What If

It's strange, I figure, if you look at my situation from the outside.
Where am I after all that has happened? I'm still in the same place I was before anything happened at all. Stuck in the funk that got me here to begin with. Sure, we're in a different country, surrounded by different people, but other than those aspect, nothings changed.
I'm still sitting here, at my computer, typing to my blog, rather than sitting with someone having coffee, or seeing a counselor or therapist, or finding some way to distract myself.
Night by night, I've lain in bed wondering if I'm making the right decision in staying here with my family. I wonder if I spoke the way I truly feel sometimes (which actually ranges from self loathing, to acceptance, to content, to hatred of someone else), would things still be the same?
I was happy while my husband was gone over the summer...it showed too. I look at pictures and the smiles I had in those pictures showed me as relaxed, and truly content. Sure, I had a rough time adjusting to being the single parent, but I coped as well as could be expected under the circumstances.
I was struck down by tragedy. Tragedy that he claims was partly my fault...as in conversing with this topic always points to. Why is it my fault? Someone's always to blame. I feel like he didn't want want me because he didn't want the baby that was growing inside me, and yes, while I was pregnant, we were the same person. I felt that if that was the case, I'd rather beat him to the punch and just not need him either, and thus rejection began. I hated him for pushing me to get an abortion, for sticking around to make my life miserable even though he didn't want the child he had helped to create, and for degrading all of the parenting I had done for my other child thus far...not to mention the family aspect of it. Those feelings of his vanished of course, once the baby was born...but my feelings had remained, and I tossed myself freely into post-partum depression and feelings that I hadn't let myself fully course through during my pregnancy for fear of it's effects on the baby.
I'll state right now that during that time I'm not proud of my behavior. If I had been smarter I would've found someone to talk to...but as it was, I didn't. Or, rather, I did, but that person was no where near the type of person to trust with those thoughts, or feelings. I knew that, but I ignored it, and the consequence was really what happens when one ignores their intuition and personal red flags.
I've never been one to trust lightly, anyone who's ever known me could tell you that. Anyone who's ever known has only known a part of me, and never a whole. I save that for myself, because I just don't believe anyone could be trusted with that sort of responsibility.
It was really what I learned...that those people that I truly wanted to share that with were a little too misunderstanding to get me. Maybe I was sensitive, maybe not. Is that what turned me into such a cruel child? Looking back, I can remember certain instances that truly hurt, and certain instances where I truly hurt another, without even flinching. I truly was a cruel child. I wasn't nice, I was a bitch. I felt like those other people out there who were happy deserved to be trampled on, deserved to feel what I felt.
I've been pondering it for a while now...I felt betrayed, and left out, and singled out, and ignored. I felt like I didn't matter. I felt like what I had to say was useless because no one listened, especially those who should have. When I saw a therapist, I couldn't fathom those thoughts as a child. I just knew I was sad and didn't know why.
I went on a journey then...I hitch hiked up and down the Okanagan Valley, I willingly put myself out onto the street for a time because I didn't feel right at home. I put myself into dangerous situations, I tried everything under the sun to hurt myself and did a mighty good job of it.
When I came out of it, I wasn't the same...I felt damaged. Maybe I felt damaged before I went into it, and felt worse after I came out of it...who knows.
I seems that each time I have something to mourn I go into this destructive path, where on the outside I'm ok, but on the inside I'm lost. Each time I loose something, I loose myself.
When my first marriage ended, I became that bitch who was lost. I became something dirty, and used, exactly how I felt inside. I did everything possible to make the outside looked like I felt inside. Only, I actually did try to kill myself.
What saved me was getting pregnant.
Now, if we sit back an look at this picture that I've painted, we can see I've never really worked my way through any of my life's major happenings. I've more or less just tried, and shoved em aside when I was tired of trying.
I'm sitting here now, trying to work through myself, and find this mess of thoughts, of feelings, of memories. I know that what needs to be done is to work through those things before I can even begin to touch this issue. It's so incredibly frustrating.
I want to know, right now, if I should trust my instinct and leave. I want to know why I'm here. I want to know why I still feel this way after 10 months...I want to know how bad it's going to be on the anniversary, I want to know if I'm ever going to trust anyone again, let alone my husband. I want to know if I'll ever have the ability to make a friend again. I want to know if I'll ever feel okay.
I'm so incredibly sad, and lonely, and lost. I feel smothered, like there's a smaller and smaller space for whatever happiness I've grasped and clung to since I've left my place of comfort.
I always say I've fought depression all my life. It's true, but there's also been a big reason for it.
Tomorrow's another day...and all I can do is take it one day at a time.
If I left, what if I never found someone to love me? What if I wasn't as good of a parent as I am now? What if I were happier? What if I found that I am deserving? What if I was unhappier and regretted my decision? What if I just did the same old stupid thing again and actually succeeded in killing myself out of grief?