lies.

Posted on 7 November 2021 by what sandra thinks

Why do people lie?

I can accept that people may answer a question dishonestly sometimes for whatever reason. I can usually get past that. But I’m talking about something else. I’m talking about lies that came from nothing. No questions asked, just volunteered words and thoughts that were lies.

Do people set out to hurt others? Is that their intent? Is that their goal?

The worst lies are the ones that hit you where it hurts most—especially when you’ve confided in someone and basically given them a road map to your pain. For that person to then use that to hurt you… just… why? Is that fun for them? What kind of person finds your weaknesses and your deepest pain and uses them to hurt you? What kind of person offers you exactly what you need, and then rips it away from you? Why offer in the first place? Why build me up just to tear me down?

I don’t understand.

How can someone say something so kind, so giving, so supportive, and then act the complete opposite? How can someone offer support and kindness only to take it away? Why would someone voluntarily promise they would be there for me (even if I didn’t ask), and then disappear?

Why?

Was it something I said? Something I did? Of course I blame myself. It’s what I do. I blame myself for everything. I must have done something wrong. I must be the reason.

But this time, I’m confused. And I’m angry. And I’m hurt.

• • • • •

    
My boys.


p.s. — To Whom It May Concern: I’ve already got a broken heart. There’s no need to stomp on what’s left of it.

p.p.s. — And here I sit, trying to tune out everyone in my house because while I am desperate to talk to someone right now, “someone” isn’t anyone who lives here. “Someone” doesn’t exist because the “someone” I’m looking for is available to me 24/7, whenever I need him/her. How dare I wish for something so impossible? 

         
©2021 what sandra thinks

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

my heart is broken.

Posted on 2 November 2021 by what sandra thinks

My life is a mess.

And my heart is broken.

I am just broken. Mentally, physically… sigh.

I can’t even talk about a lot of what is happening in my life because it pains me to discuss it. And what I can discuss, you already know.

But recently, the things happening around me (and inside me) have gotten worse. I have tried to do what I can to make things better for myself and those around me, but I’m failing spectacularly. I have tried everything I can think of. I am still waiting on some things I’ve put in motion, but I’m not hopeful. And hopelessness is contagious. I don’t want to be spreading that to the people in my life, but I think it’s too late. The damage is done.

I feel so alone. Not literally. What I mean is that I am dealing with everything alone. I don’t have help. I have an NP who I speak to every two to three weeks, but it’s barely anything. And it’s not her job to help me on a day-to-day basis. It’s mine. But I need help and I don’t have it. I’m barely hanging on.

I spent a total of about four hours crying today (not all at once). I just can’t stop the pain inside, outside, everywhere around me.

• • • • •

    
I have to leave them here even if I have nothing to say about them right now.


p.s. — Thank you for reading even when I’m… like this.  

         
©2021 what sandra thinks

Posted in anxiety, depression, life, writing | Tagged , , , , | 76 Comments

what do I love?

Posted on 31 October 2021 by what sandra thinks

I need something in my life. Something that I enjoy. Something to drown myself in. Something I’m passionate about.

I feel like the poster-child (although not a child) for depression. “Have you lost interest in things you once loved?” Why yes, I have. It happened a long time ago. So long ago that I don’t even remember what those “things I once loved” were.

It’s not that I can’t get what I want… it’s that I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what would make me happy or what I would enjoy or what would feel good. And that has been an issue for me for a long time.

I’ve test-driven a few answers, but none of them stuck. I assume because I was just going through the motions. My heart wasn’t in it because none of those answers were the right answer for me. They were probably the right answer for someone else in my life (since I’ve spent most of my life trying to be someone else. Not even the same someone else. Just someone else. Anyone but me.)

The only thing that comes close to an answer is writing. But not just any writing. It’s writing fiction when I have lots of ideas and I’m inspired and the words are pouring out of me. It’s writing fiction when I’m so consumed by it that I hate to have to stop for any reason, and when I must stop, I can’t wait to get back to it. It’s writing fiction that makes me wake up in the middle of the night because I dreamt a scene and had to write it down immediately. (Obviously, I keep a journal and a pen by the bed.) It’s writing fiction where I’m so deep in it that I feel like I’m actually in it.

writing in darkness

Of course, I can’t always write like that. And I can’t force it. It has to happen naturally. It’s like waiting for lightning to strike. Sometimes, I have a storm. Some rain. Some wind. But no lightning. I need the lightning.

