'Ailina Willis

Off the Page

2011-02-23T02:33:00.000-06:00

I think the loony bird is lighting atop my head again. I suppose it's about time for it to since I've neglected my meds for so long now.

When it comes, I go through moments when I'm not sure if the fog is lifting or clearing, whether I'm seeing reality grotesque or seeing how grotesque reality really is. So settles the rage and rage at the rage because I'm uncertain whether or not I should be raging at all.

And I all at once resent him and pity him. What a shame. For both of us.

And I recall something I've known since the very, very beginning: the awful truths -- that is, the truths that are awful -- enjoy the singular privilege of documentation. Why?

He's always thought it's because the awful truths are the sum of my sentiment which is neither true nor fair. Not true, because the everyday and dominating joy aren't recorded because that is one of the gifts of this life...to enjoy the days, breathing them in and out, LIVING them and not lamenting them. And not fair because what is and is not written has never been written or not for him, but for ME, because writing has been a sixth sense of mine since I could construct a meaningful sentence. To write, to understand, to purge and store awful truths in a way and place that should be exempt from judgement and anyone else's analysis and report.

What he's never understood is that the paper is my counselor and confidante. A help and comfort to me, not some sort of sick weapon.

So, when he digs up what's written in search of the truth, he does not find it -- only the sprawling landfill of the awful things I've cut out of myself, and he thinks this is the whole of the landscape.

And then his own defenses and offenses raise up against me because apparently, "All she sees of our life is a landfill." No one knows what paradise surrounds it.

I believe he's read every word I've ever written, and yet, I've read only a snapshot or two of his. No truths, awful or no, partial or full, have been mine to judge or not judge.

So it is injustice and condemnation. And shame in writing the things I need to in order to try my best to maintain some distinction between reality and delusion.

Some day, the kids will read these things freely, and I fear they may, too, buy into the deception the landfill is all there is. How tragic, but who is to blame? I don't know why my paper only burns on pain.

Self-Taught Photography: Aperture

2011-01-10T00:57:00.001-06:00

So I've been trying to teach myself how to use the digital camera we've had for three years now. It's finally time to move away from the "auto" setting and make use of all the great refining features we paid for. Figured I'd start out simple and learn what in the world "aperture" means since Photographer-Brother throws the word around so frequently.

I swear understanding did not sink in until I'd watched at least seven or eight different YouTube tutorials, listened to Miner try to explain it in twelve different ways, and drawing myself a little diagram and chart to memorize.

Epiphany. It finally clicked (no pun intended), and I THINK I get it now.

Greater aperture number (f-stop) = greater "depth if field" = greater area of focus.

Lesser aperture number = lesser "depth of field" = lesser area of focus.

In a sunflower-seed-shell: (re: focus) high f# INCLUDES, low f# ISOLATES.

Off-topic but not entirely unrelated...I learned the term "bokeh" ('bo' as in 'bone' -- 'keh' as in 'kennel') refers to the technique of photographing a foreground subject over a blurred background. This would best be achieved with a lower f-stop setting. Good for me to know, because I've always naturally tried to create the bokeh effect in pictures I've taken.

And I've also found a free autodidact-style website with free photography self-study articles -- PhotographyCourse.Net:

http://photographycourse.net/learn-photography

2011: Rockin' the Supermom

2011-01-01T02:45:00.001-06:00

2010 was the Year of Choosing the Right Thing. I did my sincere best to fulfill that ambition last year. Didn't always succeed, which I could only objectively discover in hindsight, but I gave it a heroic effort, and I feel all the better for it. Now on to bigger and better ambitions.

2011 is the Year of Rockin' Supermom. The goal is to focus HARD on bringing peace, order, and enrichment to this home. Working on a plan of attack.

Battle 1: ASSESSMENT. An honest (and likely painful) survey of where this family is in terms of finances, education, communication, health, faith, etc. (not necessarily in that order).

Battle 2: PURGING. Of all things wasteful, including the worst habits, purposeless items in the home, junk food, junk TV, junk purchases.

Battle 3: THE ALMIGHTY ROUTINE. It's gonna get ugly before a new scheme takes, but the Routine is key to the success of this entire campaign.

Battle 4: REWARD. Equally important...we've got to make time and arrest the resources for enjoying the family. Otherwise, what's the point?

So, clear vision, strong management, and focus are going to win this war. I know I've got what it takes. I'm in love with this family, and that's all the motivation I need.

(God, suit me up.)

Hiding: Day 54 -- My Catastrophes

2010-06-07T12:33:00.001-05:00

Miner's first day gone, and it's already started out on a crappy note. Rocky -- who was supposed to let himself in -- knocked on the door to be LET in. And then he informs me he has company with him (in direct violation of what is probably the most important family policy right now: No Visitors.).

So that means I will wait in abject anxiety until it's over, which could be now, later, or never.

And I'm furious at Rocky no matter how sincere and compassionate his apologies are. He fudged the house policy at my very, very great (relatively) expense, and this, after Miner extended his weekend privileges because he is the more lenient parent.

Thanks a lot, son.

-----

So much for best-laid plans for a few small baby steps in the right direction.

Priss offered to give Rocky her place in line for the bathroom because his shower would be quicker than her bath, but he let the water run for 45 minutes or more, give or take, no thought to his sister's kindness.

And maybe it wasn't the best decision for me to make, but I did decide to exert myself and call him on it, which he pushed against.

