Three A.M.

I've had 459 views on my blog and perhaps two comments. Rather disproportionate, eh?

It's nearly three a.m. I was fairly convinced that Emily of New Moon by L.M. Montgomery was the series of books in which I'd read about the heroine being awake and alone with doubts and uncertainties at three in the morning, and how it's an evil, dreadful hour.

Well, indeed it is.

As I said, I was fairly convinced, and I was going to quote the book, but a Google search returned nothing, which must mean that I'm outside my head and am completely wrong. (Or, once again, Google fails. Not that it happens often. I would never insinuate such a thing.)

I hate staying up late alone. Everyone else fell asleep some time ago, and I hate being the last to fall asleep. I'm not entirely sure why. I'm a cowardly critter. I'm afraid of everything. I'm afraid of every noise I hear outside my house because I'm entirely convinced that it means the sky is falling. I've never, ever felt completely secure. And I've never, ever felt completely confident that I know what I'm doing or where I'm going.

This is what I think about at three a.m.

I'm a control freak. I'm not ashamed to admit it. It's just something that I am. I'm aware, and I'm working on being less controlling. Not an easy task, considering it's something that's dug down deep beneath my skin. For the most part, these days I feel like I'm completely out of control. It's funny (perhaps funny is a poor choice of wording) because my therapist once said as much. I'm a codependent control freak, and I find my happiness in putting everyone else's needs ahead of my own. I have a problem telling someone no if I really feel that saying no might hurt that person, even if saying yes hurts me. I worry about everyone else constantly. I worry about what everyone else thinks... to an extent, I suppose. I may say I don't care, but I do, I just pretend not to care. I ignore it, or else I simply cannot function.

Anyway, after the birth of my second child, I fell apart. I went crazy. I cried constantly for no reason. I hated existence. Sometimes, I'd pick up my son, and it wouldn't even feel like I was holding my own child. Disassociative disorder, I believe my therapist called it. Depersonalization. A defense mechanism.

In other words, I turned into a nut job.

My therapist said it was as if I had been holding it together for all that time, struggling to balance everything, struggling to keep everyone happy, and having Christopher tipped the scales, so to speak. I lost balance. I lost control. Having two children is a massive change from having one. I was no longer able to pretend like I had it all together. I feel like I've been fighting since then to get it back. I would fluctuate rapidly between two extremes. On one end, I would be in the depths of despair, quite literally hating existence and wishing I could disappear. Then, for a moment, the clouds would clear, and I would hate myself. Loathe myself. Despise myself. In the worst possible way. I saw it as a weakness. Maybe a weakness I could beat out of myself.

I suppose I did. My therapist made significant headway and then switched to a different office... one that did not accept my insurance. So I gave up on therapy and assumed I could work this out myself.

I guess it turns out that I'm wrong.

I had a moment tonight. One of those moments where time seems to stop, and I wonder who I am, and what I'm doing, and why I'm here, and I haven't been able to pull it back together since.

Long story short, I'm a mess.

My entire life is a mess.

In a perfect world, this blog would end on a perfect note. I'd have something cute and funny and positive to say, and tomorrow everything would be better.

Tomorrow will be better, but only because I'll have fallen asleep (and hopefully successfully avoided any nightmares) and forgotten the whole thing. Every day is like having a reset button. My short term memory is terrible. I do a lot of pretending and forgetting and ignoring, and boy oh boy, is it exhausting.

I'm exhausted.

I'm so. SO. SO. Tired. Tired of fighting to be seen as strong. Tired of fighting not to cry. Tired of fighting to look okay. I'm just tired, tired, tired.

"Buuuut Lexy, you're DOING it wrong! You sposed to relying on Jehovah and throwing your burdens on him, doofusface!" (I hope you read that in a stupid voice, cuz I wrote it in a stupid voice.)

Here's my answer to that obvious remark. Yeah, I'm working on it. But when you've been told your entire life that you suck at life and that you can't do anything right and that you're not worth anything, you start to believe it. And that takes a lot of undoing to get undone.

So yeah. I'm working on it.

Alone.

Tonight is just one of those nights that forever just feels like a really, really, really, really long time.

I can't even write anymore. And I'm probably going to regret posting this. But what am I if not brutally honest, right?