But I need something else. I need another passion. Something I do not have to wait for. (That sentence bothers me because it ends with a preposition. It should be “Something for which I do not have to wait,” but that sounds awkward. Sorry. The grammar police live in my head.) Besides, I’ll likely never publish anything I write, so while I may feel a level of passion for it, my writing is pointless, isn’t it?

So… how do I figure it out? How do I find what I enjoy? How do I find what I’m passionate about? (Ugh… grammar police again.) How do I find what gives my life meaning?

Right now, I exist for the sole purpose of being a mother. It’s not that my kids aren’t worth it. It’s that they are all I have. I don’t have anything else. I am just Mom. Nothing more. No part of me is simply me. There is no Sandra. There is only mom. (And I’m not even good at being a mom, so it’s a total fail.)

But… this post is pointless. No one can tell me what my passion is. I have to find it somewhere inside me.

So far, no luck.

• • • • •

    
I am pretty passionate about these guys.  


p.s. — Is loneliness my problem? Does it cloud over everything else? Does it kill passion? God knows it’s killing me. 

         
©2021 what sandra thinks

Posted in anxiety, depression, life, writing | Tagged , , , , | 22 Comments

revelation. I had one. or two.

Posted on 29 October 2021 by what sandra thinks

I originally titled this post “something is wrong with me” but that’s so damn obvious I thought better of it.

However, I do think I am messed up because I had an MRI yesterday, and I now want to have one every day.

If you’ve known me for a long time, you know that I have invisible back pain. Yes, I made that name up. What I mean by that is I have horrible back pain, but you’d never know if I didn’t tell you. I look like I’m fine. I do everything I need to do and most of what I want to do. I’m just in pain the whole time. This pain was the reason for my MRI. (I had one about four years ago, but as the pain persists, doc is looking to see what has changed.)

My first MRI four years ago was in the regular machine. Yesterday’s was in a bigger one with music and a slideshow. The difference was like night and day. The first time in the regular machine I was anxious as hell. I felt like I’d been buried alive. I was so freaked out. It was horrible. (I have never been claustrophobic, but maybe I am?)

But yesterday my MRI was one of the most relaxing experiences I’ve had in years.

I lay there motionless for about a half hour all nestled into my “bed” so I couldn’t move. Literally, nestled into place with cushiony things coming up the sides to keep my arms in place and a big bolster under my knees so my back was comfortable. I had earplugs because of the machine noise and headphones for the music. Once I was inside the [bigger] tube, I heard the music and saw a lovely slideshow with pictures of paradise. Sure, when the scans happened, it was loud as fuck and I couldn’t hear the music, but it didn’t matter. The loud sounds quickly turned into white noise. I almost fell asleep.

It was the most relaxed I’ve felt in so long. It was the kind of relaxed feeling I used to get during a massage. Haven’t had one of those in years. Too pricey. And then covid. And now still covid and still pricey.

I like when someone is taking care of me. In this case, three someones. Yeah, there were two dudes who got me all nestled into place before the scan and a third one helping me de-nestle after it was over. He even walked me to the changing room so I wouldn’t fall over in my relaxed and slightly dizzy state. That last guy was really tall and handsome.

And then I came home. Sigh.

The fact that I like being taken care of isn’t the revelation. I already knew that about me.

I like when someone is sweet to me and wants to make sure I’m comfortable and happy. I do not have a person like that in my life. It would be ideal to have someone, but failing that, I wish I could afford to buy someone. (Not literally. Just be able to afford regular massages and spa days and things like that. Probably not MRIs though.)

Here’s the revelation part.

I need to meditate.

Yeah, I know. People have been telling me to do that for a long time. I just never felt capable of it. I’m still not sure I am. But yesterday’s MRI made me feel what I imagine meditation could make me feel.

I don’t know how to replicate that relaxed feeling I had in the machine. Sure, I can lie on my bed and surround myself with pillows and blankets, but I don’t think I can accomplish the same snug, nestled feeling that made me feel so peaceful and cared for and even… loved. Oh god, this is a weird thing where I want to be swaddled up like a baby, isn’t it? Something really is wrong with me.

Moving on quickly from that creepy revelation… Where was I? Oh yes.

I need to meditate.

I wonder if I can get myself to actually try. I think the biggest obstacle is location. I really believe that the only reason I was able to stop my usual chaotic thoughts was because I was somewhere else, literally and in my mind. I was focused on the MRI, the screen, the sounds. For that too-short time, every other thought took a break. I don’t know if I can make that happen at home.

I think it also mattered that this was in the evening, around 6pm. I never feel anything close to relaxed earlier in the day—even first thing in the morning. I don’t wake up relaxed. I wake up anxious. Hm. That’s another revelation. I never really thought about it, but yes, I wake up anxious.

