bliss-sad's Diaryland
Diary
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I want to write something, but the only thing I have to say is that I'm unhappy. It's old news, but somehow it still manages to feel like a headline.
I wish I felt more like my husband cared.
I've been talking to him more about things that I've grown resentful of. It's too soon to tell if things will change, but I'm hopeful. Mainly because I feel like I have to be. I'm almost more bothered by living out a stereotype married couple than I am about how deeply fucking miserable I am....
So much of it isn't the marriage itself; it's the way we are reacting and coping with the deaths that is making me miserable and driving a wedge between us. I mean, I've always known about my husband's ability to become complacent. I've always known that he can become so comfortable with his misery that he'll slowly adjust to it (much like his father), so why is it driving me so crazy now? I don't know. It's probably a fair question, though.
Lately, I am deeply unsettled by the depression that has come over me. Sometimes when I'm alone my thoughts get irrational and dark; I'm able to fight against them, to change the direction of my thoughts, but it's still alarming.
Occasionally I'll think back to when I was fresh out of high school and all kinds of suicidal and depressed, and it almost makes me laugh now. Like, I would give anything in the world to have the "life-ending" issues that plagued me as a teenager. There's nothing I wouldn't do to get the image of death out of my brain...
You never know you're in the good times 'til they're gone, I guess.
Maybe one day I'll look back fondly on this period with the same sense of incredulous confusion.
I have an incredible urge to drink, as well. I haven't had cravings for alcohol in a long time, but man-oh-man, I would love to just get completely annihilated. I know it wouldn't solve anything, and that it would probably create more conflict, but I almost don't care. I feel like anything would be better than than what's going on inside of me.
God, re-reading everything I've written, I just want to tell myself to shut the fuck up--to suck it up and quit whining. I have no sympathy for myself, which is probably making things worse. Instead of indulging in my depression a bit (letting myself lay in bed and eat chocolate or have a cry), I get harder on myself. I suppose that's probably what this whole second job thing is really about, to be honest. I mean, we're not exactly struggling financially. We don't have past-due bills and disconnect notices or anything. With the proper planning and budgeting, I could probably get things on track to accomplish my goals in the next year without putting in 65 hour work weeks. It just seems like a better plan for dealing with my petty emotional bullshit than laying in bed and crying (which, to be truthful, is really the only thing I want to do). Instead of sleeping and hiding, I'll throw myself out there and work so hard that I don't have time to feel sad.
I mean, while it's not exactly the smartest plan, there will at least be a check to show for it. I might be just as miserable and even more exhausted, but there'll be some padding in the bank account.
And it'll get me out of the house--away from my husband and the bullshit we can't seem to figure out or resolve, away from the deafening silence that used to be filled with sharing and laughter, away from myself and my brain and my life.
See? There I go again sounding like some emo 17 year old. That's what I mean when I say that I want to escape myself. I have no stomach for my own misery, and I'm desperate to escape it.
11:59 a.m. - 01.16.15
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