Tired

My mind slowly began forming conscious thought as the cruel morning light seeped through a crack in the drapery.

 It was morning. 

It was another day. 

Another day that I was forced to crawl out from the safety of my strategicly blackened room and face those that depended on me to be normal, to be strong, to be their Mommy, to be a wife.

I hate the thought of wishing my days away; of wanting to hurry throught the weeks, just to get through.  I know in my heart these times are precious.  I should be savoring every second as my children change and grow, even on a daily basis.

Why the fuck is it so hard?

It just want to be left alone.  I just want to be ignored.  It's painful to be included, when I feel like I'm just an anchor being drug along because they can't let me go. 

A burden.

Oh, Christ on the cross, I just want to go back to bed!  It's 8:00am and I know the husband is already gone.  I can hear Little Miss and BB's footsteps: back and forth, back and forth on the upstairs floor.  Relentless. 

I want to scream, "Can't you just sit in front of the TV and zone out for hours like other children?"

However, that would just attract their attention, and I want to be ignored. 

It's now 8:36....9:02....9:17...  Man, I'd better get up because if it gets to be 10:00 and I'm not up, I'd be a real loser.

The clock is ticking for my husband to come, too.  What if I hear his pick-up pull in the driveway and I'm not up?  I'd have to throw off the covers, rush upstairs, pour a cup of coffee and take couple of scalding swigs to make it look like I'd been drinking it all morning, and grab something: laundry, fill the sink with water, soap, and dishes, throw a toilet  bowl cleaner in my hand.

But then he'd walk in and see my dead eyes and the sleep lines on my face.

Goddamn him.  Goddamn him for seeing right through me.  God bless him for seeing right through me. 

When I was in treatment at the Mayo earlier this year, the head of the department gave me the diagnosis of Severe Recurrent Depression with Generalized Anxiety Disorder.  Holy shit, that's a mouthful.  But at least with a "name," it felt like I could move forward. 

Hell, the Head of Psychology at the MAYO CLINIC diagnosed me!  He's got to be the best in the world right?  He's working for me, and he has to be right!  Right?

I left feeling like I was finally on top of this.  I had support there, I made friends there that knew exactly what is was like to suffer, and I had a husband and family that has been supporting me throughout this entire fight.  I was going to be okay, right?  Right?

Then, three days later my brother-in-law lost his leg in a motorcycle accident.  Our lives became consummed with advocating and caring for him.

Then, my grandmother suffered a fall which resulted in a subdermal hematoma (blood on the brain).  She needed brain surgery.  Our lives became consummed with advocating and caring for her.

I am happy to have been a part of their care.  I love my family.  I wouldn't have changed my part in their care. 

But...I lost my path.  I forgot how to care for myself. 

To make matters worse, my Psych. NP has given me a new diagnosis: Bipolar II due to the swings in my emotions. 

What the fuck?  When I think of bipolar, I think of people who go from being depressed and can barely get out of bed (guilty - today, in fact) to staying up all night and painting an intricate mural throughout their entire entryway and organizing their spice rack by size, color, and alphabetically.

I never get that hypomania. 

Shit, at least I'd be getting something done.

The light from the opening in the drapes has shifted so it is now slicing directly toward my face: my eyelids fluttering, my mind willing them to stay closed. 

I could just turn over, pull the covers over my head, and ignore the sunshine trying to rouse me to begin my day. 

It is such a tempting thought.  Then BB comes down and asks where to Kool-Aid is because she and her sister are going to color their hair. 

Well, shit.  Here comes another day.