So in addition to location being an issue, timing is also an issue. At 6pm, everyone is home. I need an outbuilding with power and heat and a small bed with lots of pillows, cozy blankets, and a plush furry rug.

And one or both of these gentlemen.

    
Ahh… they would have made a nice relaxation slideshow. Or a nice relaxation reality. They can take care of me anytime. Now is good with me.


p.s. — I guess I could try hanging one of those do not disturb signs on my bedroom door like at a hotel. Yeah, that’ll work. (Sarcasm.) 

         
©2021 what sandra thinks

Posted in life, writing | Tagged , , , , , , | 8 Comments

song of the day. #65 #music

Posted on 27 October 2021 by what sandra thinks

It has been almost two years since my last song of the day. There have been many songs of many days since then. I guess I was just too selfish to share them with you. Apologies.

song of the day | what sandra thinks

Sometimes I fall in love with a song because of one line. It might be what it says, how it sounds, and/or how it makes me feel. Some men just have a way of saying/singing certain words that just… works. (And, yeah, it’s always men. Male voices do things to me that no female voice can.)

This song got me the first time I heard it, and I’ve had to listen to it hundreds more times since. One line gives me goosebumps. I have no explanation. It just happens every time.

·•·

Where’s My Love | SYML

Cold bones, yeah, that’s my love
She hides away, like a ghost

Ooh, does she know that we bleed the same?
Ooh, don’t wanna cry but I break that way

Cold sheets, oh, where’s my love?
I am searching high, I’m searching low in the night

Ooh, does she know that we bleed the same?
Ooh, don’t wanna cry but I break that way

Did she run away? Did she run away? I don’t know
If she ran away, if she ran away, come back home
Just come home

I got a fear, oh, in my blood
She was carried up into the clouds high above

Ooh, If you bled, I bleed the same
Ooh, If you’re scared, I’m on my way

Did you run away? Did you run away? I don’t need to know
But if you ran away, if you ran away, come back home
Just come home

–Written by SYML

song of the day

song of the day

[Obviously I am not the owner of any rights to this song, video, or lyrics… just everything else…]

·•·

I have this recurring fantasy of a sexy man singing to me. It’s a song that’s meaningful and sweet, but also kind of hot. One of these men will do nicely. I’m going to pretend they’re both amazing singers with deep, sexy voices… because of course they are.

     


p.s. — I think I want to rename “song of the day”. It’s boring. Of course, I can’t think of anything good. Does this mean I am also boring? 

p.p.s. — Now that I’ve opened the music can of worms, all hell might break loose. Suddenly, I have, like, fifty songs I want to share. 

p.p.s. — Oh my god! I think I might have a name. Although it will sound stupid to every one but me! It’s kind of an inside joke… between me and a girl I haven’t been friends with for a very long time. Hm. I’ll have to think about it.

         
©2021 what sandra thinks

Posted in books, life, music | Tagged , , , , | 13 Comments

I’m back…

Posted on 24 October 2021 by what sandra thinks

I’m not going to add “…and better than ever” (that’s a thing people say, right?) because that would be a lie

But I’m here. And maybe it’ll stick this time.

I’ve been trying to get back to my blog for months without success. But since I rose from the dead on September 20 (before that I had been missing since May), I’ve posted nine times. I am a little concerned about what I’ve been posting. Five of those eight are entirely about my fucked up life. One of them is partially about my fucked up life. So I am at least 61% fucked up.

[Yes, I fucking did the math. I was, am, and always will be a math nerd. Speaking of math—can anyone get me a job doing math? Using Excel to do math? Anything? Anyone?]

I suppose saying I’m back may be a lie because I’m only posting today to say I’m back without actually saying anything of any importance. Not that I’m implying that anything I say is all that important. It’s probably not.

Unfortunately, since I’m 61% fucked up, I think most of my posts will continue to revolve around my fucked-up-ness. (Yes, I’m making up words now.) What I wish I could post is new fiction and new poetry. But my brain isn’t allowing that. Yes, I speak of my brain like it’s a separate entity. Probably because I wish it was. It would be easier to trade it in for a better model.

Does anyone have a genius solution to my writing problem? I think I’ve mentioned before that I’ve got lots of ideas and lots of scenes written down. But I’ve not been able to use any of them to come up with an entire plot for a whole story. It doesn’t have to be a novel or anything. Short is okay. But I want a real plot. Whatever the hell that means.

My real problem is this: I write romance so the entire story is basically how the two meet and how they end up together. I’m good at beginnings. And I’m great at writing the characters meeting and ending up together. But I’m not great at writing enough plot in between those things to make it a whole story. I have trouble introducing enough obstacles to keep it interesting.

