#1

Numbered, anonymous posts.

[anonymum]

#5

I went to therapy. I haven’t been coping. Life has been throwing challenges and curveballs at me for a while, and it all became too much.

I believed I was anxious. Stressed. Overwhelmed. I believed that current battles, worries, and grief were the root of my struggles. But in discussion, my therapist suggested that I might be experiencing low mood.

Low mood.

What does that mean? It means that I no longer expect happiness other than in fleeting bursts of laughter. It means that joy is a memory not a reality. And it means that, in my own words, I don’t believe I can be happy.

I surprised myself with this revelation. But it’s true. I am not unhappy. I am not miserable. But I am not happy either. And perhaps worse, I see happiness as a construct, as something that is unobtainable. Happiness is something I do not deserve and cannot have access to.

How strange. I have a beautiful family. They love me and I love them. I have a roof over my head and food to eat. I have supportive friends all over the world. I laugh regularly. I still enjoy some things. But, my happiness has gone.

The therapist asked me to think about this for the next session. She asked me to consider why I believed this. I already knew the answer. I knew where the damage occurred. And I know where that wound has been torn open time and time again.

Trauma.

Buried trauma that resurfaces to be re-buried over and over again.

Trauma.

Repeated trauma.

Trauma that doesn’t seem like it’s traumatic enough. Trauma that comes with shame. Trauma that stole my happiness, my trust, my sense of well-being and security. Over the last 26 years I have experienced new versions of that trauma in more ways than I can count.

This cycle of trauma took its toll. It broke me and stole my joy.

Perhaps, one day, I will share. But right now, I accept that I need to heal. I need to take ownership of that pain. I need to learn (and believe) that I am worthy of happiness.

#metoo

[anonymum]

#4

Contemplation.

Many, many moons ago two boys fought over me. This did not make me happy. I was confused and sad. I did not know how to talk about it. I worried people would think I was bragging.

Years went by. I forgot.

Then, as memories sometimes do, this one rolled to the surface. Suddenly, I understood why I hated this experience. Finally, I could articulate what was so wrong about it.

I was not romantically or sexually involved with either man. Nor was I attracted to them. They were two guys in a large circle of friends and acquaintances. My thoughts and feelings mattered not. They were attracted to me and therefore needed to verbally and physically fight out who had the most rights to me.

Neither boy considered that it was I who held all the cards. Neither boy thought that I had the right to my own body.

The saddest thing of all? I didn’t know either.

[anonymum]

#3

Last day of nursery school. Mixed feelings. It is a beautiful school with amazing staff. A thank you present will never be enough. I am very sad that we will not be returning.

But I am excited too. My boy and I can hang out and go get places. We can explore science and art together. We don’t have to rush out of the house in the morning or worry if going to sleep is hard.

And I am worried. The transition to “big school” will be hard for my boy. He already struggles with anxiety; he already finds changes difficult. We have to start again, getting to know the teachers, educating the educators, growing understanding of autism and what that means for my son.

The journey ahead glitters with opportunity and joy, but there are mountains to climb and seas to swim. We have a lot to learn too.

[anonymum]

#2

In bed. Probably should have come to bed an hour ago, but the luxury of alone time lures me into sleeplessness most nights.

Tonight, I am contemplating my marriage. Is it even a marriage?

He knows I am not happy. He tells me I complain. But I am tired. Exhausted. I ask for help. I ask for him to participate more in the home. Each morning, I get my son ready then myself. Each morning, my husband gets himself ready.

I make breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I manage the groceries, the school meetings, the hospital referrals, the endless forms, the bills, the phone calls, the parenting, story time, bath time, bed time. I barely have time to work on my own projects and when I say anything I am complaining.

Yes, my husband contributes. He sometimes does his own laundry (but never ours, or bedding, or towels), though he sometimes hangs them out to dry. He loads the dishwasher at night and wipes down the kitchen surfaces. He mows the lawn and takes the garbage out. He laid the new floor. He saved (when I did not).

There is a form that needs to be completed. It is 64 pages long and it’s about our son. Many questions require supporting evidence and additional information. I have asked and asked that we share the load. He says he is not good at writing. But that’s not the point. I need his input. Two, partial sentences. That has been his contribution.

I find myself thanking him for these tiny efforts because I believe appreciation is important. And yet I find I am rarely thanked myself.

How did I end up living in this patriarchal home? Me? The feminist. The staunch believer in equal rights and equity for all.

Why am I finding it so hard to fight?

I am exhausted.

My husband is currently away. Life is simpler. My work load seems less. Home is peaceful. I do not mind doing everything when there is only me to do it.

It is eternally frustrating that, when my husband is here, the only thing that changes is there are more dishes and more laundry. And, if I ask for help? I am a nag. He is busy. He will do it later. I should stop complaining.

I am hurting now. I am contemplating my marriage. This is not what I signed up for. I signed up for a partnership, a collaboration, a team effort. I signed up for friendship, love, and intimacy.

At no point did I ever expect to be called, “silly little girl,” or “retard.”

He has never apologised. I still hurt.

Who is this man? This husband? This father to my child? He is not who I married. He is not who I want to be with.

Today, I went to the hospital to meet with doctors about our son. I have heard nothing from his dad. I am already parenting alone so why are we still together?

I will ponder.

[anonymum]

#1. Hello

Hi, I am anonymum. As I type this, I am sitting on the toilet because it is the place I am most likely to get 3 minutes to write. I should be heading out the door on the school run then heading to an ASC advisory meeting, but I need to collect my thoughts first.

Last week’s meeting was a distaster.

Time to flush and go. Will check in later.