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Self. Indulge me.

Indulge me – and my foul mood.

You know, I read a friends blog who has Aspergers, and a common thread that I pull from her carefully woven words is that she is trying to process the world around her and her place in it. But what I feel from her words to a degree of envy, is that she knows herself.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

I feel, right now, like a bundle of contradictions – my muscles and my gut tight with the many facets of me that don’t play well with one another.

I despise liars, cannot stand to lie – yet lie to myself.

I cry at romantic movies, and a part of me yearns for the fairy tale ending, while the rest of me knows no one could possibly scale the walls I’ve built around me.

I abhor child abuse – and yet, just this afternoon I spat ugly words over the phone at my son after I perceived that he lied to me, when he was suddenly ‘not hungry’ after I asked him what he wanted from the shop for dinner rather than a drive thru. The sudden, let down, it’s-not-good-enough tone of his voice hit me where it hurt. I seethed. Thinking, ‘Ingrate’. And let him have it.

I might as well have slapped him, because I know how painful venomous words are.

I am impulsive and ugly. I am better alone.

I am always so desperate to please, then resentful that people take so much from me.

I am contradiction incarnate.

And now I am home – and the door to my sons room is closed, and the light is off. And we may as well be a thousand miles apart.

And we are.

I’m in my self-hatred and he is probably letting a nap take him after licking his wounds.

I won’t open his door.

I am stubborn. I am grateful for every day and painfully aware of how, without warning there can be no more days – and yet I squander them.

I don’t plan for the future.

I am content with ‘enough’, yet also settle.

I work hard – I give and I give all that I have. And I am tired. I am not well.