I am falling the fuck apart. Again. I cannot fucking handle this shit. Fuck the dress, fuck the gazebo, fuck the family seeing it all, and fuck this fucking wedding! The problem is, no one has a clue how I feel. Okay well maybe Dean has a tiny bit of a clue and my mom has a big clue, but no one knows how much I’m dreading this. I’m sure it’s my own fault for grinning and bearing it and trying to keep up a strong appearance.
I thought if I made this wedding everything I could possibly want and putting my foot down about everything that I would start to enjoy this. I did, briefly. I definitely go back and forth about it all. One day I’m fine, the next day my chest is so tight from panic that I can’t breathe, let alone function as an adult, without a steady stream of xanax. I never wanted a wedding. I still don’t. I’m giving in to everything he wants because he wants a wedding and so does my family. Everyone is excited about this but me. I’m giving in to everyone but myself.
Then I went and added moving on top of it and I HAD to up that timeline because of impending foot surgery for my darling fiance. Then my darling husband-to-be completely lost his senses and decided to start booking us for all sorts of things. Never mind the fact that we have a calendar showing us previously engaged in other things. Never mind the fact that we have a wedding in 24 days. Never mind the fact that we’re moving in 20 days and have to pack this apartment up and have about 10% done. Never mind the fact that in order to move we have to do renovations on the basement we’re moving into. Painting, patching, ripping out carpet, rippling out linoleum, installing new flooring, cleaning everything, etc. Never mind the fact that I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING!
So I have to be the bad guy and say no and be the bitch. I have to look like I’m controlling everything because he needs the excuse to get out of shit. Whatever.
And the thing no one tells you until AFTER it happens is the fact that you will argue more when you’re engaged than you do any other time of your life. It’s not even over the planning most of the time, it’s about all our bullshit. I finally put my foot down and threatened to call off the wedding entirely until that man got some fucking therapy. Too many issues from childhood brewing to deal with and I get to the be the verbal punching bag. Well fuck that. Therapy is now in progress and the wedding is still on, but there are still issues. I’m willing to help him get through them, but we still fight. A lot. And our sex life? HAHAHAHAHA! Obliterated. I told him I was done with sex and babymaking until we got through this nightmare.
Everyone tells you to just relax and take a breath. Well fuck you too! This is not easy, this is a LIFELONG committment, and I’m stressed out! I have anxiety problems. You think this shit makes that anxiety easy to deal with? NOPE! Amplifies it tenfold! Unless you’re helping me in some way (phone calls to let me vent, distracting me with your own life, or helping me pack) then fuck off for the next 4 weeks.
Except I can’t say any of this to anyone but my mom. Even she is getting under my skin because I have to make all the decisions for her to help me. But at least she’s helping. At least she’s letting me vent and cry and get it out of my system. And she’s letting me move in with her and save hundreds of dollars a month so we can pay for fertility treatments or buy a house or whatever. So I have my mom. And my blog. And my xanax. I can survive this, right?
I’m all wound up and tight chested after writing all this. Gee, no connection there.
Fuck. I have to go back to work. More xanax methinks.