I should've been prepared for that, as an acknowledged risk, but I didn't -- stupid me who must always be in control and make judgments. I could not let it go.

So he stormed out of the room and snapped at Priss out of his anger at me, "Thanks, Prissy!" which was an additional travesty, as that was his payment to her for her generosity.

So I called him in here to point out his wrong, and what should happen but a huge escalation and blow-up about his selfishness and the result was me bellowing, "GET OUT!"

Miner is entirely inaccessible at the moment, so in my desperation, I called Mom in tears for the second time this week. She saved the day, apparently getting through to him when I couldn't, explaining what I couldn't about my condition, yet in a way that was respectful to me and not pitying. (Ah, pride survives all else.)

She told him these aren't normal times, I'm fragile right now, and we all have to deal with things in a different way. He understood that and agreed to "lie low."

The resolution came with an apology and him asking if I needed anything, and me apologizing and reassuring him I don't dislike his friends, I just can't tolerate stress of any kind, yada, yada, yada.

Thank God for my mother.

Naturally, Rocky's friend would be in earshot of the fallout, witnessing the worst it gets, because his mere presence alone added enormous pressure to me, which I knew would be the case if Rocky ever had company over during this time, which is why the policy is in place to begin with, to PREVENT meltdowns and blowups and explosions and implosions and all the like.

They just don't comprehend how delicate is the balance, how their trivial things are my catastrophes. And at times, I myself forget, when I try to take on something like a few phonecalls because I think I'm ready for it.

Hiding: Day 53 -- Condensed Homecoming

2010-06-07T03:37:00.001-05:00

1. Hugs, flowers, chocolate, new coffee maker.
2. "We got new bathing suits!" (Read: tankinis I've specifically made a policy against.)
3. Meltdown.
4. Attempt at communication, explanation, resolution with spouse.
5. Fragile resolution: Husband leaves room, depressed wife self-medicates and dissolves into pathetic, weeping wad of self-pity.
6. Compassion, communication.
7. Shared nap for the first time in WEEKS.
8. Woman discovers archeological jackpot: McFaddin Beach, TX (east of High Island).
9. Shared enthusiasm.
10. Excavation trip inspiration? = Something new to look forward to?

-----

The McFaddin Beach Excavation Trip is EXACTLY what the doctor ordered. Secluded beach for miles and miles, well enough west of the oil spill that the kids should be able to swim with no trouble, a heavy concentration of archeological artifacts for Miner and I to beachcomb to our hearts' content, possible camping locale.

What more could we ask for?

I think it's funny our idea of a great beach vacation differs so dramatically from what most people envision. Don't get me wrong -- I love resort style vacations as much as everyone else, but moreso the idea of seclusion and the chance to find fossils and prehistoric artifacts. That makes up greatly for a lack of white sand and piña coladas.

The kids are definitely getting their Earth Science.

-----

"Grand Multiparity" - Having had more than five pregnancies; quoted br Dr. R***** in reference to me on the ultrasound order.

-----

Ate crab cakes and cabbage with him at dinner table. Talked about rocks and projectile points. Watched "Wolfman" together on the couch. Talked about dentistry. Now, he's gone, and I'm feeling awfully incompetent and unprepared.

Took prenatal vitamins for 4th night in a row (Good job, 'Ailina). Small responsibility successes.

No goals for tomorrow, except to find out accurate due date.

Bottom line: Feeling better, but damned scared about facing tomorrow alone. And very worried Wednesday appointment won't happen the way I want it to. Irrational fear, probably, but the anxiety is real.

Hiding: Day 51 -- Recovering at Mom's

2010-06-05T21:50:00.001-05:00

I've decided to try to make a list of small milestones to look forward to, to get me through the hours and days until I'm well. I think I'll make a separate master list so I can add to it. First item: toast, sausage gravy, and orange juice for breakfast.

Things to Look Forward To

. Today: Toast, sausage gravy, and orange juice for breakfast.
. Tomorrow: Chicken & dumplings for lunch.
. Monday: Ultrasound.
. Wednesday: Psych appointment, prescriptions.

Hmm...not as dramatically effective as I thought it would be. Only four items on the list, and they end at Wednesday.

-----

Slept very, very little, and still more bad dreams. But woke up to two items on my list: toast & gravy and chicken & dumplings. Wasn't expecting both. But now I've overeaten, and I'm back in bed. I tried to sit up with Mom and Stepdad to watch TV with them for a while, but I was too weak and tired.

I expect Miner and the kids are on the road here for their cousins' birthday party. I doubt I'll see them or hear from them, which is another stress I have to get through, but there's always solitaire.

-----

Haven't heard from the family. Not that I really expected to.

Alternating between eating, playing solitaire, and sitting with Mom and Stepdad watching home improvement shows.

Feeling a little less foreboding today. Even surprised to find a few inspirational ideas going through my head for homeschooling, field trips, things with Miner, preparing for the baby, fixing the house.

But I really should ignore those thoughts with the same urgency I ignore the negative ones, because even positive thoughts will lead to the same place: pressure, failure, and/or disappointment. Then I'll be right back where I am right now because everyone will expect me to be "back to my old self," ready to take on the whole world. Ready, willing, and able to make a difference.

Not taking a step in ANY direction until I'm on medication. Period. For my own safety and sanity, and for the safety and sanity of those around me.

