what sandra thinks

strength in crying.

Posted on 22 December 2021 by what sandra thinks

“You don’t cry because you are weak. You cry because you have been strong for too long.”

If you know me, you know that motivational lines and quotes like the one above make me roll my eyes. And cringe. And possibly throw up. But this one showed up on my phone today (don’t ask), and I like it. Yes. I said it. I like it.

I don’t know if I believe it, but I’d like to. It makes me seem less pathetic.

I have done a lot of crying over the past couple of weeks. The reasons are sort of irrelevant for the purposes of this post. Just assume everything in my life has gone to hell, and your assumption will be correct.

I have always thought of myself as weak, but if I’m to agree with that little gem of wisdom up there, I’m not. But what does “strong for too long” mean? Does that mean I can stop being strong now? Because it’s been too long? What shall I do? Curl up in a ball in my closet and cry? (Can’t say this has never happened.)

A couple of days ago, I had a meltdown over something really insignificant. I did something stupid and I lost it. On myself. Yeah, of course I make mistakes. Everyone does. But most of the time when I make one, I beat myself up for hours. Sometimes days. That’s not strong, is it?

My head tells me that doing stupid things justifies me hating myself.

Yeah, some part of my brain knows that’s not right. But the rest of my brain is clearly more dominant. Or, you know, strong.

Suddenly, strong doesn’t sound so great.

I’d say I could use a good cry, but I’ve already had one today. I don’t want to be greedy.

• • • • •

I need one of you (or both, I’m not picky) to come hold me for a while. Hug me and tell me *it’ll be okay* even if that’s a lie.

p.s. — Maybe this is my hug. But fuck if it doesn’t make me cry. I guess I’m still being “strong” (and it has definitely been too long).

Posted in anxiety, depression, life, writing | Tagged anxiety, depression, life, whatsandrathinks, writing | 11 Comments

wardrobe change.

Posted on 5 December 2021 by what sandra thinks

Nobody will let me change.

In my teens, I started to notice I wasn’t as happy as my friends, and my wardrobe took a dark turn toward various shades of black (such as black, blacker, and blackest).

In my 20s, the color scheme of my wardrobe experienced a bit of a jolt (but nothing drastic), and I felt less like someone just killed my dog. (I haven’t had a dog since I was 11. Relevant? Probably not.)

In my 30s (I know, this part has to be fictional since I’m 29… in my mind), I regressed a bit with my wardrobe and my mood. Whatever fun and optimism I found in my 20s kind of… died. (I just realized that this coincides with something else in my life. I don’t think I realized the parallel until just now. I have no idea how I missed it.)

Throughout my life, I’ve tried to hide the extent of my psychological fucked-up-ness from my family. (In this context, I’m referring to my mom, sisters, and extended family.) I’ve been pretty successful with that. Not sure if that’s a good thing, but it doesn’t even matter. I was, and will forever be, seen as the dark, depressed one. The girl who’s never happy. The girl who would never consider wearing anything other than black, very dark grey, or when she’s feeling wild, navy blue.

Wardrobe concerns aside, I am fucking frustrated.

How can I make progress with my depression when everyone expects me to be depressed and sees me that way no matter how I feel? How can I make progress when my depression is largely dismissed as “normal for Sandra“?

There is nothing normal about feeling the way I do.

My depression is not a topic of conversation. It’s sort of swept aside. No one wants to talk about it because they don’t know how to deal with it. It makes them uncomfortable. Yet they associate it so closely with me that it’s the equivalent of a running joke.

Depression is no joke. And it’s become impossible for me to dissociate myself from it.

I can’t seem to feel better around my family even if I feel better on my own because they assume Sandra and depression are synonymous. No wonder I feel like depression has become my entire identity! Is that really all people think when they think of me? If I’m feeling better, I hate that I have to fight to convince my family of that. In fact, I don’t bother.

I have an illness, and it feels like my family doesn’t want me to get better. I know (hope) that’s not true, but that’s how it feels. Do they not realize that their constant association of me with depression is making me worse? That it’s making me feel like I *have to* be depressed? Do they not pay attention to anything else about me? Why not associate me with reading or writing or designing or just generally being really smart and funny? I mean, they do associate me with those things a little, but nothing like they do with depression.

And when they do tie me so closely to my depression, they don’t use that association for good. They don’t ask me how I’m doing. They don’t offer to talk if I need to talk. (Well, my mom has.) Instead, they look at me with what appears to be pity, and they avoid the topic like the plague. They treat it like something forbidden. They make me feel like it’s something to be ashamed of.

