Be nice to yourself

It's been almost a week since I've written here. I've been spending more time on my memoir of Morocco, revisiting old journals and memories. Even now, I've just spent thirty minutes here writing more, which I just deleted, because this is not a journal of my past, this is a journal of my now.

Alexandre has his third ear infection, this one in both ears like the others. He's on his third antibiotic in seven weeks. Jacob's okay, but snotty-nosed constantly. Seems most of my time is spent flushing noses with saline and chasing after them with Kleenex. Blow harder is their new vocabulary.

I'm forgetting things, which is normally not like me. I miss two of my English classes during these last two weeks, just spaced out and forgot. I also miss an acupuncture appointment last week. And yesterday I take the boys to get their 18 months vaccinations only to find that I already did that a few months ago. I shake my head in disbelief that I did such a thing. How can a few months ago seem like so long ago? I even had this appointment for over three weeks, which means that only a couple of months had really passed. Am I dreaming?

I feel like such a dumb-ass walking out of there with my friend Angela, who came along to help me. She came for nothing. I woke them up early from their nap at daycare for nothing. Nicole at the daycare had to get them ready for nothing. I go on to think about how many other people I've hurt or disappointed in my life like this and stop myself quick with, You may not beat yourself up anymore.

Be nice to yourself.

This is my new mantra.

The other day C is filling out insurance payments to get reimbursed for my psychologist visits and the boys' prescriptions. After writing the word DEPRESSION under the reason, he sighs and says, "I just don't like writing that word. I don't like anything about that word." As I feel the blood rush to my chest and up to my face, I quickly stand up and push my chair in. I turn around and walk straight down the stairs to the basement without answering his calls, "Why are you freaking out? I just said I didn't like that word."

Sitting in the office chair downstairs, staring at a blank desktop screen, I observe myself. What were my first thoughts that made that blood flow like that? Depressed? Why did he have to say that? I was beginning to forget I was depressed. Look at you, how pathetic you are. If it weren't for you, he wouldn't have to write that word. Why are you depressed? You've got nothing to be depressed about. Are you faking it just because you don't want to be happy. Why don't you want to be happy, that's ridiculous. Who doesn't want to be happy? There must be something really wrong with you.

You may not beat yourself up anymore.

Be nice to yourself. I sit as the passive observer and watch how my thoughts flow from one abuse to another. This is how I talk to myself. Not just now, this is how I've been talking to myself. All it takes is a tiny spark of misunderstanding, and then there I go like a shooting firecracker, another perfect opportunity for another beating. It's like some sick pleasure in it somewhere, the helpless victim, cowering for another blow while at the same time the abuser, stabbing myself or others to the ground.

I sit in the basement as the passive observer and watch all my thoughts race by. This time I walked away from the situation to watch my thoughts, nonreactive. I went back upstairs, took a long bath while contemplating. What usually happens when I feel misunderstood or criticized or judged? Usually I react immediately. He then reacts and we're on a spiraling escalation to nowhere, forgetting the initial incident because so much extra past and crap has been brought into the picture to cloud it all up. Words fall like boulders. With a foggy haze to wade through afterwards, I'm not able to see that all that happened was something like he didn't like the word depression and didn't like writing it. Period.

Without the haze and some 20 minutes of time, keeping the storm to myself where it belongs instead of spewed all over someone, two things happen. One, I see now that all that happened was he didn't like the word depression. And two, it's okay that I am like I am.

I come out of the bathroom and over to him on the couch watching t.v. "Come here my little de pressy," he says, and kisses me on the forehead.