We went on vacation, this last weekend. The first and the last day were fun. The middle day was not.
We went to the Grand Canyon, on the middle day, which should have been, well, grand. But it wasn't. We all left feeling very emotionally drained and bummed and cranky and tired.
I felt the day was a total wash. I was angry and feeling quite bitter. I contemplated divorce for most of the day. I was so distraught that our family was so dysfunctional. I felt so hopeless for us. It was so very miserable.
The next day, we all felt great. We got along, swimmingly, and were acting as though we loved each other. Our vacation ended on a good and very satisfying note.
So, why, then, did the day before just plain suck?
We were tired. Simple as that.
And I'm messed in the head. Not so simple.
I keep forgetting that I can't think, straight. I keep forgetting that divorce is not the answer; that my family is quite normal; that my kids DO respect me and love me and love each other. I keep forgetting that this is life: no one has a good day, every single day.
To me, when days like this, happen, it's the end of the world, It's the end of my marriage. It's the end of my family. It's the end of happiness.
Then I wake up and all is better, again.
Not always, though. Sometimes I wake up and still feel all crumbly. I still feel like despair is the last thing I'll ever feel. I still feel like maybe my existence is the source of all of my family's problems.
Thoughts of suicide are never humored, in my brain. I know too much about what would happen, should I ever do such a thing. But they do try to creep in, from time to time.
I saw the movie, "28 Days", with Sandra Bullock. She's an alcoholic who gets admitted for rehab. She meets a heroine addict who cuts herself. She says it somehow feels better. I get that. I don't cut myself, but I know what she means. I can see how the pain would somehow be a relief; a release of the inner pain plaguing ones very soul.
I love knowing about God. I love knowing God. I love that He knows and loves me. There was one time I was alone in my bedroom, trying to sleep. My husband was out of town, on business. I was feeling pretty ok, at that time. I remember feeling a presence and opened my eyes, briefly, to see someone in my room. I had to take a second glance. I really saw someone. I felt them, there. I felt it was one of my grandfathers. I thought that was so neat that they would visit me. The next day (or a few days, later, I can't remember), I had a "down day". I was feeling so hopeless and alone... I remember sinking to my knees in my bathroom, in the dark. I don't know if I was praying; I most likely was, as that's the only thing I feel I have when I'm in those moments. It's what I cling to. Anyway, the memory of my visitor came to me. I knew, then, that's why they came. I knew they wanted me to know I was never alone. Yes, I have the Lord, but I also have family on the other side, standing by me in those moments of great need. It was such a blessing to know this.
I have, what I call, "up days" and "down days". I'm learning about triggers. I've been reading some books about loving someone with Bipolar and some books by people who have it. I'm learning and things are starting to make sense. I really do feel like knowing really is half the battle.