music and pretty things

Getting a degree in something that doesn't inspire me or make me love Mondays was a bad decision. I talked about that in i want to care. It also stripped away my passion. Ripped out my creativity and left behind a cold, empty person that was only concerned about earning and producing. This is not a healthy thing for me. After college I hardly knew what I liked anymore. Who I was or what my style was. I had no love for the things I use to enjoy like, drawing, painting, music etc. It's taken me 5 years to rediscover only parts of myself that were lost. It's a slow process.

Recently I realized how much I missed music. Sure I 'll play it in the car but I don't really hear it, I'm too busy thinking about my to-do list. I don't feel it like I use to. The way that it could transport you. I created a station on pandora to listen to at work. All the old stuff I grew up with. Then, it hit me. I miss feeling. I miss the enjoyment of music. So, I'm making a change and including it in my life again. My toddler loves to dance so this is perfect. Playing something while we make dinner or while we clean or while I take a shower. I've missed you music. Welcome back.

Pretty things. I've overlooked pretty things, art, photos, pillows and plates. Our home has been stark naked because I've made sure we only buy things that have function. We don't need stuff on our walls to live, right? Wrong. Looking at something aesthetically pleasing reduces stress and puts a smile on my face. And that is a function. So, I'm going to allow myself to enjoy the beauty of a pretty plate or feel the excitement in an image on my wall.

I'm learning. It doesn't have to be all business. I can enjoy this life.

Down

I admire happy people. And I hate them, too. Maybe I'm just jealous.

Life has always been a hard task to handle. Each day is hard to put one foot in front of the other. I've wondered if it would always feel like that. Like I'm moving through quicksand and I'm too tired to go on. Is this all I can expect out of life?

The only thing in this world that makes me happy is my son. His smile, his laugh, his cute little face. I don't care about anything else. Without him, I wouldn't exist. It's just too hard and I'm not strong enough.

My depression or the hormonal changes of pregnancy are running rampant in my body. I'm unhappy with my life. I never thought it would be this way. I hate my job, my mother doesn't care about us, my husband doesn't help me with anything, I'm exhausted and lonely. I'm down. Tears keep welling up behind my eyes, threatening to overflow. This is too much.

i want to care

I went college thinking I wanted to study veterinary science. Then I changed to business then back again. Finally, after feeling lost for a semester, I took a personality test in the student center. The results pointed to something creative or something in business.

I scoured the list of suggested careers and related majors and still felt overwhelmed. Math teacher, banker, accountant, actuary, writer, photographer and the list went on for pages and pages. In the end I went to the top of the alphabetical list and said I might as well give this one a shot. So I took an intro accounting class and understood the content. The instructor said if you get it you should think about it as a career path, if you don't, just drop it. I got it. I stayed in, not because I loved it or had a feeling of satisfaction from being able to write up journal entries for the general ledger. I stayed in because I understood it. It was something I had the ability to do but not the passion to do.

I also based my decision on the fact that I would always have a job and a paycheck. After living paycheck to paycheck with my mother, I knew I couldn't continue that into my adult life. Too stressful. So I racked up 4 years worth of student loans to get my degree in accounting.

Not the best decision. Yes, I've always had a job. Yes, I can feed my family. BUT I've not once been happy in my career choices. I just don't care about the work I do. I do the work. I do it correctly and accurately only because I like the paycheck. I do not get excited about my work. I just don't care. I'm not making a difference in any one's life, changing the world, making it a better place, doing anything meaningful and I'm definitely not making me happy. I get irritated with people in my office who are married to their work. Who act like it's the only thing in the world that matters. I want to rip their faces to shreds.

I punch the clock and urge the day to go faster because sitting behind a desk is torture. Staring at spreadsheets is maddening. Especially when you do unrewarding work. I have like 30 more years of this. Really? I can't. I just can't.

I want to care. I want to love what I do. I want to wake up Monday and be excited to go to work. I want to bring joy and beauty and excitement to people's lives. I don't have dreams of being rich. I don't need a big house and fancy car. I just want to enjoy life and be creative.

I have a strong feeling this has contributed to my bouts of depression. I get very down about it. Down that I spend 8 hours away from my child doing things I hate. If I was doing something that made me happy then I could justify spending a little time away from my baby.

So, does this exist? Is there ever a balance between paying bills and having a great career or do I have to choose?

I don't know how to fix this. I have to make a change or I'll most definitely be unhappy.

I want to care.

