October 31, 2012 § 3 Comments
This blog knows me only as a birth mother. So I’m going to talk about myself, which is nothing new. I make myself quite emotionally vulnerable here, but only about my adoption experience. And I’d like to be more than that to anyone who happens to read this.
I live in downtown SLC, a welcome relief from the suburbs I grew up in. My studio apartment bankrupts me, but I love living alone too much to seek cheaper arrangements that involve roommates. Been there, done that, hated it. I have trust complexes, and I’m close with maybe two people. I truly believe I’ll be single for the rest of my life, although the prospect makes me sad. I’m a Capricorn, which tells you more about me than I ever could. Comedy is not my forte, although I am occasionally funny on accident, in a dry sardonic way. I lived in the Pacific Northwest until sixth grade. I miss it there. My favorite color is purple and my apartment makes that obvious. It seems like everything I own is purple. I’m majoring in biology. I work at a clothing store. I’m very conscious of style and appearances, although I rarely wear makeup. I look the same with it on or off. I like selling men’s wear more than women’s, particularly suits. I’m obsessed with suits. Like most people my age, I love tattoos and piercings. I have 2 tattoos (hip and ribcage) and 3 non-ear piercings (nape, navel, lip). I take out my lip ring to appear professional at my job.
I love exercise and sweating. I love challenges. I’m happy I had my baby naturally–I think episiotomies, epidurals, Demerol, cesareans, Pitocin, IVs, and all the rest are totally horrifying. I love animals. I love cooking, cleaning, doing the dishes, and organizing things. I like being productive. I make to-do lists. I’m always honest, and abrasively so. I like going to the dentist. I’m a film snob, and I have a weakness for the horror genre and for French films. I listen to music of all kinds. I’m terrible at dancing, but I do it whenever I’m alone. I read and write constantly, and in fact I’m participating in NaNoWriMo starting tomorrow. I love literary classics and poetry.
I don’t like that my extended family considers me the black sheep. I don’t like cold mornings. I’m afraid of heights. I don’t like the way guys typically perceive and relate to women. Examples: friend-zone (wanting to be friends is such an insult!), my ex is crazy (because you made her that way?), pick-up artistry (epitome of douchebaggery), asking me what a girl means by something (newsflash, there is no universal female language), wondering why girls like jerks and not nice guys (being nice does not make you desirable on its own), so on and so forth. I don’t like dogs. I know I said I love animals, but dogs gross me out. I like some dogs, at times. I don’t like when people misread my name as April. I don’t like being unestablished in life; I honestly wish I was in a career and married with kids. I don’t like automatic transmissions, Byzantine art, bad manners, video stores being replaced by Netflix and RedBox, or bookstores suffering because of Kindle.
I smoke weed on most evenings. I regretfully smoke cigarettes–I quit when I found out I was pregnant, but started again two weeks after giving birth. I still want to quit. I love drinking 2-3 drinks, but despise drinking to the point of drunkenness. I’m very much a loner and I don’t know or care to know many people, and thus I go to like 2 parties in a year. The exception was my raver phase when I was 19, during which I partied every day for a few months. Another example of how mellow I am (and perhaps how much of a loser I am) is that I think sex is for love, or at least significant feelings and strong attraction. My bedpost notches add up to 6, and I regret 3 of them, but I’m still the only college-age girl I know who does not have a number in the teens. I’m glad I don’t. Does it matter? No. Does it matter to me? Yes. Do I judge other people who are more casual about it? Sometimes.
It may be obvious, but I suffer from depression. I function well and I have an unrelated tendency to brood, so no one notices. The truth is that I’m simply accustomed to dealing with it. Illness, at least mine, can be managed and controlled. Nothing has helped lately, because this is not just illness. Ever since…like 4 weeks after walking away from my baby, when I realized that the pain would never abate,
I have very seriously contemplated/planned suicide every day. I’m sorry to bring up such a taboo subject. I simply don’t foresee life being okay again, after having a baby and losing him. I try to avoid “what if” but once the thoughts are there, you can’t go back. I can’t imagine liking myself again, even a little. I can’t control the flashbacks and the memories that bring on tears and horrific anxiety, out of nowhere. This is beyond any realm of “dealing with it.” I can’t turn it off, and I can’t change the past. I’m not going to die so don’t waste your time worrying. I don’t want to hurt my parents. And this may sound strange, but I don’t want my kitty to miss me. I may hate my life, but they all have good lives and they are happy, and I don’t want to take that away. I guess I still have a certain level of misguided hope that wants to wait and see if everything turns out alright, even if the rest of me certainly has no desire to stick around for the train wreck. That’s why I am alive and merely wishing for death. I have no chance of being happy.
Happy Halloween! It doesn’t feel remotely like Halloween, probably because I have not done anything nor will I tonight.