-----

Texted him to ask if he'd made it home yet. That was at 8:30. He hadn't even left yet. They won't be getting home until around midnight, if not later.

Been playing silly text-based games I downloaded. None are very good quality. Wish I had it in me to read a story. At least until I get sleepy. May take a melatonin anyway, even though it didn't help much last night.

Hiding: Day 50 -- How Doth He Love Me

2010-06-05T05:19:00.000-05:00

Seems even isolated here in my old bedroom in Leesville, I can't escape the pain of being. My body is arranged in just the environment I need -- calm, quiet comfort -- but my head is still sick.

And 4.5 more days until I can drag myself into the psychiatrist's office to ask for some relief.

Had a migraine since before the sun came up. Not sure why. Had biscuits and gravy for breakfast, chili for lunch. Even a half cup of coffee. Some o.j. with breakfast, buttermilk with lunch. Slept most of the day. Tried sitting up with Mom and Stepdad in the afternoon, but they had a visitor, and tried thumbing through mail order catalogs for a while but that ended up stressing me out for some reason. So I came back to bed and have been wrestling with this headache ever since. That, and more crying. The pain of that makes me so sick I don't even want to write about it, but to be general, thinking about the vicious cycle of wanting to be loved but pushing them (him) away, needing him but not wanting to need him and not trusting he sincerely CARES anyway.

How sad is that.

-----

I wonder, how long would it be before he'd miss me if we were apart? I mean, truly miss me? I think he has such an apathetic approach to life. It's like he experiences no emotion.

He once told me he rarely feels anything and is never "happy." At the time, he was describing what he thought might be Depression, but out of context, it's true -- it seems he is never happy or excited about anything. Especially nothing related to me.

Not a good time for me to be mulling over all this, since now is prime time for internalization and self-blame.

-----

Have played solitaire for solid hours this evening. Have even researched the connection between solitaire and Depression. The game helps so much to keep my brain active and focused and OFF the tormenting thoughts, which have taken a turn down those paths I've locked away and made permanently off-limits in my mind -- namely, his past transgressions, real, imagined, and every degree in between.

I would drag him off to marriage counseling if I were already being treated. Going now would be like trying to form a puzzle picture with pieces from a motorcycle, a radio, maybe a few items from the closet, a big blue ball, and Scotch tape. (????)

He sent me a photo of a bouquet of flowers he and Priss picked up for me while grocery shopping last night. In my favorite color. And it made me cry.

Ensuing Thoughts in Order:
1. I am so loved, more than I must know.
2. I am so loved, and so undeserving.
3. Maybe it was an impulse buy that was more of an afterthought and really didn't have anything to do with me.
4. Maybe it was a peace offering or some kind of compensation for a guilty conscience.
5. These thoughts are ridiculous. I'm crazy and don't deserve flowers.
6. Flowers = sadness.

??????

I took a melatonin, hoping it would knock me off the solitaire thing, but the only reason why I'm stopping now is because the phone battery is about to die, it's 12:25 AM, and I have to pee. Otherwise, I'd keep playing until I passed out. Certainly better than going to sleep to possibly face awful, awful dreams.

-----

4:30 AM. Disturbed by a dream I had that he somehow ended up with an invitation to some kind of business symposium, so he dressed up in a suit a pretended to go as a business entrepreneur. When it was his turn to introduce himself, he said he was into porn distribution and sales.

Then, a couple in the chair next to him started making out, then screwing, and he was trying to look away but couldn't help himself. Then suddenly everyone in the symposium was coupled up and copulating except him, but then some lady came over to him and he left with her. I ran to the airport trying desperately to get a ticket out of there but couldn't.

Then I dreamt I was trying to run him a bath, but Priss told me, "Gran is the only one who can run him a bath the way he likes it." I was so hurt. He didn't seem at all willing to tell me how to take care of him but was perfectly happy to have me remain inadequate.

And still fixating on him and imagining him noncommittal and indulging in all sorts of borderline vices I'll never know about. Usually, I can ignore the possibility and leave his sin (real or imagined) in his lake of sin (real or imagined) and separate myself from it, compartmentalize that in him, and live. But this Depression has destroyed all my coping mechanisms and left me defenseless against all these horrible thoughts.

So I end up resenting phantoms, reacting to apparitions, which sends me into a suppressed rage and perpetuates the bitter cycle of self-loathing.

There are even times when I feel like suggesting we separate.

?????

Hiding: Day 48 -- OB appt. & "Mom's Sanitarium"

2010-06-03T22:49:00.000-05:00

Saw the OB today. Almost cancelled because this morning was the worst by far -- I think because Miner finally made it home so his presence was heavy and adversarial.

Couldn't tolerate a moment of it, so I called Mom crying, asking if I could come rest for a few days. Unbeknownst to me, she hopped in the car right away intent on coming to my rescue and sweeping me back to Leesville. So here I sit.

Miner intended to go with me to the appt., but I asked him not to, told him it would only add more stress. He relented.

As I was walking out the door, Mom called to say she was meeting me at the hospital.

I arrived before she did, and I have to say, the waiting room almost killed me. Packed with young couples, ladies yakking on their cell phones (naturally I could hear BOTH sides of the conversation), and a couple out-of-control toddlers running around, knocking things over and pulling things down. Loud. Chaotic. Encroaching. Torturous. I thought my head might split open. All I could do was sit there with my eyes squeezed shut, wringing my hands and envisioning the strange boiler-bladder I invented in my head, into which I funnel all stress and anxiety. It didn't help much. Especially overhearing one of the ladies "sharing the news" with one of her girlfriends who was squealing and laughing on the other end of the line.

