I had decided to let blogging go for at least the summer. One of my last posts elicited a flame from my own mother, no less. In the interest of keeping the peace, but understanding that 1) memory can be selective; and 2) I am not crazy - wait, I am, but not in that way - I have decided to let everyone believe whatever they want on that score and keep on going. I don't write my blog for her, and I write my memories, thoughts and concerns, no one else's. I have my hands full enough, frankly, with trying to survive my own life. And no one can guess what that's about....
So anyway, I am back in the blogosphere, and trying to re-establish myself once again.
This has been an interesting summer to say the least.
I am still plugging away at barista-ness at a local Starbucks, and in two days I - along with my children, and even St Timothy of the Dashed Hopes and Dreams - will have health insurance. I am pretty excited about this. I have already made an eye appointment. About 3 months ago, Tara stood on my only pair of glasses. This is a pretty serious thing, considering I am actually legally blind in my left eye, and can't see that well out my right. I've been wearing an old, bent-up pair from about 10 years ago, and the headaches are excruciating so this will be a welcome thing.
In the past month I have been very disappointed by several of the people close to me, one in particular. I have learned to trust my instincts more and that I truly can save no one in world but myself.
Without going into great tedious detail, I will speak as an Al-Anon here.
About a month ago, my husband hit what hopefully will finally be his bottom and was arrested. The charges, of course, stemmed from his alcoholism. No surprise there. I left him in jail for four days. Eventually I did bail him out, but it was with trepidation, and misgivings, and basically only because I was physically sick at that point. Without him in the home, instead of feeling relief, I could not sleep or eat. (And yes, I am still enjoying the fact that my jeans, so recently outgrown, are fitting again.) This was strange, as I thought when delivered from living with active alcoholism, I would be breathing easier. Basically all I felt was that life was hard, stressful and overall sucky no matter what.
This week he went back to court for the third time, was sentenced to 3 more days (for a total of 7, with credit for time served), and attended two AA meetings. He will be going back to jail tomorrow morning. I refuse to get happy that he attended the two meetings; I've been this road before and I know better than to hope for anything outside of myself. Hell, even hoping for myself is setting myself up for disappointment at this point.
Other than that, I have been scrambling to re-define myself career-wise. I still want to be a writer someday. Yet having time to write, or to even hear my own voice, is difficult when I am scurrying from one job to the next. It's hard to carve time out to shower and play with my kids, let alone to write anything anyone will ever want to read. I still can't shake the impulse to write, however. And I am less afraid to look deeper within my own foibles and funk-tastic mental illness/strangeness to figure out just what kind of crazed freak is staring back at me.
I want to say I am at once more frightened about the future than ever, but at the same time, not sure if I care.
The bottom line is that I can't keep going on as I have. And at some point, I may need a few hours off work (since a day is impossible) to figure out what to do about all that.
A couple days ago I found out that a person that had given me some hope in my recovery had died. So I would like to say:
So long, Julia, and thanks for all your words, and for just being there. We got what we needed from hearing your words and your story. And you were heard.