holding this in for one more moment; yet, the tears come anyway, and mock me.
Much in the way he attempts to take credit for any sexual pleasure I might get from using my back massager before allowing him to do what he wants to do with me (I do this to take care of my needs--as too often for the last almost seven years, I haven't felt loved or even acknowledged, sexually).
Sexually he is like a paratrooper; get in and out as quick and efficiently as possible. "Hit it and quit it."
So I take care of my needs first, then assume the position, always on all fours, no deviation. It could be anyone else he's entering. There's no touching. No eye contact. No kissing. No sweet or dirty talk. No nothing.
Sexually I feel as if I am nothing more than an anonymous glory hole, as coarse as that may be.
He sees nothing wrong with this. There's nothing hateful about it to him. He likes what he likes. However, my preferences don't factor into this.
I catch myself every once in a while. My thoughts are so intense, I fear they will turn into words if I am not careful. All week I've caught myself saying to myself how I just can't keep on going like this. I'm missing my other half of myself, my soul, my heart.
So each night before bed, as I'm taking those first deep inhales to get my CPAP going, and I am giving the curtains the thousand yard stare again, I pray in my head, "God please take me. Let me be your servant. I'm ready. Please take me. Just make it stop." And my eyes roll back in their sockets with each inhale, and if I don't make myself cry, if I'm lucky, some nights I disappear for a few precious hours of suspended animation as I sleep.
I took my Lexapro today. Might take another dose before bed too.
Yet, I do nothing. Make no moves regarding whether I should stay or go. I suppose my inaction is an action unto itself. However, I am trapped in a conundrum. I cannot tell if the entire reason why I am depressed is my sex life; or I can't tell if my sex life is as miserable as it is because I am depressed. I can't tell which is feeding the other. So I do the only judicious thing I can, and do nothing.
T-Minus 34 days until I tell the specialist what my decision will be, re: gastric bypass.
Still need to get my blood drawn for my 8/19 appointment.
Started riding my recumbent stationary bike, starting off with five minutes, and increasing it by five each night. Tonight should be 25 minutes. So far so good.
Mood: Bleak.
Laid down for bed around 11 p.m. last night. Strapped on the CPAP, took my first few breaths to get it started, and lay on my side for about a half hour, giving my bedroom curtains the "thousand yard stare," until I could feel sobs welling up inside me. I took off the CPAP and headed to the living room, to sit and sob in the dark.
I haven't been "necessarily compliant" with my Lexapro, I know this is part to blame. Lately I've felt very overwhelmed and distant. As I lay in my bed and I could feel the sobs creeping their way outward, forced outward by demons of the past mixing with the present.
Repressing and suppressing sad things is a coping mechanism. I haven't accepted a good lot of negative crap in my life, and in order to simply survive, I try to laugh at what I can, and ignore the rest. But "the rest" has its way of finding its way to the light of day. "The Rest" lays in wait, for those moments of vulnerability, when I am on the precipice of being on auto pilot, as one normally is as they lay waiting for precious sleep to take hold.
Last night as I lay next to the husband who was sound asleep by then, I felt so very alone. So distant. My mind wandered. My past and present intermingled in a copulation of sadness. I lay there wondering what truly connects one of us to the other? I feel so distant.
Even for sex, he doesn't seem pleased by my touch, and certain touching or touches that normally would lead any other man to the natural conclusion of coitus, just merely annoys my husband.
No amount of words can fix this. I've tried. No touching, caressing, kissing, sweet talking. No interest in me. No interest in pleasing me. No obvious indication I am pleasing him, whether by action or by my physical appearance. I walk around with this devastation daily. Yet I ignore what I can, as I can't fix any of it. Talking about it accomplishes nothing. His ego can only take so much. Me and my ego are just expected to accept it.
All I've ever craved was to be loved.
The past indignations of being told the evening of my first marriage that my exhusband should have listened to his brother; that marrying me was a mistake. And how two years later when I was going in for laser surgery for a recurrence of a cervical pre-cancer, my father took me, as my then-husband couldn't be bothered, and intoned, "If this means you cannot have children, then marrying you was the worst mistake of my life." And six short years later it all finally came crashing down like a sandcastle, "I never loved you. Marrying you was the worst mistake of my life."
It's been ten years since I walked away, and nine and a half years since the decree came through, and I relive this uncalled for sadness regularly.
It is difficult NOT to do so when you factor in the emotional distance I'm experiencing. Here I am going every three months to a specialist, and how it looks like I won't be able to have children of my own afterall... and it looks like eventually I'll be going in for gastric bypass... and yet all of these appointments I go to alone, much in the way of my sex life.
If I want to be loved, if I want comfort or to be taken care of, I have to be the one to do it. Even rigid oak trees planted side by side occasionally touch each other with a stiff breeze. I feel so alone; a sick kind of alone.
I need so much more than he is obviously able or willing to give me.
I'm tired of talking about it with him.
I'm sitting here at my desk at work pecking these words out, hoping to keep from crying from the stress of holding this in for one more moment; yet, the tears come anyway, and mock me.
Much in the way he attempts to take credit for any sexual pleasure I might get from using my back massager before allowing him to do what he wants to do with me (I do this to take care of my needs--as too often for the last almost seven years, I haven't felt loved or even acknowledged, sexually).
Sexually he is like a paratrooper; get in and out as quick and efficiently as possible. "Hit it and quit it."
So I take care of my needs first, then assume the position, always on all fours, no deviation. It could be anyone else he's entering. There's no touching. No eye contact. No kissing. No sweet or dirty talk. No nothing.
Sexually I feel as if I am nothing more than an anonymous glory hole, as coarse as that may be.
He sees nothing wrong with this. There's nothing hateful about it to him. He likes what he likes. However, my preferences don't factor into this.
I catch myself every once in a while. My thoughts are so intense, I fear they will turn into words if I am not careful. All week I've caught myself saying to myself how I just can't keep on going like this. I'm missing my other half of myself, my soul, my heart.
So each night before bed, as I'm taking those first deep inhales to get my CPAP going, and I am giving the curtains the thousand yard stare again, I pray in my head, "God please take me. Let me be your servant. I'm ready. Please take me. Just make it stop." And my eyes roll back in their sockets with each inhale, and if I don't make myself cry, if I'm lucky, some nights I disappear for a few precious hours of suspended animation as I sleep.
I took my Lexapro today. Might take another dose before bed too.
Yet, I do nothing. Make no moves regarding whether I should stay or go. I suppose my inaction is an action unto itself. However, I am trapped in a conundrum. I cannot tell if the entire reason why I am depressed is my sex life; or I can't tell if my sex life is as miserable as it is because I am depressed. I can't tell which is feeding the other. So I do the only judicious thing I can, and do nothing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)