Somehow, I made it through an hour of that. I ALMOST went to the window to reschedule, but never did. Mom showed up just as the nurse called me back for vitals. She was thrilled to see me, even under such awful circumstances, and she agreed to wait while I saw the doctor alone.

Weight was 121 pounds. (That's a difference of 16 pounds (or "libs," as Squeak pronounced the abbreviation at Pirate's Cove Mini-Golf in Hot Springs (because Pirate Blackbeard was 6'4" and weighed 250 lbs ("libs") according to the informational plaque on Hole 14))). Blood pressure was 100/71.

Had to go back through memory and recall all five kids' birthdates, birth weights, methods of delivery, and places of birth. I could only guess on the weights.

Due date is September 25th, unless the ultrasound reveals differently.

Dr. R***** was well-paced, thorough, acutely receptive to what I told him. He was on-board right away with my desire for a homebirth and seemed bewildered when I said it was "up to him" whether or not I'd go forward with it (I went on to explain the potential complications of my Depression and thyroid disease).

He performed a doppler. Took him a minute to find the baby's heartbeat, but find it he did. I almost said something witty about that confirming I am indeed pregnant, but the coy remark didn't make it to my throat. I was too mystified to have heard this little one's "pana."

And, too, I realized how little I've bonded with this child because I've been so buried in my own misery. Just like what happened with Bunny. All the more reason to claw my way out of this hole -- so that distant relationship doesn't happen again.

I'll see Dr. R***** again in two weeks.

Went for labs. A whopping $100 per vial of blood (if you break it down that way, and the phlebotomist took SIX). But, my thyroid panel was included, and that's most important. I may have the results as early as Monday...

...when I'll be going in for the ultrasound. Miner won't be here for that, but maybe I'll get a printout or something to send to him. And I'll have to remember before it's too late: "Don't reveal the gender, please."

Wednesday is my psych appointment. GAWD, I can't wait for that. She'll review my TSH thyroid results, and she'll prescribe hormone replacement pills and an antidepressant for my Depression and Anxiety. I'm HOPING she'll be able to prescribe a mild sedative I could take on an as-needed basis to get me through until the SSRI's kick in, which could be anywhere from two to four weeks, assuming I'm not dead by then. (joking)

As soon as I have my new scripts, I'm high-tailing it to see the midwife, if she'll still have me.

So after all that medical voodoo today, the account is about $$$ emptier (could've choked up a lung writing out those checks, including the prescription for "bigger-better" prenates). I take solace in the fact that's $$$ paid toward the total cost of labor and delivery, which we're figuring to be about $3000 total.

And now I'm in the little full-sized bed in my old bedroom, in the soft darkness and silence. Mom is here to help take care of me. Stepdad is here to make delicious soups. And I'm far, far from home so I won't be a burden or thorn to anyone, and they won't be a burden or thorn to me.

Hiding: Day 47 -- (Graphic) Mal-Ideations

2010-06-03T01:58:00.000-05:00

Woke up crying this morning. Sleeping off and on. Bad headache. No appetite again. And trying not to think about him. He's a sore foot I want to gnaw off.

And now I don't want to see the OB. I don't want to worry about appearing healthy or appearing sick. Or how I appear, because how I appear is not an accurate reflection of anything. This illness is a bag of mixed nuts.

"What's the problem?"

I don't even know where to begin.

Try, "Everything's my fault, and nothing's my fault. I want to salvage everything in my life, and I want to destroy it. It means everything and nothing at all."

Today, I notice I've begun to detach myself from other human beings. I don't feel in sync with anything. I don't feel part of the family -- or any family. I don't feel married, in an arrangement of any kind.

It's like I was a piece if a complete puzzle, but I'm not a piece of anything anymore, but maybe instead, that little, useless ball of lint under the couch the wasn't created for any purpose, but rather, formed from various wastes drifting about that eventually clung together to make "me."

What happens to useless lint?

Last night, I fell asleep thinking about what it would be like to run the van off of the road at top speed. I wondered if the airbag would deploy, if I'd think to turn it off first, if it would burst on impact.

I wondered if it would be bloody, if I would be decapitated or clipped in half. Would I be crushed to the flatness of a couple inches. Would I be recognizable.

I've thought of starving myself, slitting my wrists in the tub, in a lake, in the sand on a beach. Of stepping in front of a mack truck. Of overdosing on NyQuil (stupid idea, but of all the things I've thought of, over-sedating is the most attractive).

I read that when depressed people think of suicide, they mainly think about the aspect of it that will bring an end to the pain. For me, I think of self-inflicted justice. An equalization, as death is to all. I think about peace and rest, comfortable nothingness.

Coincidentally, Tom Petty's "Free Fallin'" has been the most recent earworm, going on 48 hours now. But he's got it right, even if he may have meant something entirely different:

"...Gonna free fall, out into nothin',
Gonna leave this world for a while..."

Yes, I want to leave this world for a while. Not suspended in time, but moving through timeless, spaceless air -- feeling the wind blow by me, going nowhere. A complete void of context.