I crave the happy ending so much that I don’t want to write problems. I have so many of them in my real life that when I immerse myself in writing fiction, I want fewer problems. Or none. Maybe it’s painful for me to write bad things. I was actually crying when I wrote this one scene last week… because my main character was crying. I was so anxious until I kept writing and resolved the issue. Of course, then everything was great and I had nowhere to take my story.

Clearly, my real life is ruining my writing.

Maybe I should try to write poetry again. That might suit my feelings of sadness and despair.

• • • • •

    
But how can I be sad with these two majestic humans?
Easy. They are not in the room with me. If they were, I would not be writing this.


p.s. — Unrelated: Don’t you hate when you try to help someone and you end up feeling like you’ve made everything worse instead? And don’t you hate when you know you’re doing the right thing, but someone gets mad at you for it? I know I’m being a bit cryptic, but I just can’t go into detail on this. 

         
©2021 what sandra thinks

Posted in anxiety, depression, life, writing | Tagged , , , , , | 31 Comments

why I hate myself.

Posted on 20 October 2021 by what sandra thinks

I debated whether or not posting this was a good idea. I came to the conclusion that it is a bad idea. But here I am.

Yeah. That’s not actually me. But it doesn’t matter.

And now I shall tell you why I hate myself.

⋅•⋅

I am weak. I get upset so easily. I cry. I get so anxious that I can’t do the simplest things, never mind the harder things. I’m weak in so many ways.

I am selfish. I think of myself too much. Sometimes, I don’t even realize I’m doing it. I think I’m helping or supporting someone, but I notice, too late, that I’ve just related their situation to mine and I find myself talking about me. How self-centered is that?

I’m too dependent on others (so fucking needy). I don’t see anything positive about myself unless someone else sees it. I don’t feel good about myself unless someone else makes me feel good. I feel worthless unless someone else thinks I’m worth it. You get the idea. I need constant validation or I think I’m useless.

I make terrible decisions. I always have. I don’t even like the dress I chose to wear for school pictures in second grade. That’s not something that keeps me up at night, but there are plenty of examples of things that do. Just a few decisions that haunt me: my choice of college, my choice of college major, my choice of friends (years ago, now I just have none), my choice of jobs, my choice of husband, my choice to live where I live (although that wasn’t really my choice, but I should have fought for what I wanted), my choice to have children.

I don’t have a mind of my own. For most of my life, I felt like I needed to be my sister (one, specifically, not the other two). But I stopped when I started to be influenced by other people instead. I would have been better off continuing to try to be my sister because those other influences steered me down the wrong path. But the point is that I rarely stand up for myself and I feel like I have to do what others do rather than be myself. I guess I would have to know who I am to be myself. And that’s the why I try to be someone else. Which leads me to…

I don’t know who I am. What do I love? What do I want? What is my passion? What makes me happy? Who the fuck am I? I don’t know. I don’t have any real answers. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to live up to others—trying to be others—that I don’t know who I am. I don’t think I’ve ever known. I have no self. It’s like I’ve been searching for something my whole life but I don’t know what it is so I can’t find it.

I can’t keep from thinking and saying horrible things about myself (and this entire post is a good example). I am certain that part of why I do this is because if the same horrible things came from someone else, they would hurt more, so I beat them to the punch. This also speaks to my self-deprecating humor. Make the joke before someone else does. The problem, of course, is that it is entirely possible no one would make the jokes or say the horrible things at all.

I am a terrible mother. I know I’m not doing a good job. My mom made it look so easy. Maybe my sisters and I were angels. (Doubtful.) But it’s not easy. Not for me, anyway. Maybe she was just a natural and I’m not. I do believe that I was never cut out to be a parent. Among other things, my anxiety and depression should have been red flags. Why didn’t anyone ever tell me having kids would be a bad idea for me? Why didn’t I know that myself?

I have no ambition. I never figured out what I wanted to do with my life (maybe because I don’t know who I am) so I’m doing nothing. That’s fucked up. I’m a grown woman. I need to be doing something. I wish I had some idea—any idea whatsoever—what I would like to do. But I don’t. I never knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. Well, guess what? I grew up. And since I was laid off because of a non-hostile company takeover several years ago, I haven’t worked. I didn’t love the job I had, but it was alright. It didn’t have a clear title, so job hunting is difficult. Now, not only have we gotten into a routine where I need to be around for the kids, but also I have been out for so long that the thought of going back sends me into panic mode. [Yes, I have searched extensively for work-from-home jobs but I haven’t found anything. Besides, even work-from-home doesn’t mean I can come and go as I please.]

