I don’t know where things stand for me right now. Yesterday I was 100% certain that I had come to a decision about the hysterectomy. That decision was that I wasn’t going to go through with it. Not in February. I was going to tell the doctor on Tuesday that I needed time to try to prepare my mind and body. I was going to ask about Lupron and trying to get the fibroids down in preparation for surgery to minimize the risks. But after speaking with my dad last night I’m not as sure about yesterday’s firm conviction.
I woke up this morning with a voice in my head telling me I’ve lived with this thing for far too long. I’m robbing myself of a comfortable life. But is it the fibroids fault that I haven’t lived comfortably or is it mine? Do the fibroids really get it my way every day of my life? I can’t say that they do. Between my mind (stress, depression, anxiety, worry) and the fibroids, I would have to say 95% of my problems have been caused by my mind and 5% by the fibroids.
Only insofar as they have made me self conscious about my body have the fibroids really been a constant bother. The in-between period bleeding happened only twice or 3 times since 2007. Last month’s bleeding was not a period. Last month I injured myself. I was being ridiculous working out like I was training for some power-pushing contest. I was pushing around a cart packed with pounds of weight. And I was blocking the cart with my couch so that I was having to push it around with the couch impeding my progress to make it more difficult to get from point A to point B. I was doing this for weeks. I started with my loveseat. Then I graduated to the couch. I strained something one day but didn’t pay attention to it. And not too long after, while doing a series of squats and kicks, I began to bleed suddenly. The bleeding stopped a couple of days after my trip to the emergency room. But it resumed again after I went cleaning my closet. I lifted a box and immediately started to bleed again. So I am convinced that was all the result of an internal injury.
Over all I don’t think that I’ve been suffering with a lot of symptoms from my fibroid like the doctors are assuming. Most of the time I’m going to the bathroom at a normal rate. I have had some heavy periods but most recently it’s been more like “where’s my period?” It seems to take longer to arrive. And when it arrives it’s not nearly as heavy as in the past. The first day is probably still heavier than normal for the average woman; but by comparison to my own heaviest days it’s not been as bad. And even while it might stretch over a few days, after the first full day, there is little to no bleeding. It’s almost as if I’m going into menopause. Frankly that would be the most awesome thing at this point. It’s like “bring it on!”
Started July 30th 2014: I succeeded in my endeavor to avoid solids yesterday and so far today I have managed to avoid solids. I feel I should be able to finish today successfully as well; but I admit it’s been difficult. I had several moments when I really wanted to bite into something good. Interestingly I also had several moments when I was wishing I had some wine in the house so I could have a glass. I have never been a drinker per se; but I did at one time start drinking wine at least a few times per year. I’d buy a bottle of wine maybe two or three times per year; but after last December when the husband brought home some vodka that he received from his employer as a gift, I decided to stop drinking altogether because it seemed to me like my fibroids got way bigger as a result of drinking the vodka.
It’s kind of worrisome that I sometimes feel the urge to drink, especially considering that the amount of drinking I have done in my lifetime comes out to less than your average alcoholic beverage consuming adult consumes in a year. I never have any thought about drinking wine until I am feeling desperate for relief from stress or anxiety or other emotional pain or mental anguish. Then I start to want something to provide pleasure to offset the pain; and that’s not good I don’t think. It’s the same with the eating. When I start to get stressed out I start to want food. But I was able to conquer my impulses today so I’m glad about that.
Last night I did a bit of dancing. I had fun. Tonight I am dressed for another session but I don’t know if I will manage to get one in because I am very sleepy at the moment. I’m struggling to write this post. My brain is shutting down on me, trying to force me to get up and go to bed. I haven’t given my brain enough rest lately.
Resumed July 31 2014: Well, I fell asleep last night and didn’t get to finish this post. My brain shut down on me. So here I am today trying to get another day started. I succeeded in avoiding solids yesterday and the day before. I am having a protein fortified yogurt and a protein shake for breakfast. Hopefully these can keep me well enough sustained through the rest of the morning. I feel fairly well balanced at the moment. No heightened stress or anxiety. I am a little low on iron but hopefully I’ll feel a little less anemic after drinking the protein shake. It will provide me with 25% of my daily requirement for iron. I’ll have to pick up some iron supplements because I don’t think I get enough iron generally and certainly not while avoiding solids.
