* So… just as soon as I post an article about NOT posting for a while, I get hit with something that needs to be written. Huh. Funny that. I guess what I should have said in my last post is that going within has been the reason for not posting in a while… not that going within is going to stop me from posting now. Either that or I just talk a lot. Ha.*

I wake up before the alarm goes off and before I can even open both eyes fully, my chest fills with a sickening hate and gut wrenching sadness. I roll over onto my right side and open my eyes. It’s still remarkably dark outside. Rock is already awake and I can hear the coffee maker singing it’s distinct, “gurgle, gurgle, spurt” song. I look at the clock next to Rock’s side of the bed and note that I still have almost half an hour before my feet need to hit the floor running.

I roll back over onto my preferred left side and shut my eyes tight. My head is swimming and I’m more tired than usual. I haven’t been sleeping well the last few weeks. Not well at all.

I say a frantic prayer to my angels and ask that the next twenty minutes or so feel like two or three hours. That I will wake up feeling rested and calm. I pray for calmness.

But nothing fills me. My chest is still full of that sickening hate and gut wrenching sadness. And shame. Hate and sadness with a side of shame. I quickly throw my head over the side of the bed and heave, but nothing (thankfully) comes out. I remind myself to put the garbage pail back in it’s spot next to the computer desk when I get up.

I fall back to sleep for a few minutes, falling almost instantly into a dream that makes no sense and yet, leaves me with a feeling of terrible familiarity when I wake. I wish that I could fully remember it. In the light of day, it might make some sense.

I wake again, still before the alarm, my chest still full. But this time the pinch of an overfull bladder diverts my attention. I pull my legs up as close to my chest as I can… even having lost five pounds in the last week doesn’t make it that much easier. That damn mummy tummy. I would cut it right off if I could….Make my body as plastic as the ladies in the basement, fill myself with a false sense of esteem and comfort. Wouldn’t last, this much I know is true. And just the fact that I can admit that I would choose plastic over skin some days makes me angry with myself.

“Practice what you preach”, I think.

But even with my legs pulled up and my head buried between the two pillows and my eyes shut tight, the overfull bladder starts stinging, urging me to turn off the alarm, avoid the awful sound and go to the bathroom.

I give in.

My chest still just as full. The sadness. And the hate. And the shame. Mixed in with an unmistakable sense of failure.

“Same bullshit, different pile”, I think.

I pad down the hallway, willing myself to forget it all. Put on a mask of numbness and pretend that nothing has changed. Nothing, both outside of myself and within myself, have been compromised. Again.

It doesn’t work.

I say “good morning” to the first kid I see. Sad thing is, I can’t even remember which one it was. Let’s just say it was Emma. Ha.

I catch a glimpse of Rock in the kitchen, making his lunch and pouring me a coffee. He grins at me…the distinct grin of triumph…and says,

“Good morning. I’m giving you the last of the coffee whitener. I used milk in mine.”

“Thanks”, I mumble, before pulling down my Wonder Woman pajama pants and sitting down on the toilet.

My bladder heaves a sigh of relief at finally being allowed to empty. “Why didn’t I pee before I went to bed last night?” I silently ask myself.

Hate. Sadness. Shame. Failure. Disgust.

I wipe. I stand up. I flush. I wash my hands with raspberry and vanilla scented soap and make a mental note to refill the pump later in the day. I dry my hands as Kate comes racing in, almost shutting the door on my foot. Emma is chasing her. She is hiding. And laughing. And screeching. And I wonder how little people manage to wake up with so much energy.

I shoo Kate out of the bathroom, my words falling on her deaf ears as she continues to half yell, half laugh at Emma, completely oblivious to my voice. I sigh.

I grab my mug of coffee. I avoid Rock’s face. I look down at my feet encased in super soft socks, brown on the bottom from over use, the socks themselves several years old at this point. I take a huge gulp of coffee, burn the top of my mouth but continue to drink. Sweet nectar of the Gods, it is. I can feel Rock looking at me. I can feel his eyes on the top of my head and I feel myself again begin to heave but I use every ounce of strength I have left in me and hold it in.

“You don’t feel badly, do you?” he asks.

“A little,” I whisper.

I hear him laugh slightly and before he can respond, I grab my mug of coffee and head for the side door. I hear a voice.

“When you came inside and bent over to take off your boots and looked up at me and smiled. You looked beautiful. No…you looked even more beautiful. I wish I had had my camera.”

Hate. Sadness. Shame. Failure. Disgust. Disappointment.

I open the door and grab my over sized, brown, twelve dollar jacket. I bought it for fall. But I’ve been wearing it all winter. It was warmer than I thought it would be. And I’m cheaper (or poorer) than I thought I was, too.

I open the outside door, mug in hand and head out to greet the day, which is really code for “go outside for a smoke”.

I sit down in my green, plastic lawn chair and say a morning prayer. For guidance. For peace. For courage. For an easy day filled with goodness only. I give thanks for all that I have and remind myself of everything wonderful in my life. I end my prayer and look out the new(ish) deck door, out towards my giving tree. And I hear a voice.

“Oh. Before we go…I want to see the giving tree. I forgot last time.”

Hate. Sadness. Shame. Failure. Disgust. Disappointment. Loathing.

I get up. Go inside. Take off my shoes. Take off the brown, quilted jacket. Hang it up. Avoid Rock’s gaze. See his mouth open as if to say something but keep walking before he has a chance to let the thought turn into a sentence and before the sentence can leave his mouth and reach my ears.

