Tired

I’m just really tired.

Not physically tired, although that’s a given. I’m mentally tired. It’s hard constantly trying to reign in racing thoughts, intentionally choosing to believe in something you can’t see, and resisting the urge to tangle with a toxic person. God is teaching me to turn my thoughts to Him when James is unstable, but it’s still exhausting to live in a home where you never know what you’re going to get. The kids are on edge and it comes out in aggressive behavior.

The other day, the counselor talked to me about a drawing Caleb did of his house. I was central in the drawing, which tells her that I’m a central part of his home. But I clearly wasn’t happy. And that tells her that, well, I’m not happy often enough that it defines the way he thinks of me.

It’s true, of course. And it leveled me.

My memories of my own childhood after my dad’s job loss are very similar. My mom wasn’t happy. In fact, she was in full-blown depression, which expressed itself in fits of rage and long periods in bed. I was scared about my dad’s job loss and scared by her behavior. I understand as an adult just how bad things were for her, but I’ve also always resented that no one was around to be a parent and shepherd my heart. I had to face that fear and terror on my own, just as I have as an adult.

And yet, here I am becoming the same angry person. I’m angry because the house is messy and I have to prove to James that I’m worth being a stay-at-home mom. I’m mad because the kids are fighting me on schoolwork, and I have to prove that homeschooling produces geniuses. I’m mad because I’m supposed to bring in more money than I am in order to justify my cost. Deep down inside, everything I’m mad about comes down to fear: fear that I’m not worthy or worth it. Fear that I’m screwing everything up. Fear that I’ve already ruined it all.

When you have to prove your value, life is one big panic attack. When you’re always trying to avoid the unavoidable tirade, you can’t ever relax. And when you can’t ever relax and just be yourself, life is unbearable.

But I don’t want my kids to remember me this way. I’m trying so hard to show them a different way to respond to stress, and a different way to respond to toxic people.

I’m just so tired. I don’t know how to keep going.

Running

My last half-marathon was in April. I’d trained with my running partner, paying special attention to the extensive hills in the course. I’d told my husband about the race for several weeks, so he knew he would need to be at home with the kids.

Then, just days before the race, he signed up for his own race…on the same day. I scrambled, but located a sitter. I went to the expo and picked up my gear. I was excited.

The night before, he came home from work in a rage. He was mad at the world, and especially at me. “What right do you think you have to pay money to run in a race? You’re a stay-at-home mom, but you blow money like you earn it. You’re not even fast. What makes you think you deserve this? You’re just an entitled little only-child bitch who thinks she can have whatever she wants.”

The kids ate in silence. To some degree, they see these outbursts so often that they don’t seem affected. The impact comes out in other ways, though. They aren’t unscathed.

And neither was I.

I tried to defend myself, to point out the hypocrisy and blatant untruth of his words, but in the end I just loaded the kids in the car and we drove around while I tried to calm myself.

Something in me had broken. I realize now that he weaponized shame, his favorite barb. He shames me by pretending I don’t earn enough to get the things I need. He shames me by comparing me to my mother and to the endless legion of other women who are wrong by virtue of being female. He shames me with invented stories so realistic that even though I didn’t do those things, I feel guilty anyway. And this time, he shamed me for running. For getting up early, wearing old running gear, and putting on the miles long before anyone got up. For wanting the camaraderie of running with a partner. For enjoying the fun of a race and the joy of a medal.

The next morning, I woke up to a text from the babysitter saying that she had a stomach virus. I was out childcare, and I had to use the childcare onsite. When I got there, I was distinctly anxious. It wasn’t secure and it didn’t feel safe. The shame shouted louder: how dare I think that I should run a race? Now my children were endangered, because of my recklessness.

The shame took root in my lungs, that were already heaving from several days with a bad cough. By the end of the first mile, I knew I was in trouble. We walked over and over again, and even the walking left me exhausted. Normally I can settle into a rhythm after a rough few miles, but it never came. I thought maybe I should take a shuttle back, but I didn’t. I pushed through, ran the last 50 feet with my children (who had been picked up by friends from church so they could watch), and got my medal. But I was defeated. It wasn’t my lungs that broke me. It was my spirit.

I’d been defeated before the race even started. Now that I’ve read up on the way shame causes disintegration in the brain, I understand a little better.

I couldn’t get back into running after that. I did an obstacle course race with friends in June. Again, the husband was opposed, and when I sprained my ankle badly, his comment was that clearly I shouldn’t be signing up for races.

When my ankle healed, nagging hip pain reared its head, and eventually I just quit. I debated seeing a PT for several months, and finally, today, I went.

They still don’t know what’s causing the hip pain, but the PT told me to go out and run in an attempt to trigger the injury and get a better description. Tonight, after I put Violet in bed, I pulled on my compression socks and went out for a jog.

It was good running weather. The air was cool. For the first time in over six months, I ran the whole Wedge hill without stopping. Actually, I ran the whole thing without stopping. I talked to God while I ran, asking him to replace James’ voice with His voice. Asking Him if He wanted me running, and what I should do to keep doing it. I thanked God for a body that moves. I kept going.

Running never feels “good” to me, but this did. My hip is sore, but we can’t fix it if we don’t know the source. I’m trying to reclaim something that was stolen from me that April night. When I came home and my husband commented, “Wow, that was fast,” I only cared a little.

He doesn’t care about me. Why do I give his voice so much credit?
I'm taking back more than running.
I've started reading again, even though he perceives it as lazy and selfish of me.
I sent out Christmas cards this year, for the first time in five years.
The kids and I helped a friend out with Christmas.
I am making Christmas cookies with the kids, even though the food nazi believes all sugar is sinful.
I am going to early morning Body Pump classes because my body feels good when I do.
Once a week, I have a glass or two of wine.
I drink coffee in the morning.
I am letting the kids watch all the Star Wars movies in order, and if their dad won't take them (because Star Wars is on his crap list now), then I'll take them to the new one.
I am going to go all in for Christmas, even though he hates every part of it.
He does not get to suck the joy out of everything any longer.
Every act of joy and care is a tiny rebellion against a reign of terror. I'm not bowing down to my husband anymore. I serve a God who gives joy. He gives good gifts.
I'm praying one of those good gifts is a permanent way out for the kids and I. We've learned so much in the past two years; now it's time to heal.