I’m having my first bad day since I started Wellbutrin.
As always, I’m in my own head, ruminating. Thinking about everything wrong about myself, questioning every relationship I have.
Disgust at the state of my fingers, which have been chewed bloody.
Bitterness towards the Couple, two friends I considered family only a year or two ago. Who I stopped speaking to.
The lack of connection with anyone. My husband wants me, I’m sure.. But does he only want the image of me that’s in his head, or the whole of me? Who would ever want the whole of me?
Anger and misery that I was unwanted by my father and despised by my stepmother.
Frustration that my sister seems to walk on eggshells around me, like I ever have or ever will explode at her or treat her badly.
Despair that I always assumed I was close to people, yet was left out of many things important to their lives that they shared with others.
Feeling like it’s too late to start writing and drawing again. That everyone else wants me to support their dreams, but no one wants to support mine.
All of these things, all at the same time.
I want to paint a picture of how my stepmother looked, the many times we stood in that hallway with the horrible pink carpet. I stared at that carpet, came to memorize the strands and the patterns as she screamed and screamed. Occasionally she’d demand I stop being a coward and look at her. Not content to allow me to endure her in some way. Her blue eyes were black beads tiny with hate and frustration. Though her hair was blonde and nicely styled, and her makeup immaculate, in those moments she was the ugliest person I’d ever seen, and have seen, since.
I wonder if that carpet is still there, in that little three bedroom ranch. Pink and terrible looking. My father refused to replace it. We had plastic runners going up and down the hallway, meeting with the strip from the front door that stretched to the kitchen. Made it hard to move quietly through the house, to avoid the wrath that came from merely being seen. Even now I move silently through my own house, to the point I startle my Husband and housemate when I suddenly appear in their midst. Habits die hard.
I wonder if I’m still in that ranch, in my mind. Cowering and afraid in my “rented” room. Eating stolen cookies and escaping into comic books I hid as well as I could.
Sadly, arson is a crime.