Death is not a void of context. I like to ignore the truth and pretend it is, but I know better. The blasphemy of it is that when I am shriveled up in pain, a large part of me doesn't care about the truth.

-----

I wish you would decide to disappear into another life, maybe go back to Washington or Korea or the Philippines. I wish you would find a new context, forget me, and never say my name again.

-----

Don't know how much NyQuil I've had. But I just took some melatonin. Anything to calm my anxiety. No alternatives but to lay awake for a while.

Hiding: Day 46 -- Torment

2010-06-02T00:35:00.005-05:00

Tried to stick it out as long as I could without pharmaceuticals, but reached the breaking point. Weighed the risks. It's a no-brainer. The family/marriage/and-or-I will not survive without it. Appointment is made.

-----

I really just want to be medicated out of my mind. I wish I could be euthanized, actually. This wad of feeling -- rational or irrational or f***-whatever -- causes excruciating pain, like a cancerous tumor, and I wish I could scrape it out with a scalpel.

I want to be left alone to suffer. I don't want anyone looking at me or observing me or evaluating me or judging me. I don't want to lie here while everyone condemns me for my demons. I want to be alone so they can torment me and I can react to them without someone else watching me writhe, pointing out all the ways I'm affecting THEM and how I'm making THEM feel, how miserable I'm making THEIR lives.

That's the hardest thing to bear. And the greatest impossibility is for me to get away from it.

-----

It's a countdown until my OB appointment. He wants to go with me. I'm less than pleased with the idea. We are not a happy couple going to our first well-baby appointment with dewy eyes and excitement. I'd exclude him so I can go about this in a cold, clinical way, alone. That would be better than trying to go about it like normal people yet have it end up cold and clinical anyway. That would count as a failure for two. Alone, it's simply an objective.

But it wouldn't be fair to him to leave him out, or to ask he not go. He'd allow me to go alone.

Hell, he might not even want to go. Wouldn't that be a bitter twist.

An entire week until my appointment with the neuropsychiatric nurse practitioner. That's like having an appointment with God. Not really, but it feels like I'm going to see a divine healer. That's the appointment I'm REALLY looking forward to.

So I will languish in bed for another 44.75 hours until I go to see the OB. And another 7 days and 18 hours until I see the head shrinker. I intend to spend every hour of it in bed, if I can.

What do I do with the time? Alternate between fits of crying, heavy naps induced by 2 T of NyQuil, passive sessions playing cards on the iPhone (which is the only time I'm relatively calm), and an occasional hot bath.

Nothing to eat. I have no appetite anyway, but I had chicken strips from Papa John's yesterday and pizza and ice cream today. That very well may be all I eat today.

If I could have anything, it would be soup. Soup, soup, soup. Potato soup, chicken noodle, vegetable beef, won ton min, udon. Hot liquid to fill me up and calm me down. That's what I'd have.

And I have to figure out how the kids will eat next week. I won't be cooking. I should ask them.

-----

...and this is how Dad must've felt. The last time I saw him, I walked into the house, and he called us to the back bedroom. I found him sitting in nothing but a tie-back hospital gown, watching TV from the edge of a bare mattress on the floor. He'd obviously been there for days -- weeks, maybe, as I've now discovered firsthand how that is not only possible, but likely.

Now that I think about it, his eyesight had probably gotten so bad by then, he HAD to have the TV so near to him so he could see what was on it.

I think he'd been sitting there for so long, because it took an enormous effort for him to get up to walk into the next bedroom. I don't even remember why he got up now, but I recorded those few moments on video. I don't know why I was recording that day, but it was the last recording ever made of him.

At one point, and I only noticed this going back and seeing the video again years later, it seemed he was trying to hide behind the doorway, and then putting silly things up to the camera, maybe to draw our attention to anything but himself. He was embarrassed. I didn't know it at the time. I know that now.

Laying here in bed yet another day, it suddenly struck me -- I'm in my same pajamas, hidden away under the covers, surrounded by chaos and clutter, isolated from everyone else in the family, all at once wounded, furious, agonized, despondent, humiliated, ashamed, desperate, and yet utterly hopeless, waiting and wishing an end would come, maybe wash me away in my sleep.

-----

I feel I should seize the moment to mention Cleo (feline). She has been my nurse for the past two months. She hasn't left my side, day and night. As a matter of fact, she curls up at the top of my head, on my pillow, like a 20-pound fur hat.

When I'm sleeping, she sleeps, too, and is as still as a stuffed animal. When I wake up, she feels me stir, and she comes close to my face to inspect me.

Sometimes, after I've been sitting here in silence and I bellow out to tell the kids to quiet down, she rushes to me as if to quiet me.

Her presence is calming and reassuring. She asks nothing of me, makes no demands. She is perfectly self-sufficient.

And even if she is vigilant and nurturing, she is never coddling or suffocating or needy. She keeps the distance she, too, requires, so we can both rest in our own spaces.

I pity Piko, even if he does irritate me to no end. He wants so badly to take care of me the way Cleo does, but his constant chewing on his hide drives me to utter distraction. I cannot tolerate it. So he's banished from the bedroom until I am well.

-----

It makes my head spin how his steps --whether they're meant to inflict pain or not, whether they're in some way immoral or not -- bring about such agony and turmoil for me.

The mere fact he says things like, "You need anything?", "You know I love you, right?", "I never want you to hurt; I never want to do anything to hurt you"...those things seem like mockery to me. I honestly, genuinely feel down to my very core that he's mocking me, patronizing me, placating me, throwing me a bone so I'll sit down and shut up.

