Battling Myself

***It's become clear to me lately that I need to tell you all, or perhaps include foot notes about the level of sarcasm and the hint of fiction that I write with. So consider it done and if from this point forward if it's not clear to you that I'm being sarcastic or using my artistic license as I see fit, well then you probably deserve to believe that I do things like leave my son on the curb to be picked up with the recycling. Just don't call CPS. I hear they aren't the biggest fans of sarcastically artistic license. Or artistically sarcastic license, whatever my mood mandates. Although, this may not actually apply to today's entry.


I'm in that place right now where I'm sick of a whole lot of things. And the really good news about that is that mostly it has to do with the appearance of everything on or related to my head. And the rest of it has to do with my ass.

And those two things are really the sum total of what I consist of. I'm all ass and head and sometimes just asshead. Which makes me sound like a figure 8 with issues. And I guess that's an accurate portrayal of me and my me-ness.

I'm sliding further into the funk and I wander from mirror to mirror in my house, hoping one of them will reveal something that I'm not seeing or will at least let me know that all other mirrors are warped and I'm actually stunning or at least passable.

I guess this is the point where I should spell it out. I have two major issues. Well, just two that I'm going to point my focus towards today. Otherwise, we'd be here all week, kids. So in the Cliff's Notes version of my hang-ups we now delve:

1. I have no idea what I look like. No clue. I've been tipped off that I might have a mild case of that thing that makes Michael Jackson jack with his face all the time. The second I think I know, then I see another picture or another angle that shows quite clearly that I'm a moose with a wrecked face. So that MUST be what I really look like. I cannot go out in public without wondering "is THAT what size I am?" or something else just as equally deep, thoughtful, world-changing and awe inspiring.

B. Spending money makes me ill. Any amount. The second it leaves my hand or my bank account, it's gone. While that seems like basic knowledge, it gives me such an unsettling feeling that grips my stomach in ways I can't account for. And just to make that little quirk even more quirky, I instantly regret it when I don't buy something that I want. And then the anxiety of not having it makes me feel uneasy and like I might just die at any moment from not having that very thing that I walked away from after debating it for what seems like panic-wrought eternity.

Just yesterday I spent an hour on a website with a beautiful coat I wanted sitting in the "shopping bag". A full hour I spent on there, with it sitting there with its soft little arms crossed, calling to me in its beautiful cream colored woolen voice. I actually hit "check-out" three different times and I couldn't do it. And then? When I clicked the little "x" and left the site, I felt a wave of panic wash over me. Sheer, blinding, white panic, complete with flashing lights in the corner of my eyes.

I emailed my husband to let him know that I couldn't do it. He asked if I wanted him to do it, thinking that I was having technical issues. And while I was, those technical issues had everything to do with me and my head. I replied that it just seemed so expensive and he remarked that he should have realized that I was the issue. Just as reference point for you folks out there, the panic inducing amount was a mere and lousy 50 bucks. I'm a fabulous bargain shopper above all else.

I can hear the whispers out there. I hear you thinking, "that poor man. What he must contend with." And you're right. He calls me a flake all the time, but it should also be said that for every moment where I've driven him to drinking and the verge of the nearest ledge, I've spent many more hours tormenting myself with that very weird, nutastic thing. My brain buzzes with the uncertainty and thoughts of not-worthiness.

We actually argued over it last night with him telling me to "just buy the fucking coat already. I'm sick of hearing about your coat!"

And while my coat is roughly 6 years old, missing a button, has a torn lining and a hole in the pocket, some little thing inside my dark, dank and wet little mind says that I don't deserve or even need a new coat. And now? I must stop talking about the damn thing.

Getting ready this morning left me feeling like I had a cue ball rolling around in my soft belly. I want to cut my hair, desperately so. I've NEVER had an issue cutting my hair before. It's hair, it grows. But something in there says the second I do it, I might regret it.

I was still pondering the hair issue as I climbed into my car and saw the post-it note I'd left there with the number of a new hair salon I wanted to go to. And just looking at the phone number and considering it felt extravagant. Actually spending money to have my hair cut seems so crazily frivolous.

I have to be totally honest with you right now and say that just writing this and "saying it out loud" is making me sick to my stomach. I'm gripped with anxiety and fear for myself. I recognize that I put too much stock in my appearance and I always have. I dream of this sweet little place where I don't care about my hair, I don't care about my face or my ass. I don't need a coat or clothes of any taste or style. I just need to be me. And then in that sunlit place, dark clouds roll in as I realize that once I lose those things or give them less meaning and merit, there isn't much left there to be proud of.