Curses

Never, ever be too positive.
No, you go ahead, I was really making a "note to self."
Self, shut your happy mouth, and just complain a little.
This is my mantra, my MO, my core belief, and yet I still manage to screw it up all the time, and, whammy zammy, kaboom, the dieties smite me.
So Friday the rooster had his first ever floor time, and it seemed to go well. My husband felt it informed him, he had stategies to suggest to me, and the therapist shared some valuable observations about our boy, who seemed to handle it in stride. It made me feel hopeful. A picture of shared floortime with Sweet D across the street began to emerge as a promising aid to our current struggles. AND THEN I WENT AND SAID ALL THAT CRAP OUT LOUD, AND RUINED THE REST OF THE WEEKEND.
Let me put it another way: if you ever read anything I write and your inner voice judges me as a negative, self-absorbed cry baby, that won't bother me not even one single smidge. On the other hand, if you find yourself noting my remarkable air of optimism and faith, I hope you smack me when you find me, and you can probably find me hiding in a bomb shelter somewhere. Positive. Does. NOT. Work. For. Me.
The rooster spent this weekend spitting, hitting, kicking, throwing, grabbing, taunting, screaming, insulting, refusing, demanding, struggling, battling, hurting. To me, all his signs read, "DON'T YOU DARE THINK YOU CAN CONTROL ME!!!" Floortime, sadly, had its blowback.
I tried to love it out of him, and it didn't work at all. I tried to get tough, and that was as laughable as it sounds. I tried using "techniques" I've read about, and guess what. So now I will bow to the deities.
My husband has long mocked this core belief of mine, this relationship I have with the spirits who despise me. He uses a mocking tone to ask me about "the motes" - but I've seen him once or twice make the same gesture I do to wave them off after accidentally saying, "This is great!" or "I think they'll probably offer me the job!" Deep inside I think he knows that it's not paranoia if they really are out to get you (I mean me).
And why do I think I'm special enough to warrant my own diety posse? One theory I haven't ruled out goes like this: When I was little, I was sick a lot. (Big surprise, genetically speaking, right?) My mom didn't expect me to live, because the doctors told her not to get her hopes up. A couple of times she came home to find the sitter and me inside an ambulance, and one of those times, the paramedic said into his radio, "We have an infant, female, dead on arrival." Somehow they revived me, and I'm guessing that the dieties are still pissed off. They said, "Okay, go ahead. Live. But don't SMIRK about it." So.
Deities, everything feels sucky right now. The days are long, the nights are long, rest time is brief and largely interrupted, and I am scared, scared, scared. J and I are lost and confused and overwhelmed, and each and every single day a new fear grips at us. We take a lot of abuse and have very little fun. Our confidence level looks worse than the economy. We are two intelligent, educated people without a clue. In four years, we've aged the way presidents do, until my reflection actually startles me most mornings, when I bother to look at it. We make admissions about our darkest feelings, and the bare truth burns me with shame. Our rooster can be a very hard person to like. Rage seems to smolder within him. I do not really want to get out of bed tomorrow morning. I do not really feel like I have what it takes to lather, rinse, repeat. I am here, but I don't know where. I hurt from the inside out. My head throbs endlessly.
Deities, are you happy now?