Sitting here stewing in my own juices at approximately 9:13 am, I wonder if the beginning of my day has gloomy and bitchy forecast over the rest of my unpaid existence today. I wonder exactly what it was that set me off, glance at the clock and realize that yet another 45 minutes has passed, making it damn near impossible for me to exercise before meeting DH for lunch to eat a BLT. At the fucking blowing alley (yes, that was an intentional typo) before I jet off base for some drawers to finish unpacking clothes into, a chore that I wanted to have done a month ago. DH's irritation with my lack of motivation and "normalness" is tangible. I can see it, hear it. He's not doing anything to convey it beyond asking me to get some help, but sometimes, SOMETIMES, SOME FUCKING TIMES? I could give a rat's ass, people. (Read: I don't want to go because I don't know who the counselor is, or where I will see him or her during my mouselike forays outside the apartment/school, or whose parent they are) My problem with this base? I want to be anonymous. Another nameless face in this military fishbowl. I don't want the little boy who books my gyn appointments to be at the gym, the post office, the commissary, firmly handling the melons while I make a pointed and embarrassed beeline to get past him and into the toiletries aisle where I feel a safe sense of aloneness, albeit however briefly. A good friend of mine suggested counseling, and could I drive my ass half an hour away from here and know that there was no danger of seeing said counselor out at a nightclub, downing tequila shots and winking at me through the marlboro cheap cologne haze (gee, get the feeling that this has happened to me before?) I would be there, in a millisecond, because believe me, I am as sick of myself as my husband is. But what led to me having this kind of day? Was it the breaking news of the beheading of the 2nd American early this morning? The impending beheading of the British man? My frustration at such a barbaric technique? I don't know. I can't do a damn thing about it. Except be angry. And that volcano has already erupted. Maybe it was my paranoid ears, picking up strains of imagined anger and discontent in DH's voice this morning. Or the real anger and discontent in my replies because I HATE THIS FUCKING PLACE. It holds for me the same restrictions of Saipan an island on which I went from being happy and carefree and medicated to suicidal and prejudged and supposedly slutty? Did you know that Asians are not the only ones who look alike? Apparently, blonde girls do too on Saipan. Anytime one of those PICS harlots (which I was for 3 months, although not so harlotty. More jumbled. More lost) got up on the bar at the Hard Rock Cafe in her thong and not much else or got on stage at the strip club with her roomate and made out in faux lesbian fashion, guess who it was? ME! Who cares if it was really Kim or Shelly or Alyssa? She was blonde! It must have been Alex. I spent two and a half years trying to live those reported sexploits down. Words that shouldn't have bothered me ruled my life, thanks to the help of an incompetent and spiteful little boy who was my first husband for under 12 months. Now there was a man, ladies and gentlemen, a man who fancied himself a convenient Christian wherein women are there to support the husbands and sex is a responsiblity, namely mine. A bipolar bastard who stated he was above medication but was not above making his mark on our humble little home using his fists and throwing his tantrum about like a mighty, giant, belly, knocking down everything in his arc of influence. A man, who, on our last day of supposed marriage counseling (because really it was for me, only, the counselor later told me after saying, questioningly "But there's nothing wrong with you! Why would he bring you here?") could only marvel in wonder at the statement that "you can't change a person" looking at me in disbelief saying, "But, I thought you would want to change. Look at yourself." But, I digress. That was years ago, eons ago. Okay, only 3.5 but the feelings are long from gone. I felt judged and claustrophobic on that island. I feel judged and claustrophobic on this base. I have lost the ability to determine whether it is real or imagined but living in this quasi college atmosphere (which in and of itself was more uncomfortable than Saipan. AND sand in your underwear) where the young and the restless spend all their time drunk and gossipping, I feel lost. I feel itchy and dissatisfied and spiteful and hateful. When we went to the post office on Saturday? I saw no fewer than 10 people that I know on a first name basis. 10. In the time that it took to drive from my house, the 2 miles to the post office, and back. AND I didn't even get out of the fucking car. I don't want to live like this. I want to be able to drive or walk or skip or motherfucking rollerblade without seeing a soul that I know. My increasing inability to deal with these ballooning feelings through counseling or medication or otherwise only serves to intensify them tenfold. Like I'm on a bad acid trip and there's Jed, with his hawklike features opening his mouth really wide over and over again saying, "Ali. Ali. Look at this. I'm going to eat you. I could fit you inside my mouth." And I thought that I would die in there. Nestled/Suffocated in between his hard palate and his tongue, unless he decided to crunch me up with his teeth. Can I explain this to DH? Without feeling crazy or attacked? No. (And I am not saying that he wouldn't listen. He would. He has. He does. Endlessly. I feel these defensive ways all by myself) All at once without a bottle of something to help me loosen up between us? Probably not, much less a counselor. ESPECIALLY not without the guaranteed anonymity. One parent said to me this year, "Everybody adores you, Alex," and that is so far from the truth.