I hate my lows. I'm vulnerable, critical, cranky and stingy.
I want my time, alone. But I also want someone to hold me and tell me they love me and that I'm beautiful to them. I want them to show me they adore me, desire me, LOVE me and make love to me. I need hours and hours of sleep and resent having to get out of bed for work or anything else. I hate where I live, how I live and everything - EVERYTHING!!
I'm low right now. I don't call it 'depressive'. I'm not always depressed when I'm 'low'. Sometimes I'm simply low. I need more sleep. I'm slow moving around. My shoulders sag and my demeanor becomes quiet and reflective.
I have a 'boyfriend' as well as a husband. I adore them both. Husband doesn't give me the attention and physical affection I need on a high, let alone in a low. We argue and I end up feeling lower than before. I feel neglected and even more alone. That's when I want to spend time with my boyfriend. I want to believe he loves me, though I know he doesn't.
Of course he can't. He can't love me - he loves his wife, the woman he's with. And while it upsets me that no one can give me what I need I know it's not his fault. We both knew the score going in, and it's not like I'm IN LOVE with him. I simply need to feel loved and if my husband can't do it then the next step would, in my non-logical thinking, be to get it from him.
It's not fair to either my husband or my 'boyfriend'.
So I plod along in my state of low-ness, waiting for it to end and for the pendulum to swing the other way and hoping it swings quickly.
It usually does. Thankfully does.
Tomorrow is my daughter's 2nd birthday. I don't have the relationship with her that I want. When I became a mother I wanted a close relationship with her, the relationship a stay at home mother has with all her children. I wanted this my entire life and here, now, I feel it's been stolen from me. I resent the person I feel has put me in that situation.
It's hard for me to hide it from him, and honestly I'm not sure I want to anymore.
~Sigh~
I hate being low.
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