I didn’t get to do any dancing last night so I’ll have to try to make up for that some time this afternoon. My plans for today: try to get as many of my websites updated as I can by two o’clock breaking briefly to make a blended soup for lunch. Between two o’clock and four o’clock spend some time at the piano, do some artwork of some kind, practice singing in preparation for recording the two songs I have written, do a few rounds of my pseudo sled workout. After four o’clock, do some more work on one or more websites, write a few pages for at least one of the books I am actively working on, go out for a walk(?), make dinner, spend some time practicing dance, have a nice relaxing bath, go to bed.
I used to believe in love. I guess everybody can say that. This picture is from a painting I created in 1998 titled “Meeting In the Park”. It depicts a scene of a woman walking towards a man who is waiting for her. They are meeting in the park for a romantic rendezvous. The original is in color. I’ve applied some filtering for a different effect here. I think I was painting a fantasy of myself in a different time and a different place, being in love. The reality of my life was such that the great love I’d dreamed about sharing with my husband for the years while he and I were having a long distance relationship had turned out to be a nightmare.
I can’t remember too much about 1998. I was 27 for most of that year. My birthday is November. At the time I painted “Meeting in the Park” I would have been married a little over a year. We celebrated our first anniversary in April 1998. We were already having major problems. I think he might have already walked out on me at least twice by then. I believe he walked out on me something like three months after we first got married and then several months after that. And in the years to follow several more times until the number of times got embarrassingly ridiculous.
What I do remember about 1998 was that I met Dr. A that year. Dr. A is someone with whom I had a brief fling. He was a college professor and a family therapist. I met him via Yahoo Personals. I don’t know if they still have Yahoo personals; but I had put an ad on Yahoo Personals and it intrigued a few gentlemen. Dr. A was one of those gentlemen who responded to my ad with interest. We “connected”.
I have this idea in my head of the perfect man for me. He has always been an older, very distinguished, perceptive, philosophical, deeply feeling, highly creative, strong, independent thinking, loyal, honest, upstanding gentleman with a very male voice. I think I might have mistakenly attributed many of these characteristics to Dr. A. soon after our first virtual encounter. I was very lonely and in a great deal of pain at that time; and talking to him on the phone was very comforting at those times when I needed comfort and very erotic at those times when I was feeling in a certain mood. I probably thought I was in love for a minute.
I think I might have painted “Meeting in the Park” many months after things ended with Dr. A. If memory serves correctly the fling with Dr. A ended in March 1998. I don’t think I did the painting quite so early in the year. So it’s interesting because I have to wonder where I was in terms of how I was feeling about the whole subject of love at the time I did the painting. Things hadn’t ended necessarily well with Dr. A; and my marriage would have continued to be unpleasant; so it is interesting that I felt inspired to paint such a scene.
But I’ve always held on to the idea of this great love. It’s been the subject of many of my creative endeavors. I realize at this stage in life that this great love I have tried to capture in painting and write about in my unpublished novels is not a love that most people experience. It’s a love that can only be experienced between two extraordinary people. For me, the only way I can experience such a love is vicariously through characters I dream up.
What’s the use of wishing you were never born? You were born. You are here. You’ve been here 43 years. Deal with it. And this wishing your life could end now thing is pretty pathetic. Sure living is hard. You’re in a lot of pain. You feel all alone. Okay. Being alone is hard; but guess what? You’re alone. Face it. Accept it. Even if you’ve always physically been around people in one way or another; mentally and emotionally you have always been alone. And the day is going to come, probably sooner than later, when you will be physically alone as well. What are you going to do then? Yeah I know your answer. That’s always your first thought. But how would you do it anyway? You don’t even have the resources to effectively terminate your own life. So aborting the act of living isn’t really an option is it? It’s not like you’re going to be stupid and do something that will only tear up your insides and cause you worse pain than the pain you’re trying to escape from.
What am I going to do? There’s no answer out there. I’m not stupid. I’m in here because there’s nothing out there. I’ve gone out and tried to find the answers out there multiple times before. There’s no answer out there.
The only thing out there are people looking to benefit in one way or another off your sorry life. Nobody gives a crap. And that’s why you’re where you are isn’t it? You’re where you are because nobody gives a crap at the end of the day. There’s nothing out there. But there’s nothing in here either. There’s no answer in here. There’s no answer in here or out there. There’s nobody out there. There’s nobody in here.
