The weather has warmed up a bit in our corner of the globe. That’s nice. I feel too shitty to take much notice, other than to wallow deeper in my own self-pity at the impending heat and its annoying abbreviated attire.
Yeah, you heard me. Wallowing. I’m all about the wallowing these days. Not sure if it’s a hormonal-menstrual thing, or a resurgence of teen angst brought about by the lack of proximity to my teenage years. I was a late bloomer on many levels, so it could just be delayed teen angst. Adult-onset angst. I wonder if there’s a pill for that. Who cares? I couldn’t take it anyway, since I’m nursing.
My body hurts. My back feels like it’s missing a couple of discs, and it takes a second for the remaining ones to get their collective acts together when I try to stand up. I don’t know if that’s really the case, but it’s the best description I could come up with on this kind of notice. Beyond that, if I squat down, my knees grind and creak the way a raw chicken drumstick does when you try to separate it from the thigh. Do you have any idea how often a mother has to squat down, particularly when her charges are both less than three feet high? There are also confirmed heel spurs on both feet, the left being particularly bad, and with a plantar’s wart to boot. (That’s a horrible, terrible, awful pun, in case you missed it). And anytime I sit, stand or otherwise change position, it sounds like someone’s stepping on a case full of bubble wrap. Oh, wait: that would be my joints.
I now weigh almost as much as I did when DD2 was full-term. I weigh more than I did when DD1 was born. This undoubtedly has something to do with the fact that my body is so angry. I’ve gained so much weight from excessive eating and lack of exercise – which has led to excessive weight and decreased mobility – that it now hurts to exercise. I eat instead. You can see where this vicious cycle is headed.
I’ve googled things like “fibromyalgia” and “rheumatoid arthritis” already. Christ. These are things you talk about in the retirement home over Milk of Magnesia milkshakes. I’m only in my 30s. I should be googling things like “hot things to do with husband after kids go to bed”. Unfortunately, I’m too fat and achy to do anything hot. And our bed hurts my back, so I’ve taken to sleeping in the recliner. Not much hot stuff you can do when one spouse is up until all hours working while the other is passed out on a recliner.
Mentally, I’ve had a rough go of it lately, too. I have these soul-sucking resentments rearing their ugly heads left and right like an imaginary hydra. It’s hard battling hydras, especially when they’re in your head. Of course, the logical person would just banish the imaginary hydra with an imaginary magical sword, or go read about how Hercules did it since he’s obviously in the know. I, however, am not feeling very logical.
The nine-headed hydra of hateful resentment is worthy of a post in and of itself. It has a lot to do with my complete and utter belief that my parents totally fucked me up, completely by accident, but done, nonetheless; it also has to do with my complete and utter belief that these deep-seated “issues” with which I am battling constantly are causing me to fuck my own children up, which causes even further resentment on my part. See what I mean about not feeling very logical? Vicious.
That’s another thing. Logic has just completely left me. My ability to form coherent sentences has gone out the window right after it. Do you know why it’s been like two weeks since I last posted? That’s how long it’s taken me to write these seven paragraphs so far. I keep having to look things up in the thesaurus because I can’t think of the words. Every time I try to have a conversation with my husband, he walks away before I say anything because he thinks I’m done talking. I want to tell him that I’m just cogitating, but I can’t seem to put that thought into words before he leaves, and I forget about it by the time I see him again.
Again with the vicious.
To sum up, all of this ickyness is making me feel pretty impotent these days. I am ashamed of my physique, especially since it is entirely self-inflicted through my own laziness and lack of self control; I am in physical pain, which never helps one’s mental state in any case and, again, is largely self-inflicted; I’m completely unable to express any of this in a verbal conversation with the one person who cares and might actually be willing to help me out; and all of it is the result of a horrible, painful, lonely, insecure, awkward, uninspired childhood that led to a disillusioned, lonely, insecure, awkward, and unmotivated mother terrified of recreating this whole chain of events in her own daughters.