I’m happy. Despite everything. You’ll see.
Went walking with Keith yesterday, and I doubt very much that I’ll be doing that again very soon. I have a high tolerance for aberrant behaviour, but the only time I can deal with Keith these days is when there are other people present. Otherwise he yells at me. Not all the time, but once during lunch (which I paid for) and twice while we were walking. The animus in his voice is primal, and it’s time I recognized things.
So I pick up the phone and call him. I make sure he’s awake, able to take the call privately, and tell him that I don’t want to spend time with him alone, because my mental health is hanging by a string, and if he’s angry at me – hey, no problem. I’m not strong enough to walk down the street with my pubic symphysis be grinding like a rock crusher while a twenty-nine year old man who has not lived on his own yells at me to tell me that he doesn’t think he’s a member of my family. *
Sample speech, “Oh that’s typical of something your family would say,” which, when, you know, you pushed him outta your body and all, makes you think of the picture of Amanda Fucking Palmer and Neil Gaiman, who just gave day to an heir. “He’ll grow up to be all shouty and entitled too, you poor dears.”
I mean, Paul was there, in the delivery room. He saw Keith being born and I suspect if I asked him he’d corroborate the story.
Anyway, I don’t like being yelled at while I’m feeling this crappy already, so I told him no alone time with mumzie (that is how I will refer to myself in the third person in future so as to be distinguishable, and that’s my errant spelling of Jim P’s most lovely spoken version of it) until I’m feeling strong enough for it.
I told him that I make heroic efforts not to make my mental health problems other people’s. I have to avoid situations that will prostrate me. I came home from the walk yesterday anguished mentally and physically tired (although not destroyed) and believe me it was the mental anguish that was at the top of the stairs.
I can’t deal with intimates yelling at me, and I’m trying really hard not to yell myself these days although Jeff’s eyes just popped out at the very notion that I am making any effort at all. He has, I believe, contemplated buying me a t-shirt that says, “I’ll quit yelling when I’m DEAD” with one of those 50’s women in a helmet of hair with her mouth open and her eyes shut and her hand to her mouth — but has held off because it’s not in a colour I wear.
Keith was very dignified during the conversation, which was mercifully brief and civil. I have asked for a boundary, feel much relieved, and now we’ll see.
And I’m happy. Being depressed means being happy that you were able to do something taxing, but necessary. If I’m going to be a punching bag, I want to get paid.
And with that, Moar Words, but elsewhere.