Well, This Should Be Interesting

When I started this blog, it was to be a place to vent where the family couldn't read it. No one knows about this blog, I delete it from the history, etc. It's turned into a bitchfest mainly about Annette and John. Which, since the readership equals one whole person, is okay.

Today, though. Today I need to bitch about someone else. Myself. And it's going to be a total downer. Fair warning.

After Sara was born, I went through a difficult time, mentally. I had this gorgeous new baby girl that I wanted more than anything. I loved her more than life itself. She was an easy baby, truly. But everyone else I lived with? They could all go to hell. For real. They were incapable of doing anything to please me. From putting the lid on the jelly wrong to slamming doors, it all made me go nuts.

I called the midwife about two months after Sara was born and she hooked me up with some Prozac. And that made life a little more manageable. I'd like to say it was all PPD, but it wasn't. We were losing our house. I had just been to court over my stupidity and escaped with probation and restitution. We had no money and I couldn't get a job. See: felon. (If you're going to judge me, go away.) Not to mention that my glorious plan to breastfeed my child since it's free and all was shot to hell because of a fuckup during my open-heart surgery which prevented my body from producing breastmilk. Which led to us getting WIC. Which is a wonderful program, does all sorts of good things for women and their babies. But it still felt like a handout. Still does. But, with six people living here, it's kind of a necessity.

Whatever. Just as we're making the move to this house, that Luke actually financed for us, because we couldn't what with a foreclosure and all, I miss a period. I figured it was stress keeping it away. It came back the next month, very light, and only lasted two days. New home, new routine, no biggie. And hey! A two day period? Who wouldn't love that?

I did, in fact, have a very light, very short period for the entire time I was pregnant with Rebecca. Not on any sort of schedule, but that wasn't out of the routine, as it were. Believe what you like, but I did. And then, one day, I was putting gas in the car and tripped over the hose. And fell. Hurt my hip but good. Two weeks later, it was still bothering me so I went to the doctor, thinking I may have actually cracked something. That was a Monday. While the doctor was probing my hip, she asked me when the baby was due. I told her that I'm not pregnant, I actually just had my (new and improved) period.

Rebecca was born on Friday. So, now not only am I a felon, incapable of doing a Goddamned thing to improve my family's situation unless the prospective employer does not run a background check. Not only that, but I'm too Goddamned stupid to know that I'm knocked up.

Yes, I only gained about seven pounds. Yes, I had a period the whole time. No, I never felt Rebecca move. The only thing I ever got was on Christmas Day, I thought I had gas. That was the only time, and on Christmas Day, after eating everything in sight, that was perfectly normal.

Then, last fall, Steve was in the hospital. I actually found a holiday temp job where there was no background check. Since I wasn't actually handling money, it was all good. There was an extra $350/week. Things were looking up. I found a great baby-sitter (not daycare, private home) that was affordable. I was helping my family. I felt awesome. Since Rebecca had been born, I was dropping pounds left and right.

Ten days before Thanksgiving, I discovered one of my fellow temps stealing $40,000 in activated gift cards. I told my boss, she told her boss, and on up the chain it went. The next day, background check forms were filled out by all the temps. I went to the 'big' boss and told him. I also said that I hoped my part in finding this guy out, since it had also led to the discovery of several other orders that the customers never got, would count for something. He assured me that it would.

That Friday, they let me go. Which, I understand. I do. They can't be bonded and insured with a felon working for them. But it hit me right in my pride. What the fuck kind of person am I? This will follow me around the rest of my life. Because, the terms of my probation include restitution. But, I can't make restitution without a job, and I can't get a job until I pay restitution to have it removed from my record. It's a vicious cycle that does a real number on my self-esteem.

But, at least I was back to being with my girls all the time. If it paid better, it would be perfect. [/Joke.]

A few weeks ago, Steve was in the hospital again. I almost lost him. I actually did lose half a paycheck. No comparison, I know. But, still. He was out for a week. He went back to work two days after he came home from the hospital, simply because we can't afford for him to not go to work. It sucks. It pisses me off. It makes me feel like even more of a failure as a wife, partner, whatever you want to call it.

Then, John and Annette got Jonah's whatever month picture taken. And had the balls to ask why we haven't had an actual portrait of the girls taken? The last time we were at a studio for my children, Sara was eleven months old. She'll be three next month. I started crying and left the room.

Why? Because we don't have any money. That's why, you dumb cunt. I can't afford to buy my children the things I'd like them to have. I can't get a job. No, not even at Jonah's daycare (where there's an opening). Even if I did have a job, there would be no extra money for formal studio portraits.

