So Tuesday morning, instead of going back to the allergist as scheduled, I called my mother, who was supposed to take me to the appointment, to tell her "don't bother--I'm not going." Since about Friday, I'd been feeling less-than-100%; by Monday, most of my focus was needed to keep my stomach contents in place, and by the wee hours of Tuesday morning, I knew it wasn't getting any better. Fortunately I'd scheduled the day off anyway.
Mom, however, needed to pick up some paperwork from me. She's leaving tomorrow to go out of town for a family event, and I'd booked the flight online. Even though she had all the codes and info, Mom is not the sort of person who can walk into an airport with just some hand-written notes; she's got to have something PRINTED, or she's not at peace. I can understand that. She said she'd come by around noon to pick the papers up; I tried, at least, to straighten up anything I thought would cause comment.
Now, let's look for just a moment at the state of things here in Gladystopia. I'm still dealing with the itches, somewhat; they're better, but they're still not gone. In deference to the possibility that it's my meds I'm allergic to, I've now been off my antidepressants for over six weeks. I am seriously stressed out about bullshit at my job, and frankly I'm doing quite well to get through the basic daily routines right about now. Oh, and now let's layer three days of nausea on top of the equation. The point being: My apartment is not at its best right now. It's not -dirty-; it's just messy. The laundry is in a large pile that overruns the boundaries of the hamper; there are dishes soaking in the sink; things need to be picked up and put in their rightful place, and unfortunately this apartment is not overrun with "rightful places" in the first place. I have lots of make-shift shelves, bookshelves full of not-books, things like that.
So: Mom comes in. She is fully aware of the situation--I'm stressed, depressed, itchy, and now nauseated. Her first comments: "What's this with your hair?" (I had put in a braid the night before, then taken it out but didn't wet it down, so I had a crinkly piece toward the front.) "Your face is kinda puffy again, isn't it?" (Yup.) "I'm worried about you. I mean..." (long pause) "...You're not on drugs again, are you?" (Sigh. No, Mom. I'd probably be feeling better if I was, to be honest.)
She stayed about an hour. About 20 minutes in, I started feeling REALLY pukey, and I'd found that I felt better if I laid down, so I went into my room and told her to follow me. She came into my room and immediately started in on "the mess". "This place would drive me crazy," was her comment. "Don't you have a hamper?" THEN she started picking up objects. "What's this? What's that over there? What are you reading? What's this catalog? What's that--a box of Froot Loops? Gladys..." At one point, she picked up a sketchpad from a table near my bed, and I asked her to leave it alone. "Really?" she said, "I can't...?" "I'd rather not," I told her. "Well, I hope it's nothing....pornographic, or anything..." (No, Mom, actually, it's me trying to work out my unhappiness in cartoon form. Remarkably enough, it pretty much starts with the declaration you threw at me all the months after JP's death: "Why do you think your life should be different? You're no different than anyone else..." So...yeah, I'd really rather have ONE item in my room safe from your intrusions--IF you don't mind--since my own damn BRAIN can't even have that much anymore.)
Eventually, thank heaven, she left. And I went back to bed, and around 11 PM I woke up feeling mostly-better, and also hungry enough to eat a buffalo. Instead I settled for a little bowl of leftover rice--no use pissing off the tummy-gods--and this morning when I woke up, I was fine. Well, my stomach was fine, anyway. My mind...well.
And then, tonight, I decided it would be a good night to return all the calls I'd been ignoring while I was feeling pukey. Tim didn't answer, so I left him a message and went on to the next call: Debbi.
You all know: Debbi has been my friend since we were preschool age. I know she wouldn't intentionally upset me for anything. Today, though...well, I wished I'd left that call for another day.
Debbi is getting married soon. I don't know whether or not I like her guy; I've really only met him a couple of times, and he's definitely not what I would have expected her to pick, but she says she's happy. She ALSO, however, admitted that she'd just taken two days off to have anxiety attacks about whether or not she really wants to get married. I would characterize this as 25% normal cold-feet, and 75% Other. And I think, on some level, she's trying to convince herself.
However, as much as I'd like to be her sounding board about "I've already lived the wild part of my life, I won't miss it" and "I'm happy just to come home and have him there, or wake up and the dishes are done, or..." ...As much as I'd like to be her sounding board (or maybe even to ask the right questions to have HER see how weird that all sounds from an outside standpoint)...can I tell you, just talking about "the wild part"--which she seems to somehow think I'm "over" too--is like having bamboo splinters shoved under my nails. There were a couple of times when I had to tune out what she was saying and focus on something meaningless for a minute, just so I wouldn't sound like I was ready to cry--which I totally was. And you don't want to rain on the nearly-wed's parade when she talks about how fabulous it is to have someone to come home to, but...again, I ain't the one to talk to about it. Not in general; DEFINITELY not at the moment.
I got off the phone as soon as I could, and went into the kitchen and had my cry while washing the dishes. At least the kitchen is clean...
There's more to it; more connected to the way I feel society sees me as a middle-aged, unmarried woman with no children; and the way I see my life, with my mother hanging over it so effectively that she doesn't even need to object anymore to what I want, because I've now got her objections down so well that I fill them in for myself. I don't really see a path through this, you know? It's just one of those things...
I'm tired of trying to count my blessings. I'm tired of trying to be a good person and not question the way things happen. I'm tired of trying to rise above it all. It's hard, sometimes, not to even see myself as a petulant child; because somewhere underneath all the pretty little words and the psychobabble, one of the main issues I have with all of this is: It's not fair. And honestly, all I really want is someone--maybe even just myself--to be able to honor that little voice instead of seeking to shut it up with the callous adult's: Of course it isn't. Life isn't fair. Why should you be any different?
We always seem to come back to that question, don't we.
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