RouletteWeekend

Yesterday was a super good day. My sister and my mom came over and had lunch with Will’s mom (Martha) and I. Martha has a really nice house that she and her husband built in 2001 when they (she) decided she was tired of moving and even if Bill (her husband) had to travel for work, she was staying put. So she built her dream house and it’s truly gorgeous. Big front porch, formal sitting and dining rooms, and a kitchen that truly is a joy to cook in.

Afterward, my oldest son came by and we walked down to the gazebo on the lake that is less than half a block from our house and we threw some lines in the water. We didn’t catch any fish but we had fun.

All in all, it was a good day.

I woke up early today, I was feeling really good. Then around 10:30 or so, Will came downstairs to tell me he needed my help cleaning up a mess the dogs made and he followed it up with “don’t get mad.”

Of course I wasn’t going to get mad. I’m barely adjusted to living in someone else’s house yet, so how could I get mad at the dog’s for shitting on the floor again, right? After all, they don’t have a fenced in yard here so I have to take them outside on a leash and sometimes they don’t tell me they need to go out or I don’t listen. Either way, we’ve had our fair share of accidents.

So, I walk upstairs expecting another poop pile to clean up on the white carpet we just paid to have installed in January, maybe February. I go into our bedroom, because that’s where ALL the “accidents” happen. But, there is no poop. Just piss. All over a tiny little shelf that holds my dearest books. My writing books. My On Writing by Stephen King. My Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. My The Artist’s way by Julia Cameron and even though it was given to me by my cunty aunt, it’s still one of my favorites despite the negative association. Also, all of my morning pages, five books of freehand writing of my early morning thoughts that I pen to keep me sane. And a few more I can’t thing of right off hand. ALL. PISSED. ON.

I quickly spiraled into a ball of stress while quickly running the books under scalding hot water and wiping them off even faster so maybe the pissy smell wouldn’t quite sink in and the pages would be a little warped but still useful. Will was cleaning the shelf and the piss, I was cleaning the books. I ended up throwing all of the journals away, because they were fully piss soaked and could not be saved and it felt like throwing away little pieces of my soul and maybe even pieces of my memory that may never resurface again.

I don’t know which dog did it. It doesn’t even matter. I was so angry. Then, I got angry at this whole situation. I got angry at everything and everyone. I grabbed my keys and grabbed my purse and got in my car and just drove. I drove until the road ended and had to turn around and come back. Then I went to sit at the lake.

I was still spiraling with these thoughts. Maybe they were pity party thoughts. Maybe they were legitimate. I don’t really know. But they sounded a lot like, “when do I finally get to live my life without having to take care of everyone? I’ve been taking care of people since I was sixteen years old. Even after my kids all grew up, I was taking care of people. Taking care of Will and helping him stay sober. Taking care of the back end of his business. Taking care of animals even when the first two dogs died and I said I wasn’t getting anymore, we ended up with two more dogs and 7 more cats. Why the fuck do I keep putting myself in a position to take care of people. And now, I’m taking care of Will’s mom while he works and even most of the time when he is here.”

And I’m resentful. I also know that pretty much every situation I have been in is 100% my fault. I think I must have some sort of hero or martyr complex. I don’t know how to fix it. The only solution I can come up with is to get in my car and drive away from everyone forever. To be selfish. Which I’ve never actually succeeded at doing.

I googled emergency therapy appointments. I googled caretaker support groups. I almost called 988. Not because I was suicidal, just because I wanted to vent to a stranger who would just listen and not try to give me advice or tell me “what you’re feeling is normal.” No shit. I’m not foolish enough to believe that I, alone, am the only person who has ever felt the way I do right now. I truly believe that if there was a way to get a show of hands right now, there would be millions of them in the air feeling the same exact way as I do right now.

And even knowing that’s true, it doesn’t stop me from feeling all alone on this island. So, of course, I come here to vent, because writing does help me get it off my chest and one day, I may want to come back here and re-read all of this as a reminder that it could be worse. It has been worse. I’ve come a long way. All things I know to be true even at this exact moment.

But as I was wiping the gel from two pairs of disposable underwear out of the washer because my mother-in-law doesn’t know she’s losing some of her cognitive functions, all I could think is that “this can’t be my life.”

And yet it is. And I chose it. And I keep choosing it. And I don’t know how to be selfish. But I’m disappearing again.