Why, you may wonder, don’t I talk to them about this? Oh, because I know (without a shred of doubt) exactly how that conversation would go. “You’re being ridiculous.” “We don’t think that.” “You’re imagining things.” “We don’t treat you that way.” “It’s all in your head.”

I wonder if it will matter if I get better. Everyone will always see me as the dark, depressed one anyway.

Maybe I need to start wearing pink.

• • • • •

My boys will love me no matter what I wear. Or don’t wear.

p.s. — Black really is my favorite color.

p.p.s. — At this point in my life, I don’t know how to wear anything lighter or brighter than medium grey. I look fucking weird. I tried on something in a brighter shade of blue last week. It matched my eyes. It was very pretty. And I looked like a clown. If I can’t get over it, how could anyone else? I cannot even imagine wearing something pink. I think pigs would fly. At least I’d match them.

Posted in anxiety, depression, life, writing | Tagged anxiety, depression, family, life, whatsandrathinks, writing | 26 Comments

I need you.

Posted on 30 November 2021 by what sandra thinks

Throughout my life, in every relationship I’ve ever had—in romance, in friendship, in my family—I’ve always been the insecure, needy one. Maybe that’s whyalmost everyone eventually leaves. (I will amend: Maybe that’s why almost *everyone I don’t want to leave* eventually leaves.) Maybe it’s why I have few friends (none offline). Maybe it’s why I have a crappy marriage. Maybe it’s why everyone always finds someone better—someone less needy.

I’ve always been the one afraid to lose the other person. The one who feels lost when they’re gone. And they always go. It’s only a matter of time.

I need you, but you don’t need me.
I’d be lost without you, not the other way around.
You’re filling an emptiness in my life, but you don’t have emptiness for me to fill.
I’m superfluous. Expendable.

I joke that people are lucky to have me, but it’s just that—a joke. I don’t believe that. I think I’m lucky anyone will have me.

I’m a burden. I’m weak. I’m not happy with myself which is why I’m not okay alone. And not being okay alone makes people less likely to want to be around me. Being okay alone would mean I’m a strong, well-adjusted individual. Those are the people others want to be around. Not needy, clingy me.

To overcome this—to change this—I need to “learn to love myself“. Yeah. I know that. God, that fucking phrase makes me want to spit glass at anyone who says it. (No, I don’t know where “spit glass” came from. I guess I just have a colorful imagination. Or I’m a psycho.) So… how does someone who has hated herself for as long as she can remember learn to love herself?

What’s to love?

It’s a serious question I ask myself often because I’ve yet to come up with any answers. There are three things I come up with whenever someone asks me what I like about myself (and I share the same three every time I’m asked):

I am intelligent.
I am funny.
I have nice eyes and hair.

And I can’t take credit for the last one. And maybe only half-credit for the first one because my dad was *really* smart. I suppose funny is all me. Although some people don’t get my humor. I personally think you must be a heartless, souless robot to not get my humor, but who am I to judge? Maybe you think Garfield is funny. And if you don’t know who Garfield is, then I’m fucking old and shut up.

So I “love” (more like “like”) one and a half things about myself that are actually me. I suppose I could add that I’m a good writer and a couple of other things like that, but those kind of fall under intelligence, in a way, so let’s not nitpick.

To recap some of the things I hate about me (actual list too long to include in its entirety):

I don’t think I’m strong.
I know I’m not happy.
I can be a total bitch.
I’m kind of selfish.
I don’t think I’m a very good mom.
I make bad decisions (and always have).
I’m needy and insecure.
I have no confidence or self-worth.
I don’t think I’m a good person.

[Incidentally, yesterday I mentioned that last one to my NP, so she asked me, “Have you murdered anyone?” To which I replied, “Not yet.” To which she laughed. And told me I was funny and she likes our talks. Is she being paid to talk to me? Yes. Do I still believe her? I think yes.]

Where was I? Oh right. I’m funny, but I’m a needy, weak, worthless, insecure bitch with no confidence who hasn’t murdered anyone… yet.

I guess that about sums it up.

• • • • •

I love my boys. They’ll never leave me. Since they’re not really here.

p.s. — I know what you’re thinking, and I’m thinking the same thing. What was the point of this post? Fuck if I know.

Posted in anxiety, depression, life, writing | Tagged anxiety, depression, life, whatsandrathinks, writing | 6 Comments

the perk (the return!?) #34

Posted on 23 November 2021 by what sandra thinks

For those of you who haven’t been following this blog for five years or something like that, please allow me to explain this post.

