To Pretend or Not Pretend?

I have this uncontrollable urge to pretend that I am okay. That everything is fine. No one is wanting to hear day after day that I am only meh. In 23 days I have had 7 good days and 14 meh days and 2 bad bad days. Which means at the moment I have a 75/25 split between meh and good days. Better than 100% meh.
The urge to pretend comes from the fact that I know how I sound. Like a broken record. When asked how I am, I weigh the pros and cons of telling the truth or to lie. Who wants to sit through another boring litany of my sorry life. How I am having anxiety attacks. How for last 18 hours I again have not been able to stop crying. Lucky is driving me insane with her need to be right on top of me. At the moment she is sitting as close to me as she can without actually being on top of the keyboard. Even in this I sound like I am whining.
I put up a front. When I am alone it is easy to just remove myself by watching t.v. or playing games on the computer. When T is here I have to be present, push myself to look after him and I can do it. I live for when he comes home. I have been lax in the meal department. Well vegetables anyways. T will not eat my salad and I eat salad with everything so Sunday he only had farmer burgers for supper and last night chicken burgers. I had oatmeal.
It is easier not to burden people with how I feel. For when I am like this, when I feel like all I am doing is annoying everyone, I pretend. Pretend that everything is okay. Pretend that I am happy. I vacillate between being high and falling low. I am so all over with my emotions some times I do not know which what is up. I would give anything to not be like this. Everything I write is negative sounding. I reread what I have typed and it sounds like I am ungrateful for the people around me. I am not. I do not want to hurt them which is why I carefully consider what I am going to answer with.
Do I tell you I am having a rough morning? Or do I lie and say ok? I no longer know. I only know that if feels to me as though when I tell someone things are not that great, suddenly there are no more texts. So I am beginning to believe that I should just remain quiet. That my sadness, my pain is my own.
And it is my own.  No one can share it with me. No one can shovel it away to ease my burden.
To pretend or not to pretend? That is the question.
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I am a bunny

***Image via Cartoon Network found on Internet.

I am a bunny

hear me roar.

What?

You say that I cannot roar?

That I am too tiny and too cute?

Do you not see the fierceness

with which I protect my heart?

Do you not see

that I am the provider of my family?

I am a bunny

see me soar.

Why?

Why do you say I cannot soar?

That I am meant to stay rooted to the ground?

Do you not see the dreams

that I create within this harsh world?

Do you not understand the hope

that I watch each day unfurl with?

I am a bunny

tiny and cute

fierce and determined

ready to embrace

the differences that life will share.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

Oct. 9/17

Was he a girl?

This picture is the only one I have of my dad as a child. I once had more but they became water damaged and I had to dispose of them. My dad is the one on the left. With the blonde curls. He kinda looks like a girl.

My Amma (Icelandic for grandma) really wanted a girl. She had my dad and my Uncle. Did she try to hide my dad’s masculinity for the formative years of his life? Or at least some twisted boy-girl version?

The only children my Amma bore were her two sons. And she so desperately wanted a daughter. Ironically my Uncle had two daughters. My dad had me. And my brother.

I have a couple of stories about my Amma from my uncle. My Aunt was not a fan of her mother-in-law. My mom has different stories and me, well I was her favorite so my glasses are rose colored.

Every time I have a thought regarding this character I am building I write it down. Thus far I have only had the two but I am beginning to view my dad differently. Or rather the fictional version I am building of him.

I must not paint my Amma as an evil villianess. I can only speculate as to what happened in her earlier life. We have no real on her.

My Afi (Icelandic for grandpa) is but a shadow to me. He passed away 1 month and 6 days before I was born. Came home drunk and fell down the basement stairs. Broke his back. Died of pneumonia.

My Amma and Afi shaped my dad.

Were one to look at my Uncle, respectable, looked after his family, never abandoning them to fate, you would never guess the family connection.

My dad? He is not an enigma. Not when I take my own reality of him, my mom’s and my brother’s and meld them.

He was a drunk. He left his family to fend for themselves. Never did he think how his actions affected his children. His wife.

Even as I worked to lower my expectations of him I was continually disappointed. The once sympathetic character I saw is now evolving into one you would most likely disdain.

This challenge I have set for myself is intriguing. I originally thought this was going to be a tale of a father who abandoned his children. Who chose alcohol to be his companion.

And with the turn of a phrase I suddenly found sympathy. Today as I wrote I may have had a small pain in my heart because I do believe my Amma may have treated my dad as a girl for the first while. And she babied him.

The great thing about this….I get to make it all up. But at the same time I am going to pluck my mind, my mom’s and my brother’s for memories and stories. For I realize that I need a clearer picture of the man who was my dad.

Untitled 12

Once I danced along,

streets covered in golden dreams

believing the fantasy

that I built from nothing.

Now I creep alone

through empty concrete dreams

my fantasies but ash within my mouth

as my tears bring no relief.

I rend my heart in bitterness

curse my soul that remakes my wound

the scar marking the damage done;

damage I cannot get away from.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

September 6/17

 

 

 

Birthday Eve

Today is August 28th. In slightly more than 24 hours I will be 45 years old. I did not actually arrive in the world until 8:20 p.m. so am not “really” 45 ’til than. 

I am looking forward to turning 45. I am not the same woman I was when I turned 44 last year. I am by far a much better and stronger version of her. I have taken my life and where I could have continued along the path of destruction I was on I changed. Slowly at first. But as the changes became good changes, as my outlook and feelings became harmonized and less disjointed I welcomed the changes.

I have documented my cycle of depression and how I had to claw my way back. I have an amazing support group who have been with me since I started on the new journey to me.

A journey that has seen me rise high enough to realize I was in an unhappy marriage and find the strength to leave. To my mistakenly believing all my problems were solved by the dissolution of my marriage and I went off my meds. I began to rely on alcohol to get me through the days. 

My crash, which scared me so badly because I had allowed myself to be tricked into believing I was okay. Our brains are wicked when presenting one with deceptive illusions.

Even after I resumed taking my meds I still continued to self-medicate with alcohol. Finally July 1st I decided to stop. I went six weeks without drinking. And when I did, I woke the next morning disappointed in myself. 

I have had some again but there is a difference. One that I can see and feel. It is no longer a need. There is no desire to negate the feelings I did not want to face. 

So tomorrow I am turning 45. 

 I am eating better. I am sleeping better. I am exercising. I have quit drinking to self-medicate and find that I do not miss it. 

Best of all I am writing again. I am more secure in the voice I have. I am letting those wonderful words combine and emerge like a waterfall from my finger tips. I believe in magic again. 

At 45 I am beginning to emerge from the cocoon of the past. I can see my present but the future….that is a dream still waiting to be dreamed.

Shards of Silver

I walk through the greying mists

seeing vague shapes

to the right and left of me.

But when I call out

my voice becomes a mere whisper,

slighter than the flutter,

of a Monarch’s wings.

My tears are but shards of silver

pecking away at my heart

Uncovering hidden losses

and the pain I try to hide.

One day there may be comfort.

One day I may be free.

But until that day I shall fight,

to come back from the albatross

that hangs around my neck.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

August 26/17

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Somewhere in time

fantasies did grow

Over-taking all reality

until no longer

can one differentiate.

Was it madness?

a disease?

An escape from life?

swallowed in a mimosa of hatred

swaddled in grey.

Beating against enclosing walls

fists bleeding

numb with pain.

There is no escape from this truth

no matter how hard

no matter how fast

one tries to flee.

©Jay-lyn Doerksen

July 24/17