The Strangely Random Ramblings of an Anxiety-ridden Introvert

Does anybody else get this weird restless tired as shit but full of anxiety feeling, especially when it's night time and you should be getting ready for bed? Sigh. SIGH I tell you.

I'm kind of excited and kind of torn about turning Strangely Random Thoughts into a wordpress blog. I've already created it. And put up my first post (which is actually a re-post from here, shhh...) but I'm wondering if I should treat it as a fresh start, or if I should attempt to export this blog to Wordpress and continue on. I've already made a couple of changes--my user name for one. Sadly, the name MaryPoppins was taken, so instead of adding a bunch of the suggested numbers to the end of it, I just changed it to MaryPoppinz.

For now, it's still Strangely Random Thoughts, but I'm wondering if I should change the name. When I set out to have a blog, I don't think I had anything in particular in mind that I wanted to get across. I thought it would just be a place where I could be myself and use it (and you) as a bit of an outlet. So no real purpose, (hence the name strangely random thoughts). I didn't know that I would basically be using the world of Blogger as a big ol' couch floating around in space. My blog has become almost entirely about clinical depression. Should I change my new blog to reflect that or should I change the way I write in my blog. I'm afraid that if I do the latter, this will become just one more place where I can't be myself. One more place where I have to pretend that this depression hasn't been all-consuming.

I'm not very good at faking it. I never have been. But I try anyway. It's just so exhausting. And pointless. I'm sure that everyone can see that there's just something not quite right there. That quiet girl who's just so hard to make small talk with. That strange girl that I just can't understand, that girl who's not readable so it makes me uncomfortable. I was actually told this once, by my ex, the V. He said that I make people uncomfortable. Well. If that isn't a boost to the self-esteem I don't know what is. Of course now I want to hang out more with your friends, sign me up! I can't blame him for saying it though. It was the truth then and it's the truth now.

Back to my point. Do I continue to continuously write about my struggles with depression? I'm afraid that my posts make people want to jump off a bridge or something, you know? I suppose I could make more of an effort to put a positive spin on things....

I hate it when I feel like this. I'm feeling that black hole rising up to swallow me again. Only it's not quite here yet so I feel like I'm sinking slowly, and my anxiety is rising, but I'm totally helpless against the pull. That's why I'm here. I needed a distraction.

There's just something in my chest, and it's spreading. Is it because I was worried about the long weekend? Is it because I've been having to get up earlier? Is it something in the air? Is it because I started running again? Trying to figure out what the Hell brings on these episodes is like trying to follow the instructions of assembling factory-made furniture. Frustrating and hopeless. And when you're finished you end up with something that's just not put together quite right, something that just doesn't have all its parts, a final product with missing pieces.

Okay, enough with the furniture-talk already, geez. I have a feeling this is going to be a really, really long post. I apologize if anyone is reading this and going WTF.

So about Musician Guy (I'll call him MG)... The last thing I mentioned was that he moved back to my city. That's changed again. He was here for a couple of months but has now moved to the next town over, an hour away. We've been seeing each other for about a year and three months now, except shortly after getting together he moved far away, so most of our relationship has been long distance. We still haven't met each other's parents. I've met two of his friends.

And...I have yet to meet his children who live with their mom. He has one of his own, a seven year old boy, and another boy who's already 16 years old!  The teenager is not his biological son, but he's been his Dad since the boy was 5. They are spending the weekend with MG. At first, I thought he wanted me to come be with him this weekend and to meet them for the first time, but now I'm not so sure.

I can't even put into words what the idea of meeting his kids does to me. I want to be the kind of person who is crazy about the idea of meeting them. Who desperately wants to spend time and get to know these little people that have this amazing connection to him. But all I can feel is anxiety. And fear. And it seems crazy to me. How can I be afraid to meet a seven year old?? And what exactly am I afraid of? So, so many things.

What if they don't like me? We've all heard that children and animals can sense when something's not quite human. What if they see through me, and all they see is my Monster D? What if they sense that I'm all chewed up inside? I have a hard enough time faking some semblance of normalcy with my coworkers, how am I going to pull that off with these kids?

And then there's the other stuff, like what does it mean? What if for some insane reason they do connect with me and then it doesn't work out? And did I mention that he had a vasectomy? This has been gnawing on my insides since the first time we had sex and he told me about it. I was surprised that my first reaction was quite...visceral, is that the right word? There was no rationale behind it, I just felt...sadness. Immediate and intense. It's like in that moment I saw a world of possibilities I never knew I wanted get washed away with a razor blade. I've struggled with that reaction ever since. What did it mean? Is there some part of me that still wants to have babies? Or was it purely primitive? A physical reaction to a physical act that's rooted in our desire to procreate?

I don't know if I want kids and I feel like time is running out for me to make up my mind. But what I do know is that the possibility doesn't even exist with the man I'm with right now. And it's cruel. I want so badly to go back to a time when our lives were less complicated, when we were both happier, healthier, less...jagged and worn. I violently wish that we could have met at that time. And then I feel horribly guilty because that means that his son would never have been born. But we are so perfect for each other in so many ways, and if there was ever any person that I could see myself having babies with it's him.

I've never been with someone that makes me feel so safe. And I know that sounds boring. I know that doesn't sound at all sexy or romantic, but I've come to realize these past few years that it's what I need. I need to feel safe to be myself. I need to feel safe to be creative. I need to feel safe to open up and be less lonely. And he does that for me. Don't get me wrong, sometimes I still feel like even he doesn't know me, but he's come closer than anyone else I've known. I've let him inside my hamster ball, at least partially, and it doesn't feel wrong. That's huge.

So maybe some of the anxiety about meeting the child he had with another woman is partly rooted in my heartbreak over losing the possibility of being the mother of his children.

I'm so confused about this. I don't really feel like I'm at all ready to be a parent, and if I don't feel ready at my age then I probably never will. But when I look to the future, it looks very lonely. And full of regret. Is it just because I've been conditioned to believe that this is how it's done? That if I don't grow up, get married, have babies, be a mom, and a grandma, that there's something wrong with me? Or is it the guilt? My parents have made their happiness the 100% responsibility of my sister and I. There's not a single phone conversation that doesn't lay the guilt on thick, that we don't live closer. That their lives are empty and lonely because we are not around. That they are not grandparents and therefore have no joy in their life. That's a heavy burden to carry. And it doesn't seem to matter how many times other more rational people tell me that it's not my responsibility, that their guilt trips are not fair, it still hurts like Hell.


Well, that's where I'm at tonight. Trying to hope my mood will improve by the weekend, but kind of afraid to hope at the same time. I should get ready for bed. Sleep deprivation compounds my depressive episodes by like a thousand.