I guess my mother was wrong about me succumbing to my illness before them. I’ll outlive them all.
I know my experience with my mother hinders all my other relationships. It’s hard for me to fathom that someone else could love me despite my illness, when my own mother wasn’t even able to do that.
Ridge did, though. He was in it with me for the long haul. But I guess that was the problem. Ridge and I wouldn’t have stayed together as long as we did if it weren’t for my illness. We were too different. So, I guess whatever end of the spectrum people are on—whether they are too selfish to take care of me or too selfless to stop—I’m going to resent them. Because for whatever reason, I seem to have lost a piece of myself to this illness.
I wake up thinking about this illness. I spend my day thinking about it. I fall asleep thinking about it. I even have nightmares about it. As much as I claim that I am not my illness, somewhere along the way, it has consumed me.
There are days I’m able to break out of this web, but there are more days that I’m not. It’s why I never wanted Ridge to move in with me. I can lie to myself and lie to him and say that it’s because I wanted to be independent, but in reality, it’s because I didn’t want him to see the dark side of me. The side that gives up more than it fights. The side that resents more than it appreciates. The side that wants to face all of this with dignity, when really, I can hardly even accept it with disdain.
I’m sure everyone who fights to live on a daily basis has moments where they give up every now and again. But these aren’t just moments for me. Lately, they’ve become my norm.
I wish I could go back to Tuesday. Tuesday was great. Tuesday, I woke up wanting to conquer the world. And by Tuesday night, I sort of had.
But then Wednesday morning happened, when I overreacted and made Jake leave. Friday happened, when I finally swallowed my pride, but then ended up in the hospital, drowning in my own humiliation. Then Friday night happened, when I just wanted to forget the ups and downs of the past few days, but our fight was a new low for the week.
And if Friday night was my low, Saturday morning was my rock bottom.
Or maybe today is. I don’t know. I’d say they’ve been equal.
I can’t even focus on school. I have two months left, and I sometimes think Ridge was right. I’ve worked so hard on my graduate degree in order to begin work on my doctorate, only to feel like I accomplished something. But maybe I should have put all my energy into something more worthwhile, like making friends and building an actual life for myself outside of school and my illness.
I’ve worked at proving myself to no one but myself. In the end, it’s left me with nothing but a graduate degree that no one really cares about but me.
I wish there was a magic pill that could get me out of this funk. I’m sure if Warren had his way, that magic pill would come in the form of an apology. He texted me this morning to let me know he was sorry for the stunt he pulled when he told Ridge I was upset, but then he scolded me for posting that picture of Ridge in my bed and told me I should apologize.
I didn’t respond to him, because I wasn’t in the mood for Righteous Warren this morning. I swear, every time there’s a wrinkle in a scenario, he pulls out his iron and tries to smooth everything, while burning us all in the process. He’s like a Sour Patch Kid. Sour and then sweet. Or sweet and then sour. There’s no in between with Warren. He’s completely transparent, and sometimes that’s not a good thing.
But, I’ve never had to wonder what Warren is thinking, nor have I ever worried about hurting his feelings. He’s impenetrable, but I think because he’s impenetrable, he assumes everyone else is, too. As much as I can appreciate him, it’s not enough for me to respond to his texts from this morning with anything other than, Don’t want to talk about it yet. Text you tomorrow.
I knew if I didn’t let him know I was okay, he’d show up at my front door to make sure nothing happened to me. Which is precisely why I texted him.
But…I don’t think it worked. Because my doorbell is ringing. There’s only a small chance that it’s Warren, though. My bet is that it’s my landlord. Since I informed her a few months ago that I’d be moving back to Austin soon to start my doctorate, she’s brought me a loaf of banana bread every Sunday. I think she does it to make sure I’m still living here and that I haven’t destroyed the house, but whether it’s out of kindness or nosiness, I don’t really care. It’s damn good banana bread.