I Don’t Need To Walk Around In Circles

Another fucking argument with That Canadian Boy I Married about depression and what I can do to fix it. The $65 co-pay for Cymbalta will throw a massive wrench into our already-precarious finances but the depression is taking an even bigger toll.

His answer, after telling me he didn’t think he needed to feel any sympathy or understanding for me, was that I should re-try all the anti-depressants I’ve already tried and already had documented reactions to – for some reason, he seems to think that my body chemistry will have changed and I won’t have the same reactions to those drugs now. Mr. fucking physician, I guess.

These arguments leave me so drained. He doesn’t get it, doesn’t see the need to get it and honestly thinks I should just be able to say “Hey, self, stop feeling that way” and I will be fine. If only it were that easy. I try to explain it to him, try to talk to him about it and he just placates me by telling me that he understands. But then we have another one of these arguments and his true feelings show. He doesn’t want to discuss it with a professional; he doesn’t see the point.

I don’t tell him a lot of what I’m feeling because of this. Of the times I flirt with taking the whole bottle of over-the-counter sleeping pills, of the wish that I could just go bat-shit crazy and be done with it. I know that he’d leave if I did go nuts. And while I’d survive that, I wouldn’t survive him probably trying to take the kids away, which I’m sure he’d want to do – and it would be kind of understandable.

So I told him I’d make the damned phone call to the damned doctor and talk to her about it. I’m 99.9% sure that there’s nothing new out there, that I’ve tried them all, but whatever. If it will shut him up and get him off my back, I’ll do it. If that’s the only way I can justify the $65 a month, so be it.

It pisses me off, though, this constant need of his to piss and moan about the cost of prescriptions for something he doesn’t deem real. These are the times that I wish I could just swap bodies with him for a day, so he could live inside my head and see what a muddled mess it is in there, so he could see how I really feel most days, how difficult this is to handle without medication. Maybe then he might muster some of his nearly non-existent sympathy for what I’m going through.

I’m Not Becoming A Food Blogger, I Swear

Shepherd’s Pie (for Wendy)

2 lbs ground beef
1 large or 2 small onions
Mushrooms, if you have them, sliced
Salt & pepper
Worcestershire sauce
A1 sauce
2 1 lb bags of frozen corn (or fresh, if it’s in season)
4 or so lbs of russet potatoes, peeled and cut into approximately 1″ pieces
1 head of garlic, if you want roasted garlic mashed potatoes on top
1 stick of butter
Milk

If you want roasted garlic in your mashed, start the garlic first. Preheat oven to 350. Peel as much paper off the bulb as possible and slice off the top. Put in a small oven proof dish and pour in enough olive oil to reach halfway up the bulb. I use a small Pyrex bowl for this. Bake for 45 minutes, until garlic is soft. Allow to cool before removing cloves with a paring knife. Restrain yourself from smearing it all over the nearest slice of Italian bread and wolfing it down….

Chop onions into small pieces and saute with sliced mushrooms in 2 tablespoons olive oil and 2 tablespoons butter, until caramelized – do not burn them, or it will get ugly. Remove from pan.

Brown ground beef with salt and pepper. I usually add a couple of tablespoons of Worcestershire sauce and a couple of tablespoons of A1 sauce to the meat – taste it as you go and adjust according to your taste. If the beef gives off a lot of grease, spoon most of it off. Don’t dump it down your sink or you will have a big mess.

Stir onions and mushrooms into the beef and then transfer to a 13 x 9″ Pyrex dish.

Top with 2 small bags of frozen corn.

Boil potatoes until they can be split by a fork. Drain and return to pot. Add about a stick of butter (did I mention this is not a low-fat, low calorie recipe?), salt to taste (potatoes need a lot of salt), a splash of milk and the roasted garlic (mash it up with a fork first). Whip with a hand mixer until there are no lumps. Try not to eat too many of the potatoes before topping the pie.

Spoon on to top of the corn and bake in a 400 oven until the potatoes are golden brown and delicious. Eat.

Not Entirely Unexpected

My son A is 20 and I don’t discuss him often on here because, most of the time, there isn’t much to talk about. He works full time, he lives with his girlfriend, he doesn’t drink, his major vice is buying toys – a flip video camera, a Wii, an X-Box, a Garmin – typical young man stuff to buy.

About six or seven weeks ago, however, he told everyone that he and his girlfriend were going to get married. In June. And everyone asked “Is she pregnant?” but we were all assured that no, she wasn’t.

No surprises, but yeah, she is.

I can barely wrap my head around it, let alone talk about it. Financially, they aren’t all that secure. She works for a fast food restaurant and he works in a warehouse – their jobs are steady, but they don’t pay well at all. She makes less per hour than I did when I had A 20 years ago.

I have so many concerns about this situation. I do not think they’ll be bad parents, far from it. But I do worry about how financially stable they’re going to be. It’s nerve-wracking not having enough money; we’re still having trouble catching up some months. I don’t want A going thru that same thing, I want better for him.

And selfishly, I am not ready to be a grandmother. Just a couple of weeks ago, I was worried that I might be pregnant (which, given that That Canadian Boy I Married has been snipped, is highly unlikely, but 10 days late is 10 days late). And now my son’s going to have a baby. It’s fucking with my head. And yeah, yeah, I know, I’m being self-centered. This is pretty much the only place I can be like that, though. Here and the therapist’s couch and boy, did she get an earful last week.

Hip Mamas

There are these women whose children go to the same preschool as Boo. They intimidate the hell out of me. They’re very nice and very cool, in that casual, crunchy way that is so prevalent out here. They wear cool skirts and have funky haircuts and seem to have it all together. I realize this is probably an illusion, but still. I don’t know them well enough to hear their tales of woe, so, to me, they’re scary-together.

I see them hanging out after pick up, talking, arranging play dates and what have you and I know if I made a little bit of effort, I’d at least be included in the conversation. But I never do. I smile, I say hello, exchange a couple of sentences and then I scuttle to my car with the girls, mentally berating myself for not being more outgoing, for not trying harder. For being an idiot. Because the other part of my brain, the one that tells me what a dork I am, how much of a loser I am, always takes over at that point. Why would anyone want to include me? What if they didn’t, what if they just clammed up when I tried to join in? What if they were just waiting for me to leave so they could make their plans? What if they don’t really like me?

That’s the crux of it right there. I’m pretty convinced that most people I know casually don’t really like me. Sometimes, even people I do know well give me that feeling. I let every rejection eat away at me, dragging up crap that happened in high school, in college, and picking at it until it hurts again, convinced that all those people were right, that basically, I’m unlikeable. I hate that my mind goes down those paths. I wish I knew how to get it out of them.

So I’m wary. I’m afraid to make friends with people I meet, afraid that they’ll turn out like everyone else, that they’ll leave too. I wall myself off behind snark and sarcasm and a pose that I’m above it all, when really, I just want to be included. More than included. Valued. Appreciated for who I am and what I can offer as a friend. And yet, I’m too afraid to try.

Yes, I’m in therapy. Yes, I’m trying to work on this, but I feel so stuck on this one thing. How do you just get self-confidence? How do you not second- and third-guess every action you take? I’m not sure if it’s even possible, but I need to try, before I really go bat-shit crazy.