There’s only me. And I don’t have the strength to carry myself through this. It’s a misguided thought believing I’ve been carrying myself through anything. I’ve always just been a parasite. And that’s just the thing. I don’t want to be a parasite. I would rather be dead than live my life as a parasite in anybody’s life.
It’s been one helluva day. I got disrespected in so many ways by so many different people today. It started when I got into a cab this morning. I said good morning to the driver. He replied with a rough “Yeah”. He then proceeded to turn to my husband and ask “Does she speak English real good?” My husband looks Mexican so it is generally assumed he’s Mexican and certain types will assume based on his appearance that English is not his native language. He’s from Barbados. English is the only language he speaks; but given his appearance and people’s tendency to make assumptions, and given his poor communication skills, I guess it makes sense that people might think English is not his native language. I on the other hand am black. There is nothing about my physical appearance that would cause someone to assume I do not speak English. I did not mumble “good morning” upon entering the cab. I spoke very clearly and I speak very well. My English is excellent. There is no way that my “good morning” could have led this cab driver to the conclusion that I did not speak English. Furthermore, why are you going to ask my husband if I speak English? I’m sitting right there. WTF? Anyway, the husband treats me like so much nothing himself that he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He didn’t even realize that I was royally offended. He couldn’t have cared less one way or another. He even tipped the cab driver once we got out of the cab. But whatever.
I had started the day dreading having to go out; but the husband was having eye surgery and my son and I had to go with him because he had to have someone there with him. Being out in public is difficult for me. It was going to be tough no matter what but that situation with the cab driver made things worse. And then, after I asked my husband how he could tip the man after the man was so disrespectful to his wife, things just got that much worse. He took an attitude as if I was carrying on over nothing. I said to him that I know people like the cab driver. To people like him I’m just an n-word woman. Still nothing but jumping to the cab driver’s defense. “No, honey I don’t think that’s true.” Trust me when I say that all the cab driver saw was an N-word woman and the fact that my husband was talking to this man while we were in the cab and then tipped him when we got out, well, it speaks volumes. Anyway, I couldn’t very well make a big stink given he was about to go have surgery; but I couldn’t pull myself together. So I stayed angry throughout the entire experience of being at the hospital.
Then on the way home a female driver picks us up in a cab that reeks of cigarettes. She has conversations with the husband. She has conversations with the son. Not that I wanted to have a conversation with her but it was pretty obvious the intention was to disregard my presence. Lady even touches the husband to thank him for putting the bags that were on the seat on the floor in front of him when he got in the car. Whatever. I get that all these people see is just a black woman and they have their preconceived notions about black women and unless I’m riding in a limo dressed in Chanel as far as they’re concerned I’m every other black woman, which is to say I am nothing (to be clear I am not personally saying that I am nothing, although I will admit to having my own struggles there. I am saying that to certain types, including some other black people, black women, particularly black women who subsist at the lower end of the economic ladder, are considered nothing.)
That is all well and good. I don’t need these types of people to validate me. I don’t care what these types of people think of me. It’s not their sh*t that hurts me. It’s when my own husband and my own son allow them to do it and get away with it. That’s when I start to feel like jumping in a lake, not because I hate myself but because I love myself too much to want to be part of a world wherein I can be treated like this and have no defense against it. I am feeling like all I am is an over 40 poor black woman with fibroids. And what that means is that when you add things up using society’s point system for measuring human worth, I am worth nothing. Over 40 = worth nothing. Black woman = worth nothing. Poor = worth nothing. Have fibroids and look pregnant = worth nothing (because a woman is worth how much or how little sexual interest her figure generates).
And the worse part is that I have no support system. There’s no one who understands to whom I can turn and cry if I need to or rant if I need to or go out with and enjoy my life with and say to hell with all these people. Let them view me however they want to view me. I’m still going to live and I’m going to be happy doing it. I don’t even have that. So yeah, I kind of feel like going and jumping in the lake or throwing myself in front of a car right now.
This is a digitized version of a painting I created back in 1999 during a difficult time in my life. I sat on a bed and looked in a mirror and painted myself. I made myself blue and gave myself no face. I titled the painting “Faceless”.
It was supposed to reflect how I felt–like I was a body without a face, specifically to men. These days I am still a body without a face but it’s different now. Now the body isn’t desired by men. The fibroids have made me not sexually appealing. But I am still seen. It’s just that I am seen as just as another worthless black woman for people to cast their eyes on with scorn. My face is the face of every scorned black woman, particular those over 40.
