In and out....and in.....and out

I'm very tempted to stop blogging. George read my blog and said that I don't paint him in a very good light. I just read my blog and it's so depressing to read about how depressed I am! I don't know how much it's helping….and I'd much rather write about funny things, like Alex's latest adventures. Except I don't find all of them very funny, especially when I'm by myself to deal with the consequences of his adventures (most of them are messy). Last Sunday night I had a bad depressive episode. I wasn't feeling well on Sunday in the first place, but I didn't see Sunday night coming. Let's just say that I sat in the dark of my office (formerly known as George's Den and Tommy's room) and pictured the nothingness after pulling a trigger…and it seemed like a relief. Scary, because in my past suicidal moments, I always thought using a gun would be too messy.

The past week hasn't been good. I can't say there weren't good moments, because there were. Like getting to see Tommy and Alex actually play together instead of witnessing Tommy go after one of Alex's toys and Alex retaliating by giving Tommy a good shove onto the floor. And I suppose there have been other things, like how good my skin looked yesterday after I put on my foundation/moisturizer. It just seems like for every good thing, there are about 100 not-so-good things. And if one more person asks me what's wrong, I might scream at them (but mostly my mother), so here's what's not-so-good: George didn't come home until after 9 a.m. on Wednesday morning. He called on Tuesday night and said he'd be late coming home. I figured it was because of work. He sent me a text message that said, "Way drunk. Sleeping it off. Be home later," at about 5 a.m. I got up, which is a good indicator of how alarmed I was, since I usually can't drag myself out of bed until well after 8 a.m. I was worried about where he was. I was worried about if he was by himself or with friends. I was worried, worried, worried. I didn't know who to call- I called Eara, and I ended up texting some of his friends. When he did finally call after 9 a.m. on his way home from wherever he was, he got upset with me when I said I sent text messages to his friends. He said I overreacted, especially because he'd left me a text message. Luckily, my anger cleared the fog in my head and allowed me to see that no, I was not overreacting, and he had no right to be angry. I don't remember much else about the day. But I do remember him telling me that his friends wouldn't have told me anything if they had known what was going on or where he was. Something about a "cop code." All I know is that even though I'm George's wife, I don't get to know anything unless he wants me to know. And his friends, who may be able to know, won't tell me because I'm obviously not important enough to be privy to information about George…unless he says it's okay. I'm STILL mad about it! I have felt for a long time that I come a distant second to the job- maybe even third behind Alex- but nothing made it more clear than this stupid "it's the way cops are" attitude that George throws in my face at times. I should clarify that I am not mad at George anymore- though I am worried about any time that he starts to drink a lot (which he insists he does all the time, but then why is it that it seems to pick up whenever there's trouble in our relationship?).

The Phoenix Police Department is not the only thing "wrong" right now. I feel guilty about Alex's hearing. I think I've thought something was wrong with his hearing and speech for over a year, but it's only in the past month or so that I've actively done anything about it. My poor baby. There's nothing that can help me get over feeling guilty, except for maybe him to turn out to be a normal speaker by the time he starts kindergarten. But that's a while away.

Then there's my overwhelming exhaustion. I am often so tired during the day that I must nap in order to function (not that I do a whole lot in my waking hours most of the time). In fact, it took the embarassment of having dirty laundry all over the place for me to do something about it…like stuff it into plastic bags and throw it into the laundry room…we've hired a new cleaning lady, Carla. She's remarkable and likeable and definitely likes to talk. She and Alex get along famously, since Alex seems to have inherited my father's gift of gab. But anyway, I did more work on Wednesday afternoon than I've probably done all month. And why? Because I was sooooooo worried about how dirty my cleaning lady would think my house was! That's another thing- I care way too much about what other people think, to the point of obsession.

Alex is obsessed with liquids right now. A few weeks ago he had water flowing from the dispenser in the kitchen- an entire gallon must've emptied before I realized what was going on. Then there's his favorite- take a drink and let the liquid dribble out of your mouth and down your shirt. This morning I gave him milk in a cup- no lid or straw- and he was fascinated by it. So he dipped his donut into it repeatedly. Just now, he was awed by how quickly his juice flowed from his cup to the floor. One of these days he's going to figure out how to open the child-proof door lock, and then I'm sure I'll catch him playing in the toilet.

George said he had a meltdown last night. I figured one was coming, since he practically had a heart attack (numb arm and chest pain, etc.) on Sunday night when I told him what I was thinking. Anyway, he told me today that he's most frustrated that there's nothing he can do about my depression. When we met and I finally told him what was going on with me, I told him that I didn't think I could see him anymore. Ever the white knight (even now, when he knows that the battle could be long and weary), George swore we'd get through this and he'd take care of me. The last week I've been insistent that if he can't handle me or this, he can certainly "be excused" from us. Today he informed me that it was his decision whether or not he would leave, and he chooses to stay. Though I know he loves me, I can't help but feel that we're doomed. He can't fix this.

He wants to go back to working in the Maryvale precinct. Maryvale, where his accident happened. Maryvale, where he had chronic heartburn and hated his bosses and his squads and felt that nothing he did made a difference. I keep begging him to not make the change. But it doesn't look like anything I say makes a difference in this case.