Once upon a time, I tried to train myself to think more positively. (As you can tell from my recent posts, I failed spectacularly.) One of the ways I worked on this was to post at least one good thing that happened during the week. I called it the “weekly perk” because a perk is something good and because it’s a word associated with coffee (my true love). And let’s be real—any word even remotely related to “perky” in reference to myself is hilarious.

As seen on my kitchen wall.

However, once upon a time six months later, I began stressing out over finding something good each week so the chain broke. BUT! I brought it back as simply “the perk” so I could post whenever I had something good to say, but without the pressure of coming up with a perk every week. It’s pretty counterproductive if training myself to see something good turns into something bad, you know?

I think weekly perk #24 sums it up perfectly. You should read that. I’ll wait. . . . . .

Done? Cool.

I’m still not sure there’s any real benefit to me in posting these perks. If I’m trying to train myself to see things more positively, then the true perk should be when I manage to see something potentially bad (or definitely bad) in a positive light. Look on the bright side, if you will. (Damn, that is so not me.) Or maybe they should be good thoughts I have about myself. (Working on it.) These perky things should not be random good things that happen by chance. They should be good things that happen inside me.

Of course, those things are rare. But the whole point is to make them less rare. Right? Right.

So here is my stupid not-sure-if-it’s-the-right-kind-of-perk for today:

A met someone online who has become a good friend to me in a very short time. (Thank you, GP… again.) He listens (well, he reads), he asks questions, and if I’m not mistaken (and I’m not), he cares. He is a perk (does that sound dirty? no? just me? okay), but that’s not where I was going with this.

The other day, he asked me to tell him three things I like about myself. (He asked me to write them down, not necessarily tell him, but I told him anyway.) One of the things I said was, “I’m having a good hair day.” I know, it’s ridiculous. But something good came out of that.

Every morning, when I’ve done [very little to] my hair, I look in the mirror and assess whether or not it’s a good hair day. When it is, I smile. And even when it’s not (like today), I smile. I don’t even know why. I have no idea what this means. But me smiling at myself on a bad hair day seems kinda perky. And mildly disturbing.

And here we have two fine examples of the human form of “perk”.

p.s. — Perky is not for the weak. Which is why I’m not perky. ☼

Posted in life, the perk, weekly perk, writing | Tagged life, the perk, weekly perk, whatsandrathinks, writing | 22 Comments

help. I need help.

Posted on 20 November 2021 by what sandra thinks

dark.

I don’t know how to explain this without explaining it, but that’s exactly what I need to do. I don’t want to share the actual details because it’s too personal. I know—I really have no filter here so this probably makes no sense to you. But I don’t make a lot of sense.

John (my husband’s fake name) handled something yesterday because it was decided that he would. (I know, vague.) After, he gave me a summary of said thing he handled, including what needs follow-up. I asked a few questions, he gave some answers, but not in as much detail as I would have liked. And the reason I would have liked more detail is because all of the follow-up is being thrown at me.

I have told John so damn many times that this “something” is extremely difficult for me to deal with for reasons that would be obvious if I told you what the fuck I was talking about. I have asked him outright for help, but he says he has to work… he’s busy. So he handles (I use the term loosely) the first (kind of easy) part, I get the information second hand, and I’m left with everything that needs to come next.

I am alone. John doesn’t want to talk about it. I try, but his answer to everything is, “I don’t know.” UGH. I don’t fucking know either, but I’m the one who has to figure it out. Alone.

I may not have a job outside the home, but I have a fuckton to deal with right now. The above matter aside, I have a few things going on with myself that are troubling me.

I saw another specialist for my forever back pain. He told me a lot of things I already knew, and some new things. He told me I am not a candidate for surgery. Fine by me. He also told me about a procedure for which I might be a good candidate. One of his colleagues is a pioneer of this procedure so I am seeing him next. And I’m going back to physical therapy (again). I hope this time the therapist actually does more than hand me some exercises to do at home because that’s all the last one did.

Of course, my brain instructs me to worry that nothing will work and I will continue to have my forever back pain. You know, forever.

And something else came up at my last physical. I don’t know yet what it means, but I have to see someone about that, too. No date for that yet. But I’m in a panic over that, too. John doesn’t seem to give a fuck. I guess could give him the benefit of the doubt, but why would I do that?

I need help. I need someone by my side through all of this. Tell me it’s all going to be okay. Lie to me. Whatever. I don’t care. I just need some hope because I have none. Last night, I cried for nearly four hours. Kids were asleep, John was downstairs, and I cried alone.

