revelation. I had one. or two.

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 , , , , , , | 7 Comments

song of the day. #65 #music

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…

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.

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 , , , , , , , | 34 Comments

what is happy?

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.


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.

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

maybe you really like me.

… or you really like that I’m miserable.

I will explain. (Sorry.)

You know how I always worry about posting my personal struggles because I’m overwhelmed with shame and embarrassment over it? You know how I worry that those posts are annoying or whiny? You know how I worry that people will think less of me or something ridiculous like that?

It turns out those are my most popular posts.

Okay, that’s probably a lie. But I noticed that of my recent posts (like, in the last month since I rose from the dead), the ones filled with angst, depression, anxiety, relationship issues, and other assorted personal struggles get the most likes and especially the most comments. So either you like me or you like that I’m miserable. I’m not gonna touch that second one.

I suppose this means that maybe I should stop worrying so much about what I should or shouldn’t post and just do whatever the fuck I want. Whatever I need. And lately (and often) what I need is to talk about my fucked up life.

It’s the no friends thing all over again. It would be nice to text a friend and meet for coffee or visit each other. Someone to talk to. Someone to laugh with. Someone to love and support me. Maybe give me a hug. I don’t get those except occasionally from my daughter (yes, I feel the irony).

Oh, speaking of my daughter (again), she has a not-boyfriend. What I mean is that she obviously likes this boy and he obviously likes her, but they are not together. That’s good, I guess, since they are only 13. But it’s fucking adorable. He’s the new kid—transferred from a nearby town the second week of school. A cute, tall hockey player who loves to read and likes the same music by daughter listens to (he is also going to see Shawn Mendes). They are kind of perfect for each other, if that’s a thing at their age. Get this: My daughter has a bad cold, and she missed two days of school this week. Both of those days, her boy called during lunch to check on her. How cute is that? So fucking cute.

She would be furious if she knew I was telling the internet about this.

Want to know something fucked up? Well, too bad. I’m going to tell you anyway.

I think I’m living vicariously through my daughter. And that seems kind of inappropriate to me. Oh hell, it seems all kinds of wrong. I’m not sure I can explain why, but it does. I’m very careful what I say to her because I don’t want to put my own ideas in her head. I want her to have her own teenage experience—not mine.

I just miss being a teenager, I guess. Lots of people say they hated those years, but I loved them. And the crushes—especially the ones who actually like you back? That’s the best. I loved school. All the fun we had in the halls between classes… after school clubs… passing notes… school dances… and, well, any kind of math. (Nerd alert.) School was awesome. Maybe I peaked in high school. God, that’s a depressing thought. But I did love that time in my life. Oh, I was depressed then, too, but I had friends and I was always busy with one thing or another. I guess my life felt… full. Now it feels empty.

I can’t relive that time in my life. I think it’s why I have this recurring dream where I’m at my high school and I’m standing at my locker and I can’t remember the combination. I keep trying but I can’t get it open. I realized, after having this dream dozens of times, that the locker represents my youth… and I can’t have it back. I’ve had a similar dream where I’m in my college dorm and I’m locked out of my room and I can’t find my key or an RA to open my door for me. I can’t get in. Just like the locker.

I have a serious problem with living in the past. Or wishing I could have the past back, I guess, is more accurate. I want a do-over. Yes, I enjoyed school and being a teenager, but it could have been so much better. That would have been the time for me to work on my self-esteem because it would have made the years that followed so much better. It would have made today better.

I want to go back to thirteen and do it right this time. I want to put some serious effort into learning to love myself as a teenager. I want to value myself, not feel valuable only if someone else values me. Because that is how I’ve lived pretty much my whole life. As far back as I can remember, I only felt good about myself if someone else felt good about me. I think it started very young. Like, under ten years old. Maybe it’s because I have three sisters (two older, one younger). Maybe I never felt noticed, and therefore, not valuable. As I got older, it became clear to me that I was the odd one out. The oldest, the baby, the favorite, and… me. What was I? What am I? I was the misfit. The black sheep. The fuck-up. To this day, I feel isolated from them. I fake it pretty well. But I know I don’t fit in.

I know you’re all thinking that I can work on my self-esteem and self-love now. But fuck if I can figure out how to do that. Nothing works. I can’t even get myself to try some of the suggestions. Others I try but they do nothing. Most seem pointless at this stage of my life. I’ve hated myself for a lot of years. It would take a lot of years to change that hate to love. I don’t think I have enough years left. It’s too late. Yes, it really is. Yes. It is. Too late. A necessary component is missing now that I had when I was a teenager: hope.