I feel totally powerless. I can say nothing against him. I can insinuate he's responsible for nothing.

And if I'm wrong, he's right about everything, and I'm sick and selfish and pretending to be a victim.

No wonder there is so much hatred in my heart right now. Someone is responsible. Someone must be hated.

-----

And it's about time again to medicate myself to oblivion. At least in the only mild, generic way I have available.

I don't like the way NyQuil makes my lungs feel heavy and makes it hard to breathe. But the guarantee of sleep is worth it.

-----

My brain is seriously misfiring. Or strange things are going on, a kind of upward pressure that's forcing up long lost, painful memories, like when Aunty and Uncle drove all the way from Dallas to "repossess" the bug and Dad's ukulele on "moral grounds" because I left Ex. Retribution. Punishment. Because they felt entitled to mete it out.

And yet, years later, Aunty would tip morality on a sliding scale for another particular situation of which I was a casualty -- but all's fair in love and war, right?

I remember Uncle calling Miner a "bum" to his face and ordering him off of his property, and I pushed the bug alone and pregnant out of his yard.

And I remember again, years later, after Dad died and we were all gathered in his house. I'd just given premature birth to Bunny a week earlier (and probably less than that) and Aunty and F****** took to slapping each other in the hallway, and I couldn't stand the desecration or the stress, and I stepped between them, still weak and bleeding from labor.

And later, in the kitchen, Uncle told me he loved me, and he shook Miner's hand, establishing redemption and peace. And forgiveness.

Love should be linear, growing or fading through time according to the purifications of the season. Forgiveness should function the same way.

But my head won't allow redemption to follow anything. The past is a flat line stretching back through memory, and every painful moment swells up like a raw, throbbing welt yanking me back to relive the trauma and reclaim the guilt and the punishment.

They are inexhaustible. When one memory has lashed me from head to toe, another comes and takes its place. And there are so, so many.

Hiding: Day 43 -- Resolved

2010-05-30T21:04:00.000-05:00

The trip to Arkansas was wonderful. But less than 24 hours later, I'm right back where I started -- debilitated and immobile, curled up in bed with the door shut and locked.

I have a feeling I'm going to hurt again. I don't care. I can't afford to really care about anything. After the trip and his ignorant "blow-up" (Yes, I wrote "blow-up," because that's exactly what it was) and being told AGAIN how miserable he is, my self-confidence and sense of self-worth is shot -- as if it were healthy to begin with.

I just want to go to the doctor, go to the doctor, go to the doctor. PLEASE take me.

I've expressed the urgency over and over again, but for whatever reason --financial or otherwise -- I'm just not being taken seriously.

I'm making the appointment Tuesday, with or without support. I can't stand another day.

-----

So that's it. I've decided. I'm going to do whatever it is I have to do to get meds. And I'm going to be straight-forward about the homebirth.

And I'm going to see the doctor as soon as he'll see me, with or without someone going with me. This is ridiculous. I know better. I should've done this a long time ago instead of having waited for someone else to decide it was the "right time" or that our circumstances were optimal for it.

I'm insulted it hasn't been insisted upon that I go NOW. My health is apparently not as important as whatever else it is that has prevented me from going.

I'm not waiting anymore.

Arkansas Excavation Trip Itinerary (May 26 - 29)

2010-05-26T00:00:00.001-05:00

Hiding: Day 37

2010-05-22T00:17:00.002-05:00

Since the "episode," I've been feeling utterly drained -- physically and psychologically. I slept almost all day today, and I've been fighting migraines since yesterday, too.

The stress is terrific. I can tolerate nothing. That's why sleep has been the only thing to do, to keep stimulation at a minimum. Self-prescribed bed rest.

I have felt a little more alert today. The morning was a blur on into the afternoon, but I was cognitive in the late afternoon until I slept again. Not in any kind of shape to DO anything, but at least hold up my end of a brief conversation.

And Rocky made me laugh. I don't remember what it was he said, but it was a relief to laugh.

When I woke up this evening, though, I had another fit of rage, because Priss was making herself a bowl of cereal for dinner. I yelled at Bunny and Moe, too, but don't remember why.

What disgusts me is that Priss is the one who came in here to hug me after I'd calmed down. Not to apologize, but because she pitied me and thought a hug might make me feel better. No one hates herself more than I hate myself.

Hiding: Day 35 (severe reactive episode)

2010-05-20T19:08:00.021-05:00

I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me or try to "talk me down" or describe to me how dire the situation is or try to illustrate the reality for me or threaten to call someone or tell me how much I have to live for or offer anything I need. I don't want to hear how much they need me or how selfish it would be to hurt myself.

I'm aware, I know, and these thoughts and feelings and truths do have weight and they're added burden. Like even bad publicity is good publicity. It's momentum. Even good touch is bad touch because it's contact and stimulation, or instigation to action or impact. Yes, impact. And I can't take any more impact.

What would be all right is neutral observation. Knowing I'm not alone, but I can be left alone to suffer the pain until either it heals itself or I respond to it.

Numb now. After writing some. But still recalling how he told me something I already know, that he's unhappy and can't take me.

Of course you can't. I can't take me. But I'm beyond rehabilitation. Or renovation or reprogramming or repair. You didn't have to tell me the awful truths I already know, that I'm as despicable to you as I am to me. You didn't have to confirm that the only person who can tolerate me, can't really.

