I said last Thursday that I can’t abide excuses. The thing is, I classified it all as an excuse. I decided that there would never, could never, be any reason for any person, most of all, myself, to not be in absolute and utter control of their every response and reaction.
That’s a pretty shitty worldview when I put it that way.
But I didn’t realize the harm I was doing myself until I read SocialJerk’s post, since deleted, or I’d link to it for you. Here is the part that got me:
We label and pathologize behaviors that are so understandable. Grief? Fuck grief, get it together! (Or so says my obscenity ladened parody version of DSM-V. Look for it in bookstores this fall!) It’s not to say that not going to school, or running away, or fighting, are ok and we should let it go on. They’re not, and we shouldn’t. People need to be getting help and working through these things.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve told someone ‘it’s okay.’ In person, or via text, email, comment, what have you. It’s okay for everyone else in the entire world to be sick or sad–everyone but me.
I won’t cut myself any slack. No matter how many times I prove myself wrong, I still believe that I should be able to power through it, whatever ‘it’ may be. But I’m not. I’m not okay, it’s not okay, and I’m taking offense at the wrong excuses.
I’m making excuses to not take care of myself. I’m making excuses to not acknowledge how I feel. And then I thought about this:
There’s often a lot of talk about taking a no-nonsense approach, and not letting a child “make excuses” for their behavior. That’s fine if we’re talking about a spoiled kid whose led a charmed life and has decided she doesn’t want to go to school.
If I were on the outside, seeing someone else struggle with my life, would I expect them to be the happy, well-adjusted, perfect person?
Fuck no. Not ever.
But that is precisely what I expect from myself.
I probably shouldn’t do that.
I make excuses to not do things that would make me a happier, more well-adjusted person. I don’t say these excuses out loud, but the choices I make are mostly based on fear. I want to say unfounded fear, but, heh, you know. I fear what might happen if I don’t make myself constantly available for my family. I fear taking time for myself to write or read or anything. I fear screwing up.
I know I act crazy (my choice of words), but it’s hard for me to know I act crazy. Does that make sense?
It’s hard to even talk about this, because it feels like one big excuse.
But even if it is just one big excuse, that’s okay.
I know, I know, I’ve been gone a while, and I crapped out on the March Photo Challenge and most of ICLW. But everybody loves excuses, right? They’re like parfait. Plus, I like the word ‘lacuna.’
It has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad past few weeks. Are things any better now? Maybe, kind of, I guess, some of them. Some are as bad as ever, some are worse.
I’m two week waiting right now, after my first round of letrozole, that I was in the midst of taking during our first trip to court for custody. I only had a few hot flashes and four days of bone pain, so I’ll vote that it’s better than Clomid.
Oh yes, court. The only thing we got resolved so far is that she can’t refuse to let us see our baby anymore like she did for over three months, which, I’ll admit, is at least a start.
Maybe schools could add a bit to sex ed, take a day to explain that children are not weapons, that when you refuse to settle custody agreeably, the only people who profit are lawyers and social workers. Boy, do they profit!
Obviously, there’s a lot more to it, but I’m not really willing to share much more here until everything is worked out, which will be at least a few more months.
So I’ve been breaking out in hives almost daily, occasionally from heat, mostly from stress. I’ve woken up screaming from nightmares every single night for three weeks straight, but that finally seems to be winding down.
I applied for a job yesterday, kind of. Okay, I wrote down my name and phone number for the owner of a snow cone stand. I love snow cones. Plus I’d get to be in a little box all day by myself. Could it get any better?
I’ve tried to write, I’ve opened blank posts and stared at them, but just closed them again without a single word. I have been reading and thinking about all of you, but it’s been too hard to comment.
I hope I can do some catching up and get back to posting soon. I owe strugglingwithbipolar a post, at the very least.
Right now, there’s not much else to do besides keep on keepin’ on, make sure we take care of daughter the best we can when we do have her, and pee on a stick…on our anniversary.