College Orientation

I started college right after highschool. So, about a month after graduating from highschool I had freshman orientation at the university. Of course, I had already moved out and had been doing things on my own and making my own way for a couple of months already. Still, I found myself lonely and feeling jealous when I showed up at orientation to find students and their parents in attendance. It's just not something she did. She had work and other obligations I understand. Yet, it would have been nice to have that support there. It was scary being a new kid in a HUGE university.

After I let that feeling fall away, I try and be more appreciative that I was forced to do things on my own. Even when others had their families with them. I wasn't cottled or sheltered. I think I can attribute this to my survival. I've never asked for money or other help in any way. I've always handled the tough things on my own. Or had the support of John. I should be more appreciative of the things I've experienced on my own.

I went to college for the standard 4 years and not once did she come to see my life. To see the things I encountered and how far I'd made it.

It's Everyone Else

My Dad heard from my aunt this weekend that she spoke with my mother and that they concluded I am mad at my father and taking it out on my mother and my aunt (I'm not speaking to either of them). Does that make sense? It doesn't make sense even if I squint.

My aunt is a whole other story. I'm not speaking to her because she mistreats me and I don't need it in my life. It brings me down. It's insulting and rude.

They both have the same attitude. It must be someone elses fault. It can't possibly be something they've done or said. They are perfect.

I've seen that behavior for as long as I can remember. She can't take responsibility for her actions and words. She never apologizes. She can't hold a job because someone is always out to get her. Someone is always talking badly about her and trying to push her out and no one likes her but it's their problem.

All my life I've been the one to apologize for things I didn't do or say. Just to mend things. Just to move on. I've always led her to believe she's done no wrong. I can't let that continue. So this stalemate continues as we head into the 4th month of not talking.

I can only hope that one day she can look at herself for a change. Evaluate herself and admit that something needs changing. I admit daily that I am wrong. It's nothing to be embarrassed about. I've made sure that in my marriage I admit when I'm wrong and in parenting. I admit it, apologize and try something else. Move on. Fault doesn't have to be a horrible thing. I think it takes a bigger person to admit shortfalls and mistakes.

The Move Out

I moved out of her house soon after I turned 18, I was still in high school.

Our battles were getting frequent, daily even. Between 17 and 18 I was kicked out on a regular basis. I could never figure out why I made her so upset. I had been working since I was 15, helping out around the house and with my brother, got good grades. The only conclusion I could draw was that I had a stable boyfriend (now my husband) and she was not the center of my world any more.

My boyfriend's parents were kind enough to let me stay with them during the times I was kicked out. Even when she called them, harassing them and calling them names. After months of this happening, John surprised me with a key to our own place. I never went back home.

I had to sneak back into her house to retrieve some of my things. I was always jealous of my friends. I didn't have one of those typical move out experiences. The ones where mom helps you pick a place and then helps you make it home. Stocking you up with food and bathroom supplies. Bringing you casseroles to make sure you were eating healthy. Nope, that wasn't in the cards for me. She never even came to my first apartment, or my second.

I always tell my husband that he saved me. He freed me.

I had never felt so good. So content. Even though I was now solely responsible for my living expenses, she wasn't on my back telling me how stupid I was. She wasn't there to ridicule me.

She told me once that she had hoped I would fail. That I would come crawling back.

I never went back. I never asked for help of any kind. I made it. We made it.

Teenage Angst

I think a lot of teenagers experience boughts of depression. It just comes with the territory. I admit I was very depressed from 15 through 17, on and off. Having her as a mother didn't help.

We fought. Often. Maybe even daily. There were weekend blowouts, screaming matches and her total destruction of the house. There were times I wished I was dead because that would have felt better than living with her. I would tell her this. I would scream this. I needed her to see she was hurting me.

She would often call the police on me. A couple of times she tried to have me committed to a mental institution. At around 15 she took me to a mental hospital and tried to make them take me. I remember sitting in the waiting room. Lying to the nurses to make me look worse than I was. Maybe she was trying to scare me. She succeeded. Maybe she was scared. I really wished to be dead because of how miserable she was making me. I'd never do it though. She never thought it was her though. Never thought she could be the source of my depression. Or at least an accomplice with teenage hormones.

They never took me of course. I was a teenager fighting with her crazy mother. I wasn't a threat to anyone and I'd never actually attempted suicide. Maybe I did. I tried to cut my wrists. Not in a serious way but for the purpose of feeling something other than the veil of depression and the weight of her cruelty.