Now, the last reason to try to weave into society is gone. At least alone, I'm not faced with imposing on anyone in any way, ever. I can never be hurt by the knowledge I'm hurting anyone else.

I'm perfectly capable of living without expectation. I can make no demands. I can let live.

At this moment, I wish I'd never been born. I disagree: sometimes, it's better to have never lived than to have lived and loved, and been loved.

-----

If I were in the hospital, then there would be nothing to do but be sick and wait to heal. That sounds like the most appealing situation for me. And if Miner hadn't brought up the subject of money or further "complications," I would've already gone to the ER and checked myself in. I would've already put myself in the hands of professionals so they could manage my mental and physical health since I can't do it myself.

It's like living each hour with an excruciating toothache. And no dental insurance. Or no dentist trained to do anything about it.

You know Dad used to pull his own teeth.

Jealousy and "Julie & Julia"

2010-05-20T02:00:00.000-05:00

As if I needed anything else to feel awful about, after trouble with Rocky, fighting with Miner, and being the meanest pregnant lady in the world.

I watched Julie & Julia -- two of my favorite actresses: Meryl Streep and Amy Adams. A movie about cooking.

And blogging and writing and getting published.

And I hated it. From beginning to end, I just burned with a bitter mixture of envy and self-loathing, because I have what it takes to do the same, and I don't.

GAWD.

If ever there were a time to write a book about P***** and the o*****, NOW is the time. Pregnant, the D***** H*****, time and time and time on my hands. The iron is hot, but I'm not.

And I hate myself for it, through and through. And I hate that I hate all the other aspiring writers who are making it right now, because I want what they're getting, what they've worked hard for and deserve. What I haven't worked for and don't deserve.

How long would it take me? If I started again right now? How long would it be before the book was done? Three chapters, even, to send in? Could I do it?

The Wayward Son

2010-05-19T02:28:00.001-05:00

Feels like I'm engorged on rage, bitterness, sadness, anxiety, frustration and pain. Almost like I never quit smoking, never stopped putting toxins inside my body. These feelings are just as damaging. I feel like the baby must be suffocating in my turmoil.

A blow-up with Rocky over the 12:00 computer time limit left me in tears, unable to contain myself or tolerate any more of it. I count it a miracle he happened to come to tell me goodnight just then. Of course he was moved, and surprised and ashamed to see the impact of his actions, but instead of inspiring some self-evaluation of his choices, he internalized and began a discussion of how hopeless he feels.

I told him I can't take any more. He'll have to decide whether he wants to abide as a member of this family or not, but I won't fight him anymore. It breaks my heart to think I must give up after all these years of trying, but I just don't have the personal resources anymore to strive against him.

The last alternative I have other than sending him to his dad's is counseling. I'll be calling first thing in the morning, and Heaven help him, because that's all I've got left.

And if it does come to letting him go, I'll be bitter about it. It doesn't seem fair that I would have raised him through the most trying periods of his growth to have him share the joy and strength of his maturity with his dad. Just doesn't seem fair or right.

But God will put him where he needs to be, if only I were calm and humbled enough to pray and ask Him to do that. I'm so covered in bitterness and unforgiveness right now, I doubt He'd hear my prayers.

"Mommie Dearest"

2010-05-17T04:29:00.000-05:00

I know I'm especially crazy tonight. It began when I told Rocky he had one hour left on the computer (this was at 11:30 PM) and he immediately copped an attitude. Escalated from there.

And when the girls were still getting up for every excuse in the book at the same hour.

So I unplugged Rocky's Internet. He stayed up, playing the piano, so I cut his power. But he stayed up anyway, so I made them ALL get up and clean the house completely. It reminded me of the axe scene in Mommie Dearest. And the whole time, though I knew I had rational reasons for instituting such a consequence, I couldn't stand on a single one of them because my head felt too fragmented.

So we cleaned until after 2, and the kids -- as I suspected -- got to where they were begging to go to sleep. And before I dismissed them to do so, I reiterated WHY we'd been up cleaning in the middle of the night, and we'd do it again if we ever face the same problem again.

So now they're ALL crashed, but I'm still awake with some obscure 70s earworm boring through my brain and thinking -- inexplicably -- about the Jonestown suicide recordings, and Jim Jones's perverse, unsettling, drug-dragging lisp. "Muthderth, muthderth, thon't do thith. Go, but go with thignity. Thon't do thith."

And I've been thinking of my friends who miss me, wondering if they truly DO understand I'm not healthy right now. If they respect that fact, or if they're secretly judging me amongst themselves for being flaky and nuts rather than legitimately, respectably unstable.

What an oxymoron, that I am so very disordered, yet in a certain slant of light, clarity is razor sharp. It's viewing a perfectly clear reflection in the mirror, of a perfectly frightening harpy.

"Garboesque Machinations"

2010-05-12T05:03:00.000-05:00

I've lost count how many days I've been inside, but it's over a month, I think. Still not long enough.

I managed to do the laundry, cook, keep the kitchen clean, and take the family on a field trip while Miner was home. Now that he's gone again, I want to settle back into this seat in the bed and grow here.

It's 4:53 AM. I'm exhausted, sleepy, but I can't get comfortable to save my life. Still got stupid Hannah Montana earworms burrowing in my brain, and plenty of self-critical demons yakking in my head, too. Added to them is my sister's voice chastising me for my "Garboesque machinations."

