Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Making Yourself Forget Is Still Forgetting

I'm back, therefore it's safe to assume that it's been a bad day. I'm back, therefore it's safe to assume that I've been floundering again.

One bad day, I can take. One bad day in the middle of general despair and desperation, I end up crying bitter tears. At church. In the middle of the night.

I wish I could talk about this to someone but I really, really don't think there is anyone in my life right now who can understand what I'm feeling. I know how I will sound like to someone outside of my head and heart. My sons live with me and they see nothing but an occasionally cranky mom who prefers to "rest" than to work. They don't know that my "rest" is my way of holding the despair at bay. I've learned to empty my mind at will, to zone out and forget. I'm called forgetful but I'm grateful for it. Who wants to remember everything? Not me. I wish I could forget whole swaths of my life.

The same way I learned not to sleep while my husband was in treatments, I've learned to forget about the things that cause me anxiety. I "forget" about things I need to buy because I can't afford it. I forget about the things I used to want. I forget about the life I used to live. I forget about things I need to do. I forget about money because I don't like how I feel when I think about it.

And yes, I also forget about exercise because I no longer care. I'm an impostor anyway. I might as well look as bad as how I feel inside.

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