A few days ago someone said to me in an email “Stay true to yourself and your own story and you will not get lost.” The problem with that is that throughout my life I did not stay true to myself and my own story and so I did get lost. And I have been lost for a very long time. And I don’t know if it’s possible to find myself. I have been searching around but as yet I haven’t found me.
Today was a long and exhausting day. I am 4 days into avoiding solids. I anticipate getting through the next hour without giving in to any urges to consume solid food so that means I should complete Day 4 successfully. At least I can say that despite all the stresses of the day I remained in control of myself where eating is concerned. I can’t say the same about other things.
My raging mad lunatic came out of me today to deal with a marital issue on my behalf. Since her performance I have had very little in the way of mental focus and emotional energy. I am trying to sort out my feelings right now.
It’s easy to feel responsible for putting everyone in a bad mood with my yelling and screaming; but I didn’t get up and decide I was going to go around yelling and screaming like a lunatic today. Yes it was ugly and yes I am responsible for the actual yelling and screaming that I did. But someone else pushed the button that set me off.
Sometimes when you get all bent out of shape and start running around yelling and screaming at people in your rage, after the dust settles you feel like a monster. All you can think about is the way you were carrying on. And you feel like the bad guy whether or not you were.
For the last 8/9 years I have been trying to prevent certain things from happening in my life. The things that my husband brought into my life during the first 8 years of our marriage were very psychologically damaging. I have panic attacks just at the thought of going through any of that stuff again. I know perfectly well that the only way to avoid it is to leave the marriage; but until I actually leave the marriage, I have to fight to protect myself and safeguard what remains of my sanity.
The morning after
It is 5:40AM. I have been awake for a while. I’m not sure how much sleep I got but it wasn’t a lot. My husband and I did some talking for about an hour and a half between 3:30AM and 5AM this morning. I’ve come away from the conversation realizing that I have a lot of work to do on myself. It’s got nothing to do with my husband. This is work I needed to have done before I got into a relationship in the first place, and it’s work I need to do regardless of what happens with my marriage. I am a wounded soul and while I did not get wounded by my own hands, it isn’t the wounds themselves that are interfering with my ability to find peace in my life. It’s the memory of the wounds and the choices that I keep making out of fear of getting hurt again.
I always say that I should never have gotten married; but I always approach it from the standpoint that I should never have gotten married because my husband isn’t who I thought he was and he isn’t the kind of man I want to have for a husband; but the truth is, I should never have gotten married because I wasn’t mentally or emotionally ready to be in a relationship. I had too many “issues” and I should have been focused on learning to love myself first and foremost. I should have been focused on repairing the damage brought over into my adulthood from my adolescent and teenage years. I should have been focused on finding out who I am; then maybe I could have had some hope of staying true to myself and my own story. But I neglected myself and focused instead on being true to other people and living inside their stories. Now my story has become the story of someone’s mother and someone’s wife. I guess that happens to a lot of women. They become a mother and a wife and suddenly that is all that they are is a mother and a wife. They get lost in these roles and there’s no opportunity for them to play the role of the person they were before taking on the roles of mother and wife.
I wasn’t ready for either of the two roles that have dominated my story since I was eighteen years old. I wasn’t ready to be a mother at eighteen and I wasn’t ready to be a wife at twenty-six. I still had way too much growing that I needed to do; but my growth was stunted and now here I am essentially right where I was before I started playing the part of mommy and wifey.
It is a great message stay true to yourself and your own story and you will not get lost , but what do you do when you are already lost on account of not staying true to yourself and your own story?
It’s Spring! Okay it’s been Spring since March; but it’s only now beginning to look like a new season in my neck of the woods. The tree outside my apartment is no longer bare. It’s like it grew leaves overnight. Just a few weeks ago it looked like this
Now it’s bursting with life. And here I am looking out through the blinds at my window where I can see the branches — feeling emotionally drained, unmotivated, afraid, confused, sad–wondering if I should quit while I’m ahead.
It’s a beautiful day. I don’t want to be sitting here feeling like this. I want to be happy. I want to be laughing. I want to be creating good memories; but there’s a voice in my head asking me why. What’s the point Monica? You’re going to get dementia like your grandmother anyway so what use will new memories be to you; and you don’t have too much longer before dementia strikes. You’re already halfway there. You’ve already already lost so much of your mind.
