Ramblings of a Cathy
Ad 2:
2018-09-07 15:27:44 (UTC)

Another Tragedy in the Black Community

I opened my eyes because I couldn't stand the discomfort in my chest, the one that makes me breath shallow repeatedly like if i'm trying to scratch an itch in my upper chest.
It's the middle of the night and in lying in bed, trying to sleep... but I cant. And I know myself enough to know that i'm currently having an anxiety attack, because the thoughts are prominent. Thoughts of not feeling good enough, of feeling crazy, of regretting things I've said and done throughout the day.
Sometimes I'll counter these things with a "happy thought", but nothing comes to mind. Formerly i'd develop some sort of sex fantasy or something, and fixate on it until sleep comes. But I've given up on idealizing sex not long after my marriage, much to my younger self's chagrine. My tendency to ruminate on what I can do tomorrow has only made the anxiety worst - has only validated my conclusions of inferiority...
I turned around in bed and was warmed briefly by my husband's sleeping face.
My husband... so handsome, so great.
As i'm admiring his strong features, the thoughts leak gradually like water out of a bag with a tear in it: He loves me so much and he thinks so highly of me, and I dont know why... what if he knew. What if he knew how fallible I really am/was? What if he knew how weird my thoughts get when I reflect on shit.
What if his opinion of me is just some projection of this ideal partner?
I start to panic to a point of pain in my chest, and I forget how to breathe.
He can't know... I wont let it happen. I'll just have to become that ideal.
But what if he finds out?
What if my children find out?
Well how could he?
My diary...
I'll delete my diary. I'll do it for them. I'll delete all the negativity and growth, and it'll make me just the person I am: Someone that wants to be better.
Because that night I felt that if I kept the diary, then I would continue to be buried by the persons I was.
Like a sense of duty i'm logging into my online diary, the one I've had for 16 years. As in logging in my mind is playing back the words I've practically narcissistically memorized of entries that I felt would demolish my happy marriage, my happy life. Everything he and I have built...
That night I felt like my diary was an explosive device and my husband - the technical genius that he is - was an explorer that was only 2 clicks away from detonating it.
I looked at the delete button and just pushed it twice. And 350 entries of my life were whisked away into the cosmos.
I put my phone down and waited for relief. But it didnt come. Because the moments that I've zapped away were playing in my head: whimsical convos between me and Steve - from even before I fell in love with him - gone; lessons I've learned. I started to remember moments that I still hold in my heart about men and friends that have shaped me, the details of our wedding, the letters I wrote my then future daughter, my virgin reactions to my children's birth, the huge adjustments I've made to become who I am, the complete darkness I experienced during the crash, my anguish from losing a child, everything. The confused rants of new experiences and transitions. Gone.
For him. For them.
I did it for them. And with that I slept.

But a nigga's gotta eat. So here I am again.
My old diary definitely detailed a transformation of a girl that was sheltered and held these naive perspectives on love/relationships/hobbies, to a woman with priorities and scattered philosophies on things. From someone trying to reach for happiness to someone that cocoons herself in it daily.
I wonder what kinds of changes we'll see here.