I head into the bedroom. Look in the mirror at my hair. It’s not a wash day. I only wash my hair every second day. I’m not sure why. I think that I must have read or heard somewhere that it’s better to not wash it every day. Or maybe I just made that up in my head. Regardless, I’ve never washed my hair every day. Not for as long as I can remember. Certainly not in my adult life.

It’s not a wash day so I take some inventory of the mess on top of my little head (yes, I really do have a little head. Ask my Mom. She makes fun of my “peanut head” all the time until I remind her that she should probably be * grateful * for my little head since she’s the one who gave birth to me…) and decide that it will have to be another bandanna day. I cannot tame the locks, I cannot make them look pretty anymore. I have come to a hair crossroads, folks. To dread or not to dread? To perm again or not to perm again? I have e-mailed an old friend of mine for advice on dreading white people hair. I haven’t heard back from her, yet. I am thinking I don’t have the balls to actually dread my whole head but would like to hold onto the dreads that have formed at the back of my head. I am thinking that I will be a curly haired goddess again before the end of the week.

The girls dance around my feet, jump up onto my unmade bed, and jump back down again, each one of them shouting and laughing something completely unintelligible. They are screaming and shrieking in that awful little girl way. My head starts to pound. I am still sick. I remind them of this. They don’t care. My head is full of cement and snot. A constant tickle resides at the back of my throat. My eyeballs threaten to slide right off of my face from time to time.

But they don’t care. And who can blame them?

They chase each other out of my room, Rock’s voice scolding them for bothering Mommy while she’s trying to get ready.

I look in the mirror.

Hate. Sadness. Shame. Failure. Disgust. Disappointment. Loathing. Pain.

I know, without thinking, what I am about to do. It doesn’t make sense. It won’t make sense to any of you. It couldn’t possibly make sense to anyone but me.

I take out my panties and lay them on the bed. I am not showering. I take out my bra and lay it on the bed. I am not showering. I take out my pants and my socks and my shirt and lay them all on the bed. I am not showering. I will not wash it away.

I put on my clothes, the smell still on my skin. I put on my clothes, the sticky residue still sticking to me. Still leaking just slightly. I am completely and totally grossed out. I gross myself out. The back of my head is still sweaty. My hair still a bit damp. I can smell nothing else. And it makes me heave once more.

This time, though, the coffee comes hurtling out.

I wasted the whitener.

I wipe my mouth and look at myself, fully clothed, in the mirror. I take in the sight of me. And that cackling voice inside of my head starts to purr.

I want to hurt all day. I want to feel it when I walk. I want to be reminded with every step that I take. I want to be reminded every time I sit down. I want it to nag at me throughout my day until I fall back into it tonight.

Not showering is step number one.

The morning continues to pass in a blur. Rock leaves. I dress the girls, do their hair, fix their breakfast, give them cups of juice with a straw (purple for Kate, red for Emma) and make a mental note that when I am out and about tonight, I should really pick up a few more of those fancy schmancy cups. I put a freezer pack into each lunch kit and tuck the lunch kits into the back packs. I sit Michael up countless times in his play pen as his excitement knocks him over and he screams in a little girl scream. It’s high pitched and horrible and I just * know * that he learned it from his sisters. I drink some more coffee, tidy up the kitchen, put away some dishes, check the boiled water to see if it’s cool enough for bottles, decide that it isn’t, take out the spring coats and slush pants and rubber boots and tell the girls to brush their teeth and get ready. I dress Michael and dress myself and help Kate with her zipper. I take everyone outside, put Michael in his stroller, wheel him out to the end of the driveway, talk to the neighbour about the new garbage trucks and whether or not Michael is crawling yet. I sing to Michael, “oh my friends are you here? Ole! Oh my friends are you there? Hey hey!” to make him smile and stop him from whining. I put the girls on the bus.

All the while, I can feel it. All the while, I know it. And I know, equally, what the next step will be. Just a little longer.

Hate. Sadness. Shame. Failure. Disgust. Disappointment. Loathing. Pain. Punishment.

I give Michael a bath. I dress him and wrestle with him and listen to him complain. He likes the water, likes his bath, hates to come out and hates even more to get dressed. The children’s hospital asked us if he “helped” dress himself by putting his arms into a sleeve or whatever. I had to laugh.

I give Michael his bottle and check e-mails. I e-mail an apology. It takes me a while to write.

I drink coffee. I put Michael down for his morning nap.

And I quickly post something.

I read a few blogs until the voice inside of my head cannot stand it any more.

I get up. Disconnect from the computer. I go into the living room and close the blinds. I lock both doors. I pull a fleece blanket off from the window seat and put it on the couch. And then I begin a hunt.

I dig around in the back of my closet until I find what I am looking for.

I head back into the living room, as quietly as possible, so as to not wake the baby.

I lay down on the couch, my head uplifted on the cushions, the blue blanket down around my legs, coming up just to my waist. I want to close my eyes but I won’t let myself. I force myself to keep them open.

And watch.

I lay there for almost an hour, hurting myself over and over again. It doesn’t make sense. I know that. I realize and can fully appreciate how fucked up this is. But I also can’t help it.

I punish myself until I can’t make it happen any more. Until I’m numb.

And I get up and walk around the living room, feeling every ache and every stabbing pain, every sting and every burn from within.

I don’t feel any better.

But I do feel somewhat calmer.

And for some reason, I have Jim Morrison’s voice in my head as I open the blinds and unlock the doors and return the blue blanket to the window seat and return the two items snagged from the closet.

I hear him singing,

“This is the end….my only friend… the end.”