Honestly though, I don’t feel as bad right this very minute as I was feeling before I started writing this post. Something about getting up and opening the door and taking the pictures of what the tree looks like now–then looking at the pictures I took last month–it made me realize that as long as I am breathing and I have will and strength and ability, I can just keep starting over again every time. Perhaps, like the tree, falling off track is an unchangeable part of the cycle for me. I am going to keep losing my leaves. The difference is that my barren seasons won’t be predictable; and mother nature won’t step in after a few months and restore me to my thriving self. It will be up to me to decide to do what I need to do in order to get myself back on track and once decided, to actually get up and do it. The point is, I need to accept falling off track as being an inevitability–at least at this point in the process. I am going to feel like quitting–perhaps more often than I feel motivated. I am going to wake up more mornings not being able to see the point of it all than I will wake up feeling certain I know who I am and where I’m going and what the point is of everything.
Update May 14th 2014 – I started this a number of days ago. Today is actually dismal by comparison to the day I started this post. It’s cold. I am still struggling with the question “Should I quit while I’m ahead”. I know that the answer is “no”. I should not quit. Because to quit is to accept “nothing” as being what I deserve in life. And by that I don’t mean nothing in terms of material possessions. My conflict isn’t one of fighting to try to change my life with “things”. Things are nice. There are many things I would love to have; but just to be filled with a sense of joy and to have a jubilant spirit regardless if I have things or not–that will be enough for me. I want to wake up and sing and run through the living room twirling–pretending I’m a ballerina. I want to embrace the sun when it shines–go out and bask in it. It’s not about a big house and filling that big house with pretty things. I do want a house. I want a nice house; but if I die happy without a house I would prefer that to dying miserable with a house. I just want to feel joy to be alive. I want to not be afraid to live.
It is 3:20Am Sunday April 20th 2014. At least that is the time as I begin to write this post. I have just come down stairs after spending about 30 minutes talking to the man I call husband while he lay with his back to me pretty much not responding to anything I was saying. I had been sleeping on the couch again. He came downstairs and woke me up insisting that I come upstairs to bed. I went upstairs to bed. He tried to have sex with me. I haven’t been particularly well for the last several days. I’ve had what appears to be two periods in a span of 15 days. I’ve been dealing with a significant amount of stress for the last couple of months and I think everything has just taken a toll. It’s been a struggle and I’ve felt a glaring lack of interest and support from my husband that has made it feel that much worse.
I just wrote earlier today that I don’t see a way for me to achieve success with the goals I have set for myself as long as I remain in my marriage. At this present moment I am certain that for as long as I remain in this marriage I will continue to have situations like this where I am up at 3:20AM in the morning feeling lost, alone, sad and lonely, filled with heart-ache, angry, wanting to cry but fighting the urge knowing I need to be stronger than this. 17 years of this — clearly I have no backbone if I am still crying over it. I shouldn’t be here.
Despite the title of my post, I don’t beg for love. The problem I have with my husband is that he insists he loves me; but I never see the love. I never feel it. Usually it’s fine. After 17 years you get used to a routine. I’m usually too busy to be concerned with the state of my marriage. Our relationship is what it is. I don’t look to my husband to help me feel complete and fulfilled. That ship sailed ages ago; but when you’re panicked about your health and things are happening to you that cause your mind to start going haywire with thoughts about the possibility of dying, you do sort of expect a little bit of support, especially from someone who claims almost every day that they love you.
Far from feeling like my husband was there for me the other day when I was worried and thought I might end up having to go to the emergency room, he seemed more cold and callous than I have seen him in a long time. He was in pre 2005 mode. 2005 was the year we separated. Things between us were pretty ugly then and had been since 1997. I won’t go into detail; but he wasn’t a very nice man to have for a husband. Since we got back together in 2007 he has seemed “improved”; but recently I’ve been seeing traces of that old version of him. The other night when I was sick he was so uninvolved and seemingly unconcerned that I couldn’t hold back from saying something to him when we got in bed. It was as if we had gone back in time. I talked and talked and talked. And it wasn’t a case of nagging so much as it was a case of wanting to get some kind of response and so you keep going hoping eventually something will be said that gives an indication of care and interest. But he kept his back turned to me then eventually began to get up to walk out while I was in the middle of speaking. That’s the kind of behavior I was used to pre-2005. I couldn’t understand what was going on.
