Probably Too Real.

It actually began as a really nice day. I woke up an hour before the kids did and drank coffee, uploaded photos from the camera, and enjoyed the morning breeze. Everyone woke up feeling pretty good.

And then the day took a dive. Those big, burly fingers of anxiety gripped my chest. My skin began to crawl, my veins felt like an electric current was running through them, I couldn't catch my breath. My hands were shaking.

I tried to slow myself down and focus on one small task at a time. But then the neighbor boys came over. There was shouting, doors slamming, Jack screaming because he couldn't go skateboard on the driveway, Spicey whining at me. The house was a mess. Breakfast wasn't cleaned up and it was already lunch time. The new neighbor kid that I don't like having around argued with me, that defiant look in his eye.

I was crumbling. I knew that all the things I needed to do today weren't going to happen, that I was going to do well just to get everyone fed and Jack safely to naptime without losing it entirely. I sent the neighbors home. I fed the kids lunch. I ignored the breakfast and lunch dishes. I mentally canceled our errands. I crowned myself Meanest Mom Ever and told Cool that he couldn't play outside when all the boys returned 30 minutes later. I ate four cookies for lunch. I put Jack down for a nap. I begged Cool and Spicey to play quietly while I took a nap. I took a nap. The kids played quietly. I woke up feeling a little more shatterproof. A little less shaky. I'm breathing.

But I'm hollow. I'm grief stricken for things that I don't even know. I could stare at the wall all evening and not notice time passing except to feel thankful that the sun is finally going down and I no longer feel that I must perform because of it. I will look at the next Lego creation and stare blankly at it while Cool explains it to me. I won't hear any of what he is saying but I will nod and pretend that I am. One of the kids will touch me, grab for me, and my skin will jerk with electricity. I will try not to scream, "don't touch me!" I will brace myself, paint on the warmest smile I can muster, hug them and breathe deeply the scent of their skin that grounds me again. It's not their fault. I will not let the Angry, Depressed Mommy hurt them.

I hate her. This angry, depressed, horrible woman who hides inside of me. She makes me want to run away. She makes me angry at the people around me. She points out all the ways that I am a crappy mother. She makes me desperate to escape. Because of her I find myself imagining all kinds of methods of relief from this skin tingling, breath stealing, heart gripping, living torture. The more mild methods include sleep punctuated with a lot of sleeping. The most bizarre method is an imaginary zipper down the front of me that I can quietly unzip, step out of this buzzing body of anxiousness and walk away from it. The more extreme includes a big bottle of something that will numb it all, that will make me feel like it's not as bad as I think. I run from it like it's death chasing me in one of those dreams where you run and you can't move very fast and you can't open your eyes to see where you're going but you just. have to. run. And I do. I run. I run like my life depends on it, because it pretty much does.

So there it is. My crappy day and my deepest weakness and failure splattered on the internet for all to read. And I feel pretty naked. But this is real. So sickeningly real that I have to purge it.


Nobody call 911. Don't feel sorry for me. Don't think less of me. I am not completely unstable. It's going to be okay. It is. I've been through worse. I'll move past this day, too.