Well, this post has jumped all over the place. I should probably have split it into multiple posts. That would have worked out well for my goal of posting more. But all of this flowed out of me together. I think I should leave it that way.

So… to sum up:

  1. My depression/anxiety/crisis posts seem quite popular.
  2. I shouldn’t worry that I’m going to drive you away by posting about those things.
  3. I have no friends.
  4. My daughter has a boy friend but not a boyfriend. And they are fucking cute.
  5. I am creepily living vicariously through my daughter.
  6. I loved high school. I wish I could go back and enjoy it again, but better this time.
  7. My psyche knows I can’t get my youth back, yet my mind fights itself on that.
  8. I hate myself.
  9. I am the black sheep of my family.
  10. My mind is alarmingly capable of running through way too many thoughts at once.

Thank you for reading. You know, if you made it to the end.


Again, living in the past—I wish I had ended up with one of these guys. I need a fucking time machine. And possibly a plastic surgeon.

p.s. — Maybe I’m working on the larger book up there ^ at the top of this post. God knows I rambled on about enough here to drive the weak-willed away…

©2021 what sandra thinks

Posted in anxiety, depression, life, writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | 46 Comments

I did a thing.


Remember this post about my daughter? Yeah, the one right before this one.

Well… I did something that maybe I shouldn’t have done, but it’s too late now. There’s no going back.

That bit about giving her what she wants because I feel like I need to buy her love? That’s a bad idea, right? Right. Yet I got her something she really wanted.

The thing is—full disclosure—I wanted it, too. It was most definitely also for me. Maybe it even was more for me.

And here is where I confess my secret, age-inappropriate pop star crush.

Yeah, that’s right. We’re going to see Shawn Mendes.

(Yes, I blocked out the specifics. I wouldn’t want anyone to stalk me. Paranoid, you ask? Yes, I am!)

Part of the reason I have a soft spot for this guy is his openness about mental health. He has not been afraid or ashamed to speak out about his own struggles with anxiety as well as mental health issues in general. It is something I relate to no matter how old (young) he is. Besides, if you actually believe that I’m 29, there’s nothing inappropriate going on here. (Let’s forget, for a moment, that I have a 16.75 year old son as that would make 29 a blatant lie.)

It’s been a while since I’ve last been to a show. Not because of the pandemic. I just haven’t been. When did concert tickets get so ridiculously pricy? The first few rows are, like, $500 per ticket or something crazy like that. So, obviously, I didn’t get the best available seats because it would have been over $1000 for the two of us. I may make a lot of bad decisions, but…


At least these guys are age-appropriate for me.


p.s. — I’ve been holding on to this secret crush for a while. Don’t worry. I didn’t have a crush until a couple of years ago—when he was fully a man, not a boy. See? There’s nothing wrong with me. Nope. Nothing at all.

©2021 what sandra thinks

Posted in life, music, writing | Tagged , , , , | 20 Comments

she fuckin’ hates me.

My daughter hates me.

This has been the case for well over a year. Maybe two years. Maybe longer. I can’t even remember. (And the last year and a half kind of melted into one big lump of crap, so my concept of time is pretty fucked at the moment.)

I hate going into detail about this stuff because I feel that it reflects [very] poorly on me as a parent, and I’m embarrassed that I, apparently, am a horrible mother. Everything I touch turns into a huge pile of failure. Anyway, I’ll share some things, and hopefully, you won’t think badly of me when I’m finished.

My daughter (I will henceforth refer to her as M) constantly picks fights with me. I am so goddamn careful with every fucking word I say to her because I don’t want to fight with her, yet she still manages to find something to argue about. All. The. Fucking. Time. I can ask something as inocuous as, “did you finish your homework?” and my son will answer me, but M will fly off the handle and start a fight with me. One day she even said, and I quote, “I can’t help it if everything you say pisses me off.

What the fuck?

I know that I’m a failure as a mother. That is clear. But my son doesn’t treat me this way, so it can’t be all me, can it? I don’t even know. Maybe it is. I’m sure I treat them differently, but shouldn’t I? They are not the same person.

I’m sick of the excuse that she’s a typical thirteen year old girl because this is not normal. Maybe my three sisters and I were angels (ha, like hell we were), but my mom says we *never* treated her the way M treats me. She talks back to me constantly. She doesn’t seem to grasp that I’m the parent and she’s the child.