I have zero confidence. I am not great at anything. I’m good at some things, but not great at any of them. I am just not good enough in general. I constantly compare myself to others and I always fall short. I’m smart, but not smart enough. I’m pretty, I suppose, but not pretty enough. I’m not rich enough (fuck, I’m not rich at all), I’m not happy enough (again, not at all), I’m not outgoing enough, I’m not skinny enough. I’m not good enough at parenting, art, writing, cooking, baking. In short, I suck. How can someone so weak and useless have any confidence?

I crave attention. I think this is related to the “too dependent on others” thing. Both speak to my excessive neediness. I want attention, but I don’t like to be the center of attention. That statement makes perfect sense in my head, but I have no idea how to explain it to you. I want to be noticed, but not by everyone at once, maybe? I am failing spectacularly at explaining this one.

I am awkward around people. I don’t know how to make friends. I don’t know how to strike up conversations. All I can think of right now are those work gatherings I was forced to attend (and believe me, I tried to get out of them all). I would walk over to some coworkers I knew pretty well, and they would all be talking, socializing. I would try to be part of the conversation, but inevitably, I’d end up standing there awkwardly, unable to become a part of anything. Eventually, I’d just slip away and cry on my drive home that night.

So. There are a dozen reasons why I hate myself. Honestly, I had to cut myself off because I could have continued.

Why am I like this?

At least I am intelligent and have a great sense of humor. All is not lost. Maybe.

·•·

    
I also have great taste in sexy hot guys.


p.s. — It is okay if you agree with some of what I’ve listed here. Actually, I’d be surprised if you don’t agree with any of them. 

         
©2021 what sandra thinks

Posted in anxiety, depression, life, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | 40 Comments

what is happy?

Posted on 17 October 2021 by what sandra thinks

I made a new friend. Here, I mean. Not offline. If you thought that, you give me way too much credit. Hell, I can’t even take credit for this new friend. He found me. And he talked to me. Yeah, I don’t know why either.

Anyway…

He asked me questions no one has asked me for a long time, and in most cases, ever. Questions like:

Why do you hate yourself?
What makes you happy?
Do you do anything for you?
If I could reset my life, what would I do differently?

I had no problem answering the first question. In fact, I think I could (and might) write a post dedicated to it. Not sure if that’s a good idea. I don’t want to give anyone a reason (or twenty) to hate me, but we’ll see.

The last two have one word answers, no and everything, respectively.

Okay, lets be fair. No could be modified to not really. I guess writing and reading are things that I do for me? Occasionally a coffee from the outside?

And I could go into detail on the everything answer, but I won’t. At least not right now, but that is fuel for a long fucking post.

The second question, however, is a problem for me. What makes you happy?

The truth is, I really have no fucking idea. I can list little things… coffee, Coldplay, writing (unless I get frustrated), Shawn Mendes, reading, those guys at the bottom of every one of my posts, cake. But from there, my answer takes a turn. And that turn is to other people, in a couple of ways.

First way: It makes me happy to see my kids laugh—to see them happy. It makes me happy to make other people happy.

Second way: It makes me happy when people like me, support me, talk to me, are there for me, care about me, love me.

In both of those ways, my happiness is dependent on others giving it to me. Is that really my happiness?  And even if I feel happy in these two ways, I would never be happy alone. I could never make myself happy on my own. I can’t find happiness within myself. (I guess that goes back to the first question: why do I hate myself?)

This may sound ridiculous, but sometimes I don’t even think I know what happiness is. I don’t think I know how it feels to be happy. Right now, the word happy is beginning to really annoy me.

hap·py
/ˈhapē/
adjective
1. feeling or showing pleasure or contentment.

I don’t know. Contentment? I don’t remember the last time I felt content. Maybe I never have. Pleasure? If this includes enjoying some cheesecake, sure I’ve had pleasure. But I don’t think that counts. I don’t think that means I’m happy. Or it means I’m happy, but only for the amount of time it takes me to eat said cheesecake. Let’s face it, once the cheesecake is gone, I’ll probably feel guilty for eating it so any potential happiness goes right out the window.

So I’ll repeat my question.

What is happy?

I don’t fucking know.

• • • • •

    
Yes, they make me happy. Like, just looking at them. (I guess I’m shallow.) But that happiness is fleeting. Unless I have their pictures tattooed on the inside of my eyelids or something.


p.s. — If you want to know what sad is, though, I’ve got your back.

         
©2021 what sandra thinks

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