Refusing to be on the receiving end of what he was about to attempt, I went and blocked the door to stop him from walking out. He tried to physically move me. It became noisy. Since then I haven’t really wanted to have anything to do with him. But he has continued in the same daily pattern, the morning kisses, the “I love you from the bottom of my heart” BS. I’ve tried to ward it off but he has kept forcing it on me.
Eventually he wore me down enough to where he was able to try having sex with me tonight. But during the process I began to get cramps. I asked him to stop. He stopped, turned over and assumed the posture of one about to go to sleep. I found it unacceptable that he would just do that and not even express any interest in knowing if I was okay. I said as much to him. He started acting as if I was speaking a foreign language–like he couldn’t understand my meaning. I proceeded to try to explain how his behavior seems to suggest he really doesn’t give too much of a crap about me even though he keeps on insisting that he loves me. The whole thing went on for at least 30 minutes. He kept his back turned on me most of the time and spoke only two or three times to deny some “false accusation”. For the most part all I was doing was asking him to match his actions to his words one way or another. He heard nothing of my pleas. He heard me only when I said something he construed to be a false accusation. He responded only to those.
So here I am. It is now 4:06 AM.
Putting myself and my stuff out there like this might seem to be something I do with enthusiasm. After all, I write volumes upon volumes; but I have doubts every day about doing this. I have mild panic attacks through-out the day when I think about my pictures being seen, my thoughts being read, the ugly truth of my life being exposed. I ask myself why I’m doing it. And I try to remind myself that I am doing it for me. I’m doing it for Monica. To try to save her somehow. And yeah, I know nobody gives a damn. Why should they? Everybody’s got their own sh*t. And women like me–women who let men treat them like they are not worthy of love and respect–we don’t deserve pity. We are an embarrassment to ourselves and to all women. So I know the risk I am taking every time I load up this blog and publish the details of my life–with pictures no less. And at the end of the day I might not even manage to save myself. But that’s what I’m trying to do. And you know what, I think I’ll be able to go to sleep now. It is 4:22 AM. I feel much stronger than when I started writing this an hour ago. And that’s what this is all about.
I chose to sleep on the couch last night because I just wasn’t in the mood to pretend that I have a healthy enough marriage to justify sleeping in the same bed with my husband every night. The full details are probably more appropriate for sharing on my marriage blog. I’ll leave out the back-story because I’ll end up writing another novel length post. I woke up about a half hour ago. Usually when I go to sleep on the couch I don’t get to stay there very long because Sir Gallahad comes down and orders me to get up and go upstairs; and he does not quit insisting until I do as he requests. Last night I guess he either never turned and woke up or he chose to pretend to be unaware I wasn’t in bed. But at around 5:30AM he did come down stairs and do a run-through of the script.
I had never paid too much attention to the tone of voice that he uses before. I have always just played my own role, because that’s all we do around here. We live by a script. We have these roles we play. We have recurring themes or scenes I guess you can call them. In this theme/scene, I go to sleep on the couch because something has happened between us and I have come to realize for the millionth time plus one that my husband is my enemy; and I cannot bring myself to getting into the same bed with a man I know deep in my heart and soul does not love me. I don’t want to be sleeping with the enemy. He’s usually already asleep. At some point he turns and realizes it’s late and I’m not in bed. He comes marching downstairs. He starts insisting I get up and go lie in my bed. I protest. He insists some more. I protest some more. He further insists. I eventually get up and go upstairs.
Today though, I realized for the first time that he does not insist I go upstairs to my bed because he’s concerned about me resting comfortably or because he’s concerned about the state of our relationship. He’s just pissed off that I would dare act as if he has done something to run me out of the bed. It’s more like “How dare you be down here sleeping on the couch? I didn’t do anything to you. Get the hell up and go lie in your bed.” And he speaks in a raised voice that is filled with irritation.
This morning I was alert enough to realize how much he sounded like someone speaking to a dog. I envisioned someone kicking a dog and shouting at it. I picked up the disgust that was always there but somehow I had previously missed it. And I changed up the script. Instead of my usual lines I yelled back at him. He showed his true colors immediately. The moment I yelled he no longer cared where I slept.
So that brings me to the title of my post.