Signing off,
Alex.Is

Run run run.

I'm running again.

I haven't run much more than two inches since October. And yet I find myself running an 11.5 min mile, including my short walking breaks. I'm pretty happy about that accomplishment. My lungs felt like exploding by the time I was done, but that's a good sign, right?

I'm also adding crunches and a bunch of different work outs to the routine. It's not that I'm obsessed with being skinny or having Jillian Michaels abs. (Although the abs are a huge plus, no?) I'm tired of feeling tired and run down and unhealthy and out of shape and unfit. I'm by no means overweight. I wouldn't even call myself chubby. (Yes I would, jokingly.) But I'm completely out of shape. The McDonald's and Burger King and Wendy's dinners make you feel like a dried up, salty slug. You lose energy, and you gain love handles.
I don't want Jillian's abs, honestly. Rock hard abs look better on men, in my personal humble opinion. I just wanna feel comfortable in my skin. And maybe drop the cellulite in my thighs, ya know? I love my kids, but there are some less than glamorous aspects of baby baking and motherhood. Cellulite and varicose veins being a few of the less disgusting ones. (We won't discuss the tearing and incontinence and... well, you know.)

I've also downloaded an app to help me count my calories. What a wake up call that was! I don't think I ever realized just how awful my eating habits were. However, now I can take that knowledge and improve myself with it. Positive thinking here!

I'm really proud of the fact that I hit a personal record for myself today. I'm excited and more than slightly surprised, honestly. It feels good. And that is good enough reason for me to keep going.

Tiredly (good tired) signing off,
Alex.Is

Alex is in Therapy.

Let's be honest. I'm a bit of a froot loop. And self proclaimed control freak. And I'm not as strong as I pretend to be. I'm just an excellent liar.

"How are you today?"

"I'm great, how are you?"

The best thing is that I can say it with a smile on my face and a ring in my voice, and you won't question it even for a minute. I'm that good at it.

But let's face it. I'm just as broken and broken-hearted as the next froot loopy fool. I don't think life really ever takes us where we expect ourselves to be. Those expectations are what cause us to break our own hearts, half the time. Of course, there's time and unforseen occurrence, and some things we can't control or handle. Sometimes, we're just subjected to an entirely crappy childhood. And anyone who says, "That's no excuse, get your life together and move on," etc. etc. has either a) had an excellent childhood or b) had a terrible childhood and is resentful about the fact that they can't figure out how to move on from it.

Life leaves scars, and yes some of them are permanent. It doesn't matter if we're scarred because of poor choices we've made or because of poor choices someone else made for us or because the earth is so much bigger than us and has no regard for our itty bitty little seemingly insignificant lives.

I'm trying to figure out how to be okay with those scars. I'm trying to figure out how to keep putting one foot in front of the other and keep it moving. Sometimes, rock bottom isn't rock bottom. Sometimes, it's just a turning point.

Regardless of the way I feel, the world isn't going to stop turning. And I'm well aware that maybe five people will read this post if I'm lucky. That doesn't really matter to me. It's not tumbling around in the empty space inside my skull anymore. And anyway it's rather symbolic of life in general. Really, when you have your biggest, worst breakdown, when your entire world seems to collapse underneath your toes, when the sky goes black and you begin to lose your way, how many people notice? The ones that count.

That's the idea.

So Alex is in therapy. It's time to fix Alex :)

Bedtime.
-Me<3

Alex is a Writer

It's true. I live and breathe the written word. I'm a hopelessly dramatic soul constantly in search of inspiration. Let's face it, I'm also a control freak, and I love the sense of control - no matter how illusory it may be - that comes with creating and developing an imaginary character's story. The sky is the limit with the written word. Your only boundaries are those of your imagination.

Sure, this either sounds lovely and poetic or ridiculously cliche. Either way, it's sincere. And I've had enough of this half-a-decade-long dry spell I've fallen into.

I'm writing a novel. Not just a story. A NOVEL I'm going to finish it this time, even if it kills me. (Whiiich...it very well might...)

I'm excited. I can't wait. I'm making plans. I'm trying to figure out how to get published. I'm leaning on friends for moral and mental support. I'm giving myself this goal, and I'm bound and determined to see it through.

Well! We'll see how this goes...!

TTFN.
Alex.Is