edithjones: (Default)
Well, the suicide attempt was what? Several days ago, now. It's odd that other people seem to be having more difficulty processing it that I am. Or maybe that's not odd. I don't know. To me, it doesn't even seem real anymore. It's like nothing ever happened except when I'm trying to do things and find I have absolutely no energy and then I remember that I'm recuperating and then I remember what I'm recuperating from. The liver is still sore. Funny - I never knew where my liver was before. It was just part of the tangle of organs in there somewhere. Now I know exactly where it is. It's the sore bit. Anatomy 101, learned the hard way. I was told that it would probably hurt for a week or so as it's still trying to clean the poisons out of my system. For the record, I'm still crapping charcoal.

I decided to be honest and tell Michael about what had happened. Why do I keep using the passive voice here? I decided to be honest and tell Michael about what I'd done. There. Active voice. It's very hard to use when it comes to this topic. And there I am, obscuring again. This topic. Suicide attempt. It's like people using "passing" and "his time" for "death", which always annoys me, but I'm ready enough to do it when it comes to my own suicide attempt. I'm never going to come to grips with it if I can't even use the words to say it, am I? Semantics are important.

I decided to be honest and tell Michael about the suicide attempt. MY suicide attempt. He was not happy with me. At first he was very snappy and asked questions that were very insolent and - I guess bitchy is the word - and then he got very quiet and his body language was all turned away from me, and then he went downstairs to his room and I didn't see him for the rest of the evening. However, it's a lot better than I expected. I feared tears and loss of control, but now I'm concerned because he's shrugging it off as if it's no big deal, which means he's internalizing so much that he's decided not to deal with it at all. No, he doesn't need to talk to a friend or a counsellor; it's just fine, he's not mad, he's not upset, everything is hunky dory, and I know that it's not, that it's absolute bullcrap, but Michael's always internalized because he's scared that if he doesn't that this torrent of feeling is going to come out and he's not going to know what to do with all of it. So he's smiling and in a day or two I'll be the world's best mum again and he'll be full of giggles and joie de vivre and it worries me.

In other news, I need to go back to work tomorrow. I have a five-hour shift and I need to get some paperwork done for work today and I honestly don't know how I'm going to cope with the demands of my job unless I'm very careful as emotionally and physically I'm pretty battered. I know that I'm only a shop clerk but if the store gets busy, which isn't likely, and I get run off my feet with a combination of sales and repairs, I don't know how I'm going to find the energy to manage. On top of that, it's not like I can just get there at 9:50 for a 10:00 a.m. start anymore; Mark's back to work as of today as summer vacation is over, so I'll be dropped off at 7:30 either at work or a local coffee establishment, and so I'll be all the more tired. Maybe I can do my paperwork before work.....I have access to all the figures before work because I can get into the computers - now there's an idea - and I always do my makeup before work as there's tons of mirrors there and it's a pleasure doing my makeup sitting down instead of stood before the bathroom mirror now and again. Okay, there's an option that makes today and tomorrow a little more bearable.

Journalling is a good idea. It allows me to think out loud, as it were, and get some control over my thoughts. At first I thought it would be a good idea to find friends over here at Dreamwidth but I am far less certain of that now. Maybe what I need here is just a personal sounding board. I've never kept a journal consistently but perhaps it is time that I pushed myself to do so. Here I like the interface and it's very pretty all in purple with pink icons, and I can work things out like I did in the last paragraph.

The thing I'm wondering now is whether or not my boss should be informed of my suicide attempt. There are pros and cons which I don't have the wherewithal to go into right now. But I'm thinking about it, both sides, as I go through my day, which, I must admit, has been quite sedentary so far, and has involved a lot of sleep! I wish I had absolutely nothing on my plate for the day but I must get something accomplished, although I'm unsure why. Guilt? It's the first day I've had to myself since June and I'd really like to enjoy it but I have the deep feeling that it would be wrong. What I need to do is examine my priorities and see what needs to be done versus what I think should be done and just do the necessary stuff.

Necessary stuff:

  • walk the dog
  • clean up kitchen and sweep the floor. It may need mopping.
  • ironing. Not all of it but some.
  • one load of laundry. Especially Kate's Campus Crew pants.
  • bake something for when kids arrive home. cupcakes?
  • vacuum upstairs and rec room.
  • tidy rec room.
  • can i leave bathrooms till Thursday or do I need to do them today? Main hall bathroom is okay but Michael's is disgusting and the ensuite isn't great....what to do....see how time goes.
  • make beds.

    Remember - Mark will be concerned if he thinks you're overdoing the housework - he knows you need to recuperate and he was quite firm on Sunday that you were overdoing and needed to stop. Don't do this again. Is everything on that list really necessary? Can't the rec room be left? And the vacuuming? Will the world fall apart if the upstairs isn't vacuumed till Friday? No. Walk the dog, clean up the kitchen, iron a few things, put on a load of wash, make the beds, bake something. Stop. That will take an hour or so. Let's say an hour and a half. That's tolerable.

    Time to go. Feeling headachy and I think it may be time for another nap.
edithjones: (Default)
It's 2:46 in the afternoon here. The house is quiet except for the tapping of my fingers on the keyboard and the gentle swooshing noises of the central air-conditioning making the humidity tolerable.

Mark's asleep next to me after a night which he spent mostly sitting upright, awake in a hospital chair in a cold corridor while I, deeply dosed with acetaminophen, slept endlessly on a gurney parked across the hall. He's being kind. Very much so. There's lots of cuddles, love, patience. Tomorrow the reality of this will hit him and he'll be furious.

Kate isn't speaking to me. She's not even looking in my direction. Hard to blame her, really. Twelve years old and your mother tries to kill herself in the middle of the night? While you're still awake and in the next room? Whether she ever forgives me isn't the issue. Whether she ever feels safe again is far more important. Holy crap, that's done damage. Luckily, when John took her to the mall to buy her the final book in the Inkheart trilogy - buying her a new book as she had just finished book two last night seemed like a good idea - they ran into Kate's best friend, out shopping with her mother and sister, and Kate went home with them. I'm glad. It brings her a break from a house that must seem very scary right now, and means that she can either have a good time with her friend or have someone to talk to, or both.

I can't write anymore right now. Thinking about what this is going to do to my relationship with my daughter and my son fills me with so much fear that I can't even begin to describe it.

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edithjones

September 2010

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