My fibroids love the way he loves me
I know that fibroids have a scientific explanation behind their growth. But I do believe that the things we do or don’t do contribute to improving or worsening our condition. I believe fibroids or no fibroids, an unbalanced life can be traced back to your core–to not having a strong center. I’ll try to avoid speaking generally because I don’t really know anything as it pertains to the world and to life at large; but speaking for myself, I know that when I feel emotional pain my stomach is where most of that pain gets processed. It’s my core that takes the abuse. And I believe that fibroids thrive when stimulated in that way. So, when I say that my fibroids love the way my husband loves me, what I mean is that everything he does which hurts me emotionally starts that pain processing at the center of me and it inevitably activates and stimulates the fibroids.
I wrote another post titled “Did my bad marriage give me fibroids?“. Like I said, I know that fibroids result from some type of chemical and/or biological issue. I know I didn’t grow fibroids because of my husband and my marriage; but I do believe that the size of my fibroids and the problems they cause me result from the abuse to which my core so frequently gets subjected; and much of the pain and anguish that I’ve had to wrench my gut for years fighting to endure has been inflicted by my husband. Not that I am blaming him. Because at the end of the day I had a choice. I have a choice. It’s no one’s fault but my own that I stay in this marriage and continue to damage myself at the core by accepting whatever pain my husband inflicts upon me.
It’s been a long day. I am sitting here trying to get a grip on myself. It’s not proving easy. My mind is wandering all over the place. I guess I’m feeling a little unhappy; but I’m trying to put things in perspective. I’m trying not to let the feeling of unhappiness sink deep enough to into my soul to break me. It is proving very difficult to stay on this course of trying to transform my life. In fact, if I were to be honest, for the last few days I’ve only been talking about the course. I haven’t actually been on the course. I fell off and I haven’t managed to get back on yet. I have too much going on.
Right now I am a little bit distracted thinking about a lot of little things that really shouldn’t be causing me any distress. Today a friend of mine asked me to setup a skype account so that we could discuss a business matter via a video call; but I had to decline to do a video call because I’m just not comfortable with the idea. We had some email exchanges about it. He thought I was being silly. I tried to explain my position–why I felt the way I did; but I don’t think I was successful in getting him to see where I was coming from. I think he remained with the mindset that I was being silly; and that’s fine; but even so, I’ve been thinking about it all day. I guess you take a risk when you try to explain yourself to someone. It’s something I always try to remind myself not to do; and I’m a lot better at it than I used to be, but I still slip up. The thing is, people are going to see things the way they see things no matter what you say or do; and especially when it comes to your personal hang-ups, don’t expect people to be patient and understanding for however long it takes you to get over your issues, or forever if you never get over them. It get’s old for them. They get tired of you. I guess that’s what’s been weighing on my mind–the thought that this person finds me tiresome and has reached a point where he simply has no interest in continuing to be bothered. But if that’s the case there really isn’t anything I can do about it and I need to accept that.
There were also a number of other things that happened today that have detrimentally affected my mood. It can be hard to “be” sometimes because you feel like everybody has a problem with who you are. You have to play these roles in order to avoid rubbing people the wrong way. I’ve been quiet my whole life. There was a time when I thought it was because I was vapid and I had no thoughts, and I had nothing to say. But in reality I think very deeply. I guess I just realized early in life that people don’t generally want to hear anything I have to say. I have always been self conscious to speak. Even in a family setting I couldn’t speak freely and openly. Whenever I did speak I was more often than not left feeling embarrassed. I always got a feeling like I was regarded as being rather stupid. It’s something I never got over. More often than not I am by myself in my little corner. I don’t speak much to anyone. There is still that sense of having nothing to say that anyone wants to hear. Sometimes I feel like I’m an alien when I speak–like I said something so farfetched and out of this world that it just boggles the average earth person’s mind. And sometimes I feel like the things I feel most strongly and most passionately about are things with which the people I would speak to don’t agree, and they judge me and dislike me for my thoughts and my feelings. Some of that is what’s going on right now. I’m feeling like the heart and soul of me are the parts of me that rub people the wrong way and it becomes very difficult not to doubt myself and question whether I have any substance, any intelligence, or any purpose.
Dear Monica, you sad little thing. Breathe. Or cry. Do one or the other but let it get out from inside you or you’ll grow another fibroid.
**The image used with this post was taken last week expressly for the purpose of creating a digital painting from a photo of myself dancing without trying to hide my fibroid belly . I titled the series of paintings I created from the pictures I took “Woman Weeping”. Here’s a second image from the series
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