Yesterday can only be described as a very bad day for me. I found myself standing next to my husbands side of the bed, where his 45 mm hangs in it's holster, locked and loaded and beckoning to me to take it out, point it at my head and blow the damn thing off. Better off dead, than to have to live with the constant guilt over what will never change-my failure as a mother.
There was also some degree of self pity involved; one day past my 60th birthday, and zero of my 4 children even acknowledged it. All I could think was "it serves me right".
I thought these types of days were long gone, especially after being prescribed Prozac 6 years ago after a similar incident of self imposed "punishment" for my sins, my crimes. The self affliction- breaking things, punching myself and yelling "I hate you" and "f**k you" at my reflection in the mirror, brings little if no relief to my tortured mind.
This very bad day was exacerbated by the fact that I have not heard from my son since I told him he can't stay here, after he got his power shut off for non-payment, lost his job and is numbing himself with prescription meds to try to escape reality. I am afraid for him...his dad tried to kill himself and I have entertained the idea a few times myself. I am afraid he feels like he simply has nothing to live for, that he has blown his chance to be a happy and productive person...that life is just to hard and too hurtful.
I'm pretty sure I need to be back in therapy, since things have surfaced from the past that are troubling. I am suffering, my mind is putrefied and is poisoning my spirit. I have no energy...and I am back to being flat in my affect. That's the worst of all. I can't feel anything. Except guilty.