People keep telling me things won’t always be bad. They tell me to have hope. They tell me to think positively.

I am fucking positive that I have no hope.

I am fucking positive that when things seem like they’re at their worst, I’m wrong, because they always get even worse.

I am fucking positive that I can’t handle my life anymore.

I am fucking positive that I need help.

I am fucking positive that I’m not going to get it.

• • • • •

My boys. I don’t want them to see me like this.

p.s. — Let me be clear: It’s not that you are not helpful. You are, in a very important way. That’s why I came here with this. It helps me to write it. It helps me to get some support. But I need help with my day-to-day stuff, and I have no one here to help me. I am all alone.

Posted in anxiety, depression, life, writing | Tagged anxiety, depression, life, whatsandrathinks, writing | 30 Comments

just stop.

Posted on 13 November 2021 by what sandra thinks

I guess I’ve been doing everything wrong. And my family wants nothing to do with me because of it.

Lately, each of the four of us (me, son, daughter, husband) have had our own shit to deal with, and in doing so, everyone has become mean to each other. I wanted to talk about it, even if just with my husband. He seemed annoyed that I even wanted to discuss it. And the conversation went as expected. I talked, he just sat there barely making a sound.

I quit.

Except I don’t.

Tonight over dinner, I mentioned it with all family members present. I thought we needed to talk about making an effort to be nicer to each other. I didn’t think that was unreasonable. My husband disagreed.

Long story short, I felt ganged-up on and attacked for trying to make things better (by my husband and daughter anyway… my son stayed quiet). My husband told me to just stop. He thinks everyone needs to deal with their own shit for a couple of weeks and not even think about each other right now. And then things will somehow magically be better.

There’s a big fat flaw with this plan. A couple of weeks ago, things were as they are now. More than a couple of weeks, actually. So how are the next couple of weeks going to be any different?

I don’t know what he’s smoking but maybe I need some.

His idea is not different than what’s going on now. Everyone’s already focused on their own shit and treating the others like crap. So I guess he proposes that we do nothing… change nothing. We just leave things as they are.

Problem being, I feel like complete hell. I can’t stand everyone being mean to each other. I have been trying so fucking hard to make things a little better around here, but apparently, I should stop. He told me to stop. He said stop trying, just do your own thing. He basically told me that I was making things worse. By trying to make things better.

Next problem—I don’t know if I can stop trying. My entire life is taking care of my family. If I’m being told not to do that, what do I do? I never did figure out what I love. If I’m to stop trying to get my family to get along and just keep to myself, what does that even mean for me? I don’t have any self.

To add insult to injury (I’m not sure I like that expression), after dinner, my daughter and my husband were playing with something on their phones, laughing together. I’ve spent the past week listening to my daughter tell me that she thinks her dad hates her. Now he’s her best friend. And I’m some fucking villain for trying to make things better around here.

I guess I should just go to my room and cry. That’s how I deal with my own shit.

• • • • •

I could use some company. Volunteers? You two… right there… how about you? No, it’s okay… you don’t need to put on a shirt…

p.s. — I know someone is going to tell me that my husband is right or that his plan is a good one. I’m not prepared for that, but I expect it. I can *sort of* see where he’s coming from, but his delivery made me feel like crap. And I maintain that his proposal is basically what’s already going on. I don’t see how that’s going to improve things. It’s what got us here in the first place.

Posted in anxiety, depression, life, writing | Tagged anxiety, depression, life, parenting, whatsandrathinks, writing | 34 Comments

why not me?

Posted on 10 November 2021 by what sandra thinks

Let me just start by saying…

What the fuck?

Yesterday, I had a bad day. I had too much going on, both inside and outside my head. I woke up exhausted, so much so that I took a nap at 10am. Yes, 10am. I woke up just in time to retrieve the kids from school. After school, I had about thirty minutes free, at which point, I had my first cup of coffee of the day. Thus the 10am nap.

Following that, I took my son to an appointment. By the time I arrived home, I had to start making dinner. It was delicious, but between prep and actual cooking, I was in the kitchen for nearly two hours. (My god, the back pain… it burned… I wanted to curl up into a ball and cry, and I had plans to do so later.)

Oh, but then I actually got to sit down for a half hour to eat. Yay.

Of course, I had to clean up after dinner. Dishes and pots and pans and counters and the stove. Thank fuck my husband agreed to help. It was in his best interest, after all, because at that point, if he refused, I may have clocked him on the head with one of those pans.

[This in no way implies that my husband is anywhere as close to perfect as Flynn Rider.]

Back to the whole “what the fuck” part.

