Please, please take good care of me. Especially when I don't deserve it.

I wrote this post in October of 2009. I didn't ever hit "publish" on it because it was inappropriate, like so many of my rants, and I was worried that it would unnecessarily hurt my loved ones. Today I feel exactly the same. Just like this.

Even though it's six months later, a whole new set of circumstances, a slew of new bad choices...I'm right back here in the same place.

And this time I'm hitting "publish." Why? Because it's just another bad choice. Because I can't tell  you what I've done now. Because I wish it would rain down on me.

October 2009
More and more frequently I find myself writing titles of blog posts and then never writing the actual posts. There are so many things I want to talk about: my first umbrella, Jenga, the rain. But I will title the post and then stare at that blank space for awhile before closing the window and retreating to my quietude.

I am sad. I feel broken. I want to curl up inside this spot and lie there, ignoring the world as it swirls on without me.

I want someone to just wake me when it gets better. Or not. Either way.

I’ve switched medical providers, and yesterday was my first appointment with the new provider. “Tell me what I need to know about your health,” she said, after I had been dutifully signed in, weighed, measured, and otherwise assessed by her nurse.

I began by reciting the checkmarks I’d made on the form. Allergies, asthma, depression, thyroid dysfunction. Blah. Blahddy-Blah. Bleh.

I don't even interest myself anymore. I felt like I was dumping something fragile on her doorstep and then hitting the bell and running away. Here I am on your page. Here is my record of illnesses, hospitalizations.

After listening (admirably, I thought) to my weak explanations and protestations (yes, I had a kidney infection and I was allergic to the antibiotics and a maddening itchy red rash invaded every square inch of my entire body, but it really wasn't that bad. I mean, it's not like my head fell off or anything), she gives me a sympathetic look, with just a bit too much pity. Can you tell me more about your depression?

Yeah. But I don't really want to. It's boring. Run of the mill.

I lost the two people closest to me within the last year. My friend died and my husband had an affair. As a result, I've not been myself. I say that because I'm supposed to say that.

I'm supposed to be okay. I'm supposed to express my anger and then forgive. I'm supposed to let it go.

Another friend detests me; my dad accuses me of being "uppity" and pretentious. Your quick wit and your sharp tongue hurt people, he says. You look down on our way of life. I what? Excuse me, but, wait, what? My whole family feels I'm being insensitive to their needs. Sometimes I think they're right, and sometimes I think they're assholes. Yawn.

What am I supposed to do?

My last doctor put me on meds that made me gain thirty pounds over the space of a few months. Then he made inappropriate sexual overtures. I didn't report him. I might have imagined it. I weigh more now than I did at the height of my pregnancy. But this is good, see, because it means my self-hatred is valid and not delusional. I am fat, therefore worthy of contempt. I don't believe that of other people, but I believe it of myself.

There's really no help you can offer me that I can't sabotage.