Where Do I Go?

Warning: Ridiculous and disgusting amounts of profanity to follow. (When I get really mad, I swear. It's a bad habit. Alan thinks it's hilarious. If it offends you, I apologize. You've been warned.)

This fucking sucks. FUCKING SUCKS. The shit has hit the fan. We're talking one of those huge industrial strength carpet drying fans. Wall-to-wall carpeting. And a lot of shit. A whole lot of shit.

I think that I figured out how everything fell apart at once. Whoop-dee-fricking-do. This is about so much more that being a SAHM. I've been coasting along now, patting myself on the back for how well we've been doing. Alan's been working like a fucking madman (which is funny since he's a psychiatrist) and we've been fine. I never broke down when he was gone overnight 3 nights a week for a month. Even the 80 hours a week didn't break me. Great work, Em. You rock! (I'm an idiot.) Here's the rub: I wasn't thinking. I was just doing. I was living from minute to minute. I never thought about how much he was working. I never counted the days until we got a day off. I never counted the hours. I never thought about how much it sucked. I just kept going. That's how we survived. And it worked. Until I thought about it. Then me and my fucking monkeybrain decided to count how many hours Alan worked last week. After that, why not use that monkeybrain to count how many days straight he works. I am a fucking moron. Why couldn't I just keep doing? Why did I have to think about it?!

So that's the problem. It all caught up with me. All the hours. The hundred hour work weeks. You try--Look at this written out and imagine it's your husband's schedule:
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday (OVERNIGHT)
Sunday
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday
SUNDAY OFF
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday
SUNDAY OFF

And then it just keeps going like that. 6 days on, one day off (if we're lucky and don't have a black weekend). I don't know the call schedule, so that's not even included. Hours are too variable to say--Before we get up in the morning (ass crack of dawn) til after dinner in the evening. Call days are ACOD one day till 1PM the next day. That sucks, right? Am I wrong that this schedule blows chunks? I realize that I'm complaining. I'm bitching. I get it. I need to bitch. I'm fucking pissed about this damn schedule and I'm fucking sick of it. I'm going to bitch about it, damn it. Then I'll be done and hopefully feel a little better. Phhh.

I've hit my limit. I get that there are people who can just do this. Although after talking to a good friend in the same life situation, we have noticed that most of the people who seem fine didn't go through med school AND internship AND residency WITH their husbands and children. Of course there are exceptions. I wish I were one of them. There are women who seem happy all the time despite never seeing their husbands. We wonder if it's a facade--Or do they just not care about their husbands the way we do? Maybe their husbands are past this shithole intern year and actually see their families. Maybe they're just frigid bitches who don't care about anything. That was mean. Sorry. Anyways, my point is that I can't do this anymore. I can't be home alone all day every day and half the nights. I'm done. But the worst part is that I don't have a choice. It's not like Alan can just cut back on his hours. This doctor shit is fucking bullshit. FUCKING BULLSHIT. If you're thinking about going into medicine, GET OUT NOW. Even Alan (and a lot of the other residents--not just psychiatry) that he talks to will tell you it's not worth it. And that whole dream of marrying a doctor from the 50s or whatever? PSYCHOS!

So what do I do? Where do I go? Do I pull Nate from school and move home with my parents for the next 4 years until Alan's done with residency and fellowship? Do I email this lovely blog entry to his fucking boss and hope that he gets fired so that he can work at walmart? I think that the worst part of all of this, maybe even worse than the hours is the trapped feeling. We don't have a choice in any of this. He can't call in sick--He can't take time off. There are no sick days. Ironic, isn't it? No sick days for doctors. I am not angry at Alan for any of this. He feels just as awful about it as I do. SO WHAT THE FUCK DO WE DO? I just want to scream. There's no solution. He can't come home and make it better. He can't come home at all.

I feel like suck a selfish bitch writing all of this. At least I have a husband! At least my husband has a job! Way to count those blessings, Em! I know how this must sound. But it's how I feel. And I have spent the entire afternoon balling my eyes out, so I had to get it out somehow. My kids are at my inlaw's house. After I got out of the shower crying and they saw me crying and they started crying, I realized that it was time for some help. Apparently I'm not doing as good a job at hiding my shitty mood as I thought I was. My poor kids. Now Nate and Abbie are paying for it. I'm not okay with that. I can deal my own disasters, but when it starts to effect my children, something has to change. But what to change? I'm so stuck. I honestly don't know what to do.

I just don't know what to do.

After re-reading this entry, I have several thoughts. The first is that I will probably alienate myself even more by posting this. I should probably go ahead and make the blog private. I've been thinking about it for a while and after posting something like this... Well, friends don't come around much as it is. Second, I'm sorry about all of the swearing. I hope that you can find it funny like Alan does. If you have virgin ears (Diana Dimond), sorry. I haven't always been Mormon... And lastly, despite how miserable everything seems, I am grateful for a lot of things in my life--Alan being the number one thing and my kids being two and three. I love them more than I could ever explain, and no matter how much I complain, I'm so glad that they're mine.