I have a bazillion cooking things. (I like to cook and especially bake, when my back is not killing me.) So. My cabinets are pretty full. When I was getting a baking dish out of one of them, I dropped a pan. It missed my toe by maybe an inch. And the noise made everyone in the house take notice.

“What the hell was that?”

“What’s going in in there?”

You get the idea.

Do you see what’s missing there? Yeah. “Are you okay?”

“Why, no, I’m not,” I said in my head since no one asked. What I said out loud though, was a bit different.

“I dropped a fucking pan. Too much in this cabinet. I nearly lost a toe, but I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

[Yes, I totally swore. I suppose that’s wrong in the presence of my impressionable children, but they’ve lived with me their entire lives. They already have the “impression” that I use colorful language.]

Oh, then I was met with… disgust? … annoyance? I’m not sure what to call it, but basically, everyone was upset with me. Upset with me! For being bitchy that I dropped a pan! Let’s face it, my crappy mood was about far more than a pan that tried to kill me. I’d been exhausted and on edge all day. But they didn’t all have to give me that look and walk away. You know the look—the one that accompanies that extended “okaaaaay” as someone carefully backs away.

Every other person in my house has these moods. And they are far more, um, demonstrative about it than I am. And I never get upset with them. I may be exhausted and I may have my own crap going on, but I don’t get upset with them. I let them feel their feelings, and I try to comfort them.

But when it’s me? No one wants a goddamn thing to do with me when I’m frustrated and upset and fed up. I spend my fucking life lately trying to help, even just be there, for everyone in this house. But when I need that? Nothing.

Why not me? Why is everyone allowed to be a moody bitch, but not me? The minute I lose my shit, everyone either gives me hell for it or runs away, neither of which I ever do to them.

[To be fair, my daughter came to my room a couple of hours later, and we sat around making jokes about the boy she likes and listening to Shawn Mendes. I think that was her 14-year-old way of trying to make me feel better. Or maybe she was just bored.]

I need someone to tell me it’s going to be okay. Even if it’s a lie. Just fucking say it anyway. God, maybe if I hear it enough, I’ll start to believe it. (Hey, I can dream.)

But it doesn’t count when I say it to myself because I know I’m lying. At least when it’s someone else, I can pretend they mean it.

• • • • •

I bet they would do my dishes. Naked but for a revealing apron…

p.s. — By the way, I made Cheesy Baked Chicken with Mushrooms with broccoli rice on the side, and it was delicious. But that whole 35-minute start-to-finish thing the recipe claims? Yeah, right. Lies. I admit I was preoccupied while preparing dinner, what with murderous pans and such, but still. Lies.

Posted in anxiety, depression, life, writing | Tagged anxiety, depression, life, parenting, whatsandrathinks, writing | 20 Comments

I’m losing it.

Posted on 9 November 2021 by what sandra thinks

I have read 91 books this year.

But I’m losing my reading bug.

[Can I just add that I spent a solid fifteen minutes trying to think of (and look up) another word to use for “bug” in this sentence, and I came up empty. I hate the use of “bug” here (or in any way that’s not referring to an actual insect), but I could find no suitable substitution. It’s still irritating me. Or, you know, bugging me.]

Let’s take a look at my recent reading history.

August — 16 books read
September — 7 books read
October — 2 books read
November — none yet

But October… freaking two! Two books! (Two doesn’t look like a word anymore.)

I’d love to say this sharp decrease is because I’ve been writing so much, but I haven’t been writing that much. Especially where fiction is concerned. (And I think we’ve already established that fiction is my favorite kind of writing.)

What the hell happened to me? No, I’m not busier. Truthfully, the only external factor that has changed is my [increased] anxiety/stress/worry level. Although, technically speaking , that’s not an external factor. That’s an internal factor. The external factors are all the things in my life that are going to shit around me. But usually, increased anxiety would make me read more. To escape. I’m wondering if this latest extended bout is so huge that it’s not even allowing me to escape.

What the fuck?

I don’t like this.

Several of my favorite authors dropped new books over the last few weeks, but I’m still not reading enough. The sex god pictured below, right, is on one of the covers. What the hell is wrong with me??

• • • • •

I’m sorry I haven’t read your book, Mr. Right. And don’t worry, Mr. Left. I haven’t forgotten about you.

p.s. — I am currently reading three books. Not that I’m actively reading them of late, but I’m in the middle of three books. I never do that. I’m usually a one-until-I’m-done-and-then-on-to-the-next kind of reader. Something is going on in my head and I don’t think I like it.