Mental Dribble
Posted on May 15, 2008 - Filed Under self reflect
So, arguing doesn’t help much to resolve the feelings I have, and my biggest issues probably
wouldn’t be that much an issue if I could simply use some energy to get them out and
organized. What is it that is keeping me unhappy right now? Amazingly, to some critics, you
would think marriage overall. However, it is more the unspoken aspects of what goes on in
our lives that wears me thin. I like marriage, and my husband is adorable just as much as he is a tyrant. I am guessing that I can be just as much a pain in the ass, just won’t admit it for fear it will be used against me. He even still smells good to me after a day without a shower.
After some bantering and heated words, I hear, “Go ahead, talk!” It tumbles from out from a mouth perfectly framed with wiry blondish-red scruff. But talking just doesn’t happen without interruption and interjections. Essentially, I need to talk to understand myself. Half of what I say has no permanent meaning, it is part of the process of digging through the layers of stuff that builds up. My mind needs maintenance. You let the dust bunnies develop and eventually you have enough to weave a carpet, a shawl, and possibly a thick winter bedspread. Frankly, I can’t stand waiting that long, I get smothered by my own distress.
Perhaps that is the appeal of being with my sister, I get to dump, and sweep, and decompress and even defragment in the span of time that she offers an ear. Otherwise, I am left to sweep a
room with no doors, and it doesn’t matter where I push the dust bunnies, they inherently
find another place to collect and gang up on me.
So the list looks like this.I stress out that my husband has an expensive hobby/potential career. It wouldn’t be so bad except I am not allowed to talk about how expensive the project is or my fears and anxiety about how expensive it is. Doing so impacts things on a whole other level, So I have to pretend it isn’t an issue. Do I want it to change? HELL, NO! Doing so would be asking for a very grumpy husband. It is probably worth every dime that he is happy doing what he loves.
That doesn’t change the fact that we have to find all those dimes. So, when another item gets added to the list for his project I cringe, trying not to ask, “How MUCH is it?” with that irritating little squeak as I squeeze the words out of my lungs. Sometimes it actually slips out without me saying one damn thing. I expect my eyes bug out, I turn blue, and my hair starts standing up like a monkey in heat; and I am sure the underarm hair makes it all the more attractive.
I can’t stand that my hair falls out in hordes, and I often think I look like I am in the first stages of leprosy. Yeah – it probably isn’t that bad, but in every flipping picture I see of myself that is exactly what I notice: how much hair I don’t have. I sometimes think my hair follicles are really part of a secret society of hair fascists vehemently plotting some hair-brained conspiracy to repeatedly freak me out, then make me hopeful, until the torture is just to much that I give up ghost and start talking. “Ok, Ok, I’ll talk!” Frankly, I have no clue what they want to hear? Ultimately, the phases of growth, loss, and regrowth are just too much. Every time I think I look human, things start falling out all over the place. I am even afraid to let my hubby put his hands through my hair for fear the little rebels will let loose the floodgates of hairlessness. Somehow, my hair is equivalent to my worth as a woman. Yeah, yeah – sounds ridiculous, but every time I see a commercial with some woman with long luxurious hair having orgasms after foaming up with shampoo I just want to die. I can barely breathe when I wash mine!
And then, there is the accounting. The infamous juggle of numbers four times a month. I don’t mind paying bills, and I am certainly excited by getting checks, however I think I am just exhausted from having the unending duty of making it my job, and my job only. That incessant “ca-Ching” that my computer makes each time I put in a transaction is like the clink of the handcuffs I wear to that job. Don’t get me wrong – money doesn’t hold me hostage, rather, having to keep track of it does. If I could just write the checks and not worry where it all comes from that would be great.
I guess that is a start. I could write for another hour, but I have some lessons to teach, and some interpersonal work to do…