While others have it infinity worse, the last few weeks have been craptasticly stressful. A bunch of wonderful things also happened, but the reality is there was diarrhea sauce on top of that shit sundae.
I have been white knuckling it really hard and think I did a decent job of appearing perfectly normal most of the time. Yesterday was the first day of summer break. I tried to delay the inevitable by returning to the boys’ school to help with packing for a couple of hours. We are decamping to an empty middle school for a couple of years while the building is renovated.
And then last night I was too anxious and scared to fall asleep until after 2:30, even with all meds on board. This morning my hands feel tingly and the air is pressing down on my body hard enough that I am finding it hard to move or even take in a full breath.
This happens so infrequently these days that it feels like an event. Which is pretty cool. