I think this I got from my mother. She worried ALL the time, which is probably why she drank so much, and knowing this is what prevents me from drinking at all. I fear I'd get addicted quicker than a rattlesnake strike. But this is getting ridiculous. It used to be I could get a good massage and be great for days, even weeks. But the whole time I was there, all I worried about in the dark was about my life. My whole mind was focused on a map of at least a dozen possibilities of "what if?" Not really about the massage, but about "What if I lose my job?" or "I need to do laundry!" or even "How will I write about this on my diary?" The massage was worth it, because I felt myself separate from my mind, and then I could, see, clearly, what I already suspected: I think and worry far too much. I mean, I have even said it in this diary, but now it was evident how far and deep these roots of worry ran.
Because I cannot relax, I cannot have any fun. Whenever I am out "having fun," some logical part of me takes over, and I observe it from afar. "Yes," I'll say in my head, "this is quite fun. Brah-vo." I cannot let go. This is probably due to a loss of control issue, tied with the worry thing. Ordinarily I'd think, "Ah, fuggit," but I think it's really affecting my health. I tried anti-depressants at period in my life, and they either made the problem worse (blackouts, hysteria, bleeding) or just gave me a general sense of malaise all the time. I went off of Wellbutrin because even though it removed the highs and lows of my life, it just averaged everything as one long disappointment. At least before I had highs between lows.
Part of the issue is not being able to let go of the past. This online diary is FULL of it. Entries about my childhood and past bad jobs are rampant. It helps to write them down, because for some reason, I figure, once it's committed, I don't have to hold onto it anymore, and since it's public, I have to keep it honest so I don't get over dramatic about it. It's like I am vomiting my past to get rid of the poison in my gut, and I haven't even begun to unravel the true sickness and horror that was my first 18 years. So this diary is like a purge of all the stuff floating in my head that I need to let go of. My mother drank, which was how she let go. During her "chatty phase" of drunkenness, she'd tell all. No secret was safe with her. She was free to say she was unhappy, and that her husband was cruel, and she could say sorry to me for messing up my life because of her mistakes. It was because she told the truth during these times I learned I was a pregnancy to try and get my father to be at home more and settle down, and that he resented me because having a kid ruined his life, and how having me cost her a happy marriage. Nice to know at... age ten. But she NEEDED to spill her guts. She had no outlet except her family and a few friends who only told her to grab me, pack some of our stuff, and get the hell out of that house and never go back. And she didn't want that answer. She wanted someone to fix it all right as she pictured it, and the only happiness she got was to get drunk, say what she had to say, and then pass out in blissful unconsciousness for a few days. Sure, that was a "rotten thing to do," but we aren't all perfect. And I have forgiven this poor woman who just wanted to be happy, but was too stubborn to admit her marriage failed. Bad shit happens to good people, and sometimes, we're too weak to face it or deal with it.
I don't want to end up like her. I love her, and this isn't meant as a slam on her or anything, but I can't keep this all in a bottle. I don't want to be dead at age 40 because of some stress-induced heart attack because I am in denial. I have a wife, child, pets, and lots of friends who I don't want to let down. I want to be free, have fun, and give back three fold what they have given me. And I can't do that if I can't relax.
This entry was originally posted at http://www.punkwalrus.com/blog/archives/00000239.html