She tells me that she has no respect for me because I have no respect for her. But her definition of me “not respecting her” is me being a parent. Unless I agree with everything she says and let her do whatever she wants and never tell her when she’s done something wrong, I’m not respecting her. Oh, and if I punish her (god forbid) then I’m not respecting her. And by “punish”, I really just mean “say no”.

What the fuck is a parent, then? Am I really and truly fucking everything up?

I can’t even tell you the number of nights I’ve cried myself to sleep over this. I am 100% positive tonight will be another one of those nights.

Last week, M told me that she feels like everyone in our family hates each other. She directed her comment at me initially, but later repeated it in front of my son and husband. However, she is actually the only one who fights with everyone. I can’t remember the last time my son and I had even so much as a disagreement. And my husband, well, I have no use for him (whole different topic), but I’m not mean and we rarely fight. We get along… we’re civil. (Yes, it’s a marriage made in heaven. Civil was always my dream.)

We had a family meeting last week about this “hating each other” thing. By the end, I thought there was more understanding and a willingness to try to be more respectful of each other. I thought it went well.

I must be a fucking idiot because within, like, a day, M was acting like she hated everyone. She was back to being rude and picking fights, and not just with me. She’s the one who complains about the situation, yet she is the one who creates that very situation. She never takes any blame, though. It’s never her. It’s always someone else. Usually me.

It’s always me. I don’t know when everything became my fault, but that seems to be the case as far as she’s concerned.

We used to be close. I actually said that to her the other day, and her response? “We were never close.” I don’t understand how she can say that. Did she just forget? Maybe she blocked it out because she hates me so much now.

Tonight she told me that we “don’t have a relationship“. What does that even mean? Of course we have a relationship—I’m her mother. She says we don’t have anything in common. Hmm. We both read, we both write, we both like going to the used book store, we both obsess over certain music (even if it’s not always the same music), we both bake, we both like boys, we both have boobs. Whatever. We have shit in common.

In trying to make things better, I say yes to so much of what M asks of me. Not anything crazy. Mostly things like taking her to Target when she needs (or more accurately, wants) something. Somewhere in my head, I think doing these things will make her like me. And that saying no will make her hate me more. It’s so stupid. I shouldn’t have to buy my daughter’s love by catering to her every wish. Tonight she said that me doing things like this for her doesn’t mean we have a relationship.

However, if I don’t agree to what she asks, she will go to my husband instead and get it anyway because he tries to avoid conflict by giving in. Then he gets “credit” for it and she loves him and hates me. Not that me doing things for her makes her love me anyway (see above… that “doesn’t mean we have a relationship”).

I don’t have a job other than Mom. I am here for my kids all the time. Whatever they need, I’m here to help. My husband works until at least 6pm Monday through Friday. Yet both of my kids treat him like some kind of celebrity. I spend all my time doing whatever I can for them, and my husband is the one they love… or at least very strongly prefer.

I honestly don’t care if they prefer him and think he’s the better parent. I do, however, care that M thinks I’m an awful person and that we don’t have a relationship. That really hurts me. I told her that, but she didn’t seem to care. She has even told me that there are things I do that bother her, but when other people do those same things, they don’t bother her. I have no fucking idea what to do with that.

How can I possibly improve this situation (not calling it a relationship since according to her, we don’t have one)? It’s like there’s a separate set of rules for me, but I have no idea what those rules are.

I know I make mistakes. I know I should be better at parenting by now since my kids are 16 and 13. But I feel completely out of my depth here. I don’t know what to try anymore because everything I do is wrong. It might be right for someone else, but it’s wrong for me.

I’ve tried to talk to my husband about the situation with M, but he is useless. He barely responds. I get that he doesn’t have the answers, but I also feel like he doesn’t care that much because most of her issues seem to be with me, not him. Yeah, he’s fucking selfish like that. Charming, right?

So… my daughter hates me.

And she’s not the only one.
(In case it wasn’t clear, I also hate me.)


This isn’t exactly a favorite song of mine, but I felt like I pretty much had to include it here.


I don’t even have a witty comment to go along with my guys right now, but I’m not going to post without them. Maybe I’ve lost my mind, but I think I need them. Yeah, mind is lost.


p.s. — I wonder when I’ll be getting my “World’s Worst Mom” trophy. 

©2021 what sandra thinks

Posted in anxiety, depression, life, writing | Tagged , , , , , , | 62 Comments