Sunday, December 6, 2009

Sleep to Dream

I'm having trouble sleeping. Boyfriend Dave says I've been thrashing about a lot in bed. Over Thanksgiving weekend, when we took a romantic trip, I woke up screaming in terror both nights. I talk in my sleep, but it's just word salad so there's no way to know if I'm trying to communicate, or if I'm just talking from my dreams. I'm not conscious of any of this going on, but this is hardly the first time I've heard about any of it. I know my bottom sheets have been pulled off every morning when I got up, and that sharing a bed with me means not sleeping.

That's how I'm sleeping on two anxiety pills, two SSRIs, and two Tylenol PMs. We went out to look at the two houses we're deciding between, and it's in the city where my ex-mother-in-law lives (and where my exhusband might very well live). I had flashbacks, spent about an hour (twice throughout the outing) bawling my eyes out, and I couldn't explain enough how terrified I am by that short, stupid, drunk motherfucker. I hate that he terrifies me and I hate that I stayed with him as long as I did, and let him do those horrible things, and let him make me think I was crazy, and that he wasn't really the bad guy; I was just an unreasonable bitch with hormone problems and mental illness.

I had the twitches (pretty violent startled movements) for the rest of the evening - at the coffee place, at the bar, on the drive home, while trying to go to sleep, and apparently, during my sleep, too. I've done it a couple times so far today, also. Domestic violence fucking sucks and it's not even in the top 5 things that fucked me up the most; it's just one of the most recent. And the one I'm least able to understand. I think my grandmother is crazy and a monster, yet I can still see how it all makes sense to her, and how she is detached emotionally. Ronnie wasn't like that. He was almost excessively emotional; he would cry when we faught as a way of manipulating me into stopping my criticisms of him (because of course, it would never have occurred to him tha tthe solution would be for him to address my criticisms.) I remember how hurt and offended he acted when I dared to accuse him of being a bad provider. Never mind that he was a bad provider, who drank and pissed most of his paycheck away before Friday even rolled around, who squandered money right and left on his own petty vices and addictions, who cashed in his infant son's change jar to buy crack.

I don't blame myself for anything in the cult, but I don't know how not to blame myself for marrying that asshole.

I tried so hard to look like her. When I succeeded in getting down to her BMI (18.6), I felt bad all the time. Hell, I'm only 13 lbs. heavier than her now, and that's on a grocery store scale and those things are never accurate. Plus, I really don't consider a weight accurate unless it's first thing in the morning, before I've had anything to eat or drink, and in the nude (because FSM knows the ounce of weight from underwear will have me completely off!) Don't worry, I' eating. Little Man flooded the bathroom and ruined my digital scale almost a year ago, and I haven't replaced it. I just forgot how thin she looked, and how badly I wanted that for myself. I thought I would be happy if I was skinny. It didn't work, but the lie still whispers through my mind at night.