Last night my husband accused me of being too needy. At the time it was a serious blow. I cried, I got angry, and I began to convince myself that I wasn’t the object of his affections anymore. In truth, I became needy when he accused me of being needy. The sad thing is, I wasn’t needy until then. It was a huge hodge podge of emotional miscommunication. I’m sure now that he was actually just tired and working things out in his mind for his upcoming deployment that the one time I tried to get affection, he makes the comment. And he didn’t do it in a mean way. It was just a comment. And then the anger and neediness arose from its depths.
That’s the problem with me. I’m not confident in myself. Hell, I hate myself. There’s no reason to. I have a great life, I’m getting close to my ultimate goal, and yet, I still hate myself. I hate the reactions I have when a comment is just thrown there. I hate the fact that I can say that I hate myself so flippantly. It’s scary. It’s wrong. And above all, it makes no sense.
Logically, I’m happy and inherently I do love myself. But there’s this one part of me that keeps saying the opposite. It’s like I need that validation from other people to feel like I do belong. That’s partly why I have this blog. People are listening to me by reading my words and thereby, I do exist. But, if I didn’t have that, I think I’d go crazy.
I know, this sounds like depression. And you’re right, it is. If I wasn’t so open about it, I’m sure people wouldn’t notice it. I don’t know, I’ve never asked any of my friends from high school if they would have figured it out if I never told them. My ex-stepdad used to say that I used my depression as a crutch. That I told people to gain sympathy. Where I’m sure teenage me was doing that for a bit, I intentionally told people because I do things when I’m overly emotional that can hurt relationships.
I used to punch myself in the face in the bathroom stall. No one ever comes to you when you’re in the bathroom. I would sit on the toilet and silently yell at myself for being weak and punch, punch, punch. One cheek at a time. I may bruise easily, but I don’t bruise there. The last time I punched myself was sometime in October 2011. My husband and I got into an argument, there was the stress of the wedding, the hormones of the pregnancy, and I just couldn’t handle it. I stopped myself by the second punch.
I used to cut myself too. Well, more like carve. Carving actually bleeds less. I did that before the punching. Unlike most cutters, I deliberately went for areas that no one would easily see. And I only have one real scar from it. I stopped that too because I couldn’t handle the emotional pain it was also giving me.
I’m not looking for sympathy. I’m just venting. Right now, I feel like my inner world is crashing down and I’m holding onto the last little strings to keep me afloat. There’s Bug, my husband, my family, my friends, my blog, and my writing; all of it a small strand in the thin lifeline. It may seem enough, but it isn’t. There’s still something missing. A piece of me I lost and can’t seem to figure out when I did.
When you’re a kid and you forget or lose something, you follow your steps and eventually it’ll be found. The silly thing is, there isn’t anything in my history that would do this much for this long. Unless you count my brother’s accident, but I don’t blame myself for that anymore. It was an accident. Even my subconscious doesn’t blame me. It could be when my heart broke for the first time. But, that’s such a girly reason that it pisses me off. However, it does make sense. He was a messed up guy and I was willing to do everything for him, only to end up being messed up.
Whatever the case may be, I’m calling up for an appointment today. I used to be on an anti-anxiety pill and I was a lot better then than I am right now today. I think it’s time to get back on that. The one thing I’m happy about is that I’m not crying or sad in front of Bug. He doesn’t need that. He needs a mommy who is always happy to be around him. I don’t want him to start thinking that I am sad because of him or that he can make me happy again. He does make me happy and I am when I’m with him, but the emotional pain is still there. Creeping for the time I don’t have anyone around.