Saturday, Steve and I were discussing if we were going to church the next day. When I mentioned that I would wear my black pants (I have no idea why clothing was an issue, but there you have it), he got all upset. 'What about that orange dress, with the flowers?' The one that no longer fits across my post-two children chest? None of my clothes fit. I wear sweatpants and jeans. That's fine. But, not to church. Which launched a full debate over my spending money on clothes for myself. At that point, I reminded him, I thought gently, that we have $60 to last until payday. On April 8th. We did get the bills paid. We will be making the mortgage payment within the grace period, barely. We did get the food bought. And now we have $60 in a coffee can to hold us over for a week and a half.

We have no savings. We have no emergency cushion. Which leads to discussions as to why we don't. The simple answer? The 'boys.' We're supporting two grown men, as well as two toddlers and two adults. That's alot of stress on one paycheck. The in-depth answer? I don't have a job. The last time he was in the hospital, we had my first paycheck as a buffer. Which takes us right back to what the hell kind of person am I?

And, you know what? He likes to joke that he's worth more dead than alive. He actually has a life-insurance policy. I don't. Because of my heart surgery, I don't qualify for anything but a Colonial Penn policy, and I'm too young for them. If he were to die, I would get $100,000. Not much, but enough to pay off all our bills, including the house. I wouldn't have any income, but minor detail. I also would NOT HAVE A HUSBAND, you jackass. Sometimes, I want to slap him into next week.

Which brings me to the next portion of my fuck-up-edness.

My husband gets up at the ballcrack of dawn. Everyday. He goes to work for ten hours a day. Everyday. He comes straight home from work. Everyday. He spends the entire time he's not at work, at home. Everyday. Except in hunting season, of course.

If he's ten minutes late to get home because he had to get gas or something like that, I have him in an affair. If he wants to/needs to spend time in the garage or the basement, I have him so mad at me he's ready to file for divorce. Because, in my head, everything wrong with his life is my fault. We lost our home because I couldn't manage the money properly. We have a baby that I'm not convinced he wanted because I couldn't manage to notice that I was pregnant. We don't have the things he wants because he has me and the girls to support. See? I'm not saying these things are based in logic, or even in fact. I'm telling you how my mind works.

We lost our home because we couldn't afford the ever higher mortgage payments. It's hard to write a check for $900 when the money coming in is only $1000. We have a baby that he loves to distraction. A baby that we were going to have at some point anyway. We don't have the things he wants to have because we're still raising his grown ass sons.

I'm back to snapping at everyone. All the damn time. When I was working, I was still on Rebecca's PPD Prozac. The prescription ran out and I never got a new one, because I was feeling so great. Now, of course, we can't afford an office visit to get a slip of paper filled out by the OB/GYN. Not to mention the fact that we owe them some three grand for Sara's delivery. We are slowly paying it off, but really damn slowly. (We had no health insurance for the month she happened to be born in. Change of employer type mix-up. For whatever that's worth.)

Turns out, you shouldn't just stop taking Prozac. You should wean off it. Also, it's not so much depression as it is anxiety. My heart rate goes up when there's a knock at the door. When the mailman is coming, I have to go out to meet him or my heart is going to come clear out of my chest. When something unexpected happens, I'm worth shit. I can't handle anything out of my routine. Nothing.

If the phone rings and the caller ID shows an 800 number, my mouth gets dry, again my heart rate goes up, thinking what fresh hell is this? What's going to come crashing down on me now? I can't handle it.

If one of the girls is having a particularly rough day, I am able to handle her. I can fix it, or make it tolerable. As soon as the first guy get home from work, I lose it on them. 'Hi, Pru. How was your day?' Totally innocent question. My answer? 'It was hell, as if you actually give a shit. Leave me alone.'

This is no way for me live. This is no way for my family to live. And this sure as hell is no way for my daughter to see their mother behaving.

I've thought about leaving. Since my presence is the catalyst for all the shit in Steve's life. (In my head, see.) But then I come back to logic and remember that it really isn't. Plus, if the choice is hell with Steve or heaven without him, I'll take hell every day of the week and twice on Sunday.

I've thought about ending it all. We have guns, lots of them. Not that I'll ever admit that to anyone but you, Internets. But I simply don't want my daughters to grow up without me. They are sometimes the only reason I'm still here, blathering to you.

So, I have to find a way to muddle through this. I have to find a way to handle it. I have a doctor's appointment made for Wednesday at 11. If I don't keep it, Steve'll have my ass on a platter, so I'd better keep it. And I promise to tell her the truth. Except for that last little paragraph. That's our secret. KTHX.

I hope she can wave her magic wand over me and fix me. Or, at the very least, give me some hope. And maybe medication. As long as she doesn't commit me, I'll try anything. (And yes, illogical as it may seem, I am worried that she'll want to commit me. I'm a retard, I know.)