I told her I'm sorry. I don't have it in me. Can't medicate or communicate. But I'm alive.

Who knows if that will suffice.

Did a paper cutting today that was supposed to function as an "I'm alive but not participating" message. I don't think anyone "got it." I'm sorry for that, but I won't clarify. Can't. That's the reason for the visual. I'm hoarding my voice because -- maybe -- I'm afraid it will run out. Or maybe afraid it won't sound right, and then I'll know for sure something else is living in my mind besides me.

Incubatus

2010-05-11T16:11:00.000-05:00

Hiding: Day 18

2010-05-03T02:12:00.000-05:00

The longer I stay tucked away, the safer I feel, and the more reluctant I am to come out. There have been several social "run-ins" (which--to everyone else's standards--aren't really "run-ins" at all, but simply run-of-the-mill social situations that require not much more than normal communication) that have strained me to my limits, but rather than put forth the effort to meet others halfway, I simply withdraw, fail to respond, and refuse to concern myself with anything beyond my self-erected barrier.

I realize this is avoidant and unhealthy. I recognize selfishness may play a large part in this. I know I may be hurting people, that I may lose friends on account of my own turmoil, but I reason...I may just not be strong enough to maintain. I simply may not possess the personal resources.

Bottom line: I cannot be active. I cannot contribute. I can observe the walls of my little world and slip notes about it under the door, but beyond that...I cannot participate.

Can I live life this way? For how long?

Got out, sort of.

2010-04-26T19:21:00.002-05:00

Showered and got out of the house insofar as to drive Priss & Rocky to Walmart so they could run in for a couple things, but I still feel gross and mutated.

It's like after surgery or being in labor or being really, really sick, when you hurt so bad you don't want to move. That's what it's like, and I don't want to move. I just want to sit in the soft, quiet, secluded bed until something relieves me.

Hiding: Day 10

2010-04-25T23:54:00.000-05:00

Tonight, it was Elizabeth Taylor and Sonja Henie. And I researched the effects of drinking pickle juice, because I've had the overwhelming craving to do just that.

Otherwise, I spent 90% of my waking hours sitting in this one spot in bed, alternating between watching movies, online research, and sleeping. Agonizing. But what's more agonizing is the fact that's exactly what I feel like doing -- nothing more, nothing less.

Mom tried to call again tonight, but I didn't pick up. I hate that for her. I hope it's not as heartbreaking to her as I think it is. It's not on account of anything negative about her at all. I just can't communicate right now. With anyone. Just can't do it. And I'm sorry.

Whole Lotta Nothing

2010-04-24T23:54:00.001-05:00

Three old classic movies in a row -- Jayne Mansfield, Barbara Stanwyk, Jean Harlow, and Lauren Young. Before that, obsessive research on Social Anxiety Disorder. Before that, the crimes of Rodney Alcala.

In summary, a full day of nothing. I say nothing, but a full day of occupying my brain and then dreaming of that cabin in the hills.... Miner would build it, and it would be beautiful.

Over the Horizon

2010-04-24T15:19:00.001-05:00

Must resist the temptation to write about specifics because there are all sorts of lawsuits pending and drooling journalists and grieving families. Wouldn't want to do anything to compromise things that need to unfold in a certain, controlled way.

But Miner's just breaking up out there. He had to box up his buddy's personal effects this morning so they could be returned to the family. I can't imagine cleaning out a friend's locker that way.

And a little at a time, details coming out, personal stories here and there. Stories of people so panicked, they ran even into places where there was no where to run. Like people running out into the open air seventy floors high in the sky on 9-11. Desperation eclipsing reason...Just run...run...run...run until the ground runs out.

Stories, glimpses into people's heart-of-hearts, and what lies there -- heroism or cowardice. Some kept their minds and fought the primal sense to flee until everyone was out of harm's way. Others fought to break away no matter who was clawing for safety...Every man for himself.

Some of them won't ever go back again. They'll fade quietly into new careers. Probably won't fly or fish anymore. They might move away from this place altogether and try to build new lives and forget.

Miner's not going anywhere. He'll grind forward with routine as he has year after year, checking off the risks just like he checks off the days on the calendar, just part of the job. He'll take his smoke break outside and peer across the blue miles there. There used to be a speck there on the horizon. There was activity and communication and purpose. Now, the sky meets the waves at those exact coordinates, and there is nothing but a sad, silent surface.

Popped Seams in My Skin

2010-04-24T11:23:00.001-05:00

This morning, I woke up remembering the senses of my dreams. I dreamt I had princess seams in my skin that extended from the tops of my breasts to the underside of my belly. The seams had torn, so the muscle and tissue beneath was exposed. I thought, "Wow, I need to either get that fixed or sew up the seams myself."

And I dreamt Miner went out of his way to stay over at Stripper's house where other females -- including SuccessfulModel -- were staying, too. I left with the intention of running so far away he'd never find me.

---

Didn't get up until 11:30-ish. Messing around in my iPhone apps last night, and found Ambiance Lite. I put the "Long Thunderstorm" sound file on perpetual loop, and apparently, the white noise worked. Almost hypnotic.

Kids came into the bedroom this morning and were really confused that they heard rain and thunder, but when they looked out of the window through the blinds, they saw no rain.