Nevermore.....

I have wanted to blog so many times over the past 10 months....I have a ton of random scriblings on church bulletins and my journal pages, but nothing that I wanted to actually show the world. Not that what I was thinking wasn't worth the paper it was written on, but because I feel like EVERY SINGLE TIME I publish something on here I'm wearing all black and have a crow on my shoulder. Gloom and doom. While I don't consider myself to be a negative or very sad person, a passerby of this blog would probably argue otherwise. On here it's all of the sadness, none of the stories in my life that are hilarious or just special. And this one is NO DIFFERENT! Hang on, friends. It may not be funny, but it's about to get real. When you're a woman, who has the body that she's both given herself (i.e. Post baby mid thirties all the starches) and been given (i.e. Autoimmune disorder genetics all the pain), it doesn't just wear on your emotions and physical being, but your very spirit and your mind. Mental illness is something that can be traced way on back up in my family tree. It hasn't skipped my generation. I have anxiety issues. I've started having depression issues. I'm dealing with body image issues and just general self-worth. To say my autoimmune disorder is crippling is completely understood and makes me a sympathetic character in my story. To say I have mental illness makes some people kinda recoil back and both not want to know all the details AND think they already do. I get it. Even I, with all of my Facebook overshare, thinks discussing mental illness out in the social media open may, in fact, be too much. But oh well. Please do not think I'm suffering from suicidal thoughts or self-harm. That's not my particular issue. I'm so terrified of death, the one thing none of us can prevent, that I wouldn't dare take any of that upon myself. I've cried at the thought of my own funeral. It's both extremely egotistical and pathetic all at once. No judging. I'm currently on a low dose of generic Zoloft and recently started some one on one therapy. So far, both are just ok. The therapy is in purge mode, and I'm not convinced the meds are doing much of anything. I worry about everything, including being too much for my therapist. Or making her think SOMEthing that I didn't mean for her to. Because I control therapy. Obviously. ::frustrated emoji faces:: I just came home from a quick trip down to my favorite hometown of Mobile, Alabama. My best friend from there experienced the loss of her mom, and the service was Saturday. I needed to go, both for my friend and myself, and I am so thankful I was able to get away. Twenty hours in a car for a trip that surrounded a death will do a lot for you...especially if you're a mom of three and suddenly On said car trip SOLO. It was peaceful. It was quiet (when I wasn't singing JUST LIKE Aretha). It was reflective. People, I am a mess. Today, like all of my mornings for the past month, I woke up in pain. I went to bed last night, like all of my nights for the past month, in pain. I slept not in restful bliss, but in tortuous naps...where I thought more than once to just get up and be done with trying to sleep. My shoulder, my hips, my low back, my neck....all hurt. Then today, I am exhausted like I am everyday...both from general lack of rest as well as the tiredness that accompanies my disorder. To say it's hard to function is an understatement. It's all a mess because I'm frustrated with the state of my house (clutter), but am both too tired and too overwhelmed to just fix it. Im disengaged with my children and scared I'm a bad mom, that they notice mommy is tired and frustrated more than they notice my intense and fierce love for them. I want to fight and scream and conquer and do and BE, but instead....I don't. I am not. I cannot. Most evenings are spent staying up too late, scrolling my phone for something to numb the feelings of numbness. i feel like I go about my awake times like I go about my sleep....in spurts. I lay down but I don't sleep. I'm awake but I'm not alive. I go through the motions. I hit the basics and nothing beyond. I aggravate myself. I can only imagine the frustration of my husband and I'm terrified to even think if my children are affected by their less-than mom. I do not say this for pity or attention or some weird need to be told, "no you're not that way!" I am that way. I'm hyper aware of myself, especially the negative parts of me. maybe I'm too hard on myself, as far as not acknowledging the good things about me as easily as I can the bad, but I know what my days look like. I know what happened here today. I know that I could have done and been better. Yet at the same time, I couldn't have. My physical ailments prevent mobility and mock me. I just want to rest and feel rejuvenated, but for me to be still means my body turns to stone and turns on me. Yet for me to be active and keep my body loose means I need to exercise and get good rest. My body can't take the movement, my body can't take the stillness. Likewise, my mind can't take the movement, and my mind can't take the stillness. I look at my naked body and when my eyes finally reach my face after the difficult trek around my thighs, belly, and arms...my eyes reflect both my soul and my physical state: sad. Only if I were placed in cement could I be more immobile in both body and spirit. After all of that, know I am seeking help. Actively. I finally have a therapist but I do utilize those closest to me for venting and reassurance, love and guidance. I am as honest as I can possibly be with my husband when I'm having a bad day. While I don't want to embrace my issues, I do have to acknowledge them. They exist. Me trying to hide them or make excuses does no one any favors. i am not sad all day everyday. But I am sad for a bit here and there everyday. It's hard to have my thought pattern. It's hard to live in a broken body. It's hard to be a woman and not feel as if you're living up to the American standard of pretty. I'm vain. That's hard for me and I'm not asking to be told I'm pretty. My face is not my issue (hence 1012 selfies on my phone and in your newsfeed), my body is, both in how it feels and how it looks: Disappointing, all the way 'round. It appears to me as the manifestation of how I feel---sick and tired. I've only recently really started to accept that I do have both this physical disorder AND this mental illness. I've always talked and joked about it, that I'm a unicorn and hypochondriac and crazy. So many jokes. I even poke fun at my "90 year old self" because hell. It's how I feel! But some days, like today, and other days I've posted sad, depressing, could have been written by Edgar Allen Poe blogs, i just have to write out the sad and shake it off. I will feel better when this is done....after I obsess over whether or not I should have actually published this. I write to work things out as much as I write to be real and relatable and transparent and to maybe even help someone who feels the same. We are not alone, none of us. I am not the only person who feels overwhelmed, or less than, or crazy, or fat, or anxious or sad. And neither are you. I also know I'm pretty and loved and funny and generous and kind and empathetic and loving. Just today the physical pain is making the mental pain exacerbated. And I've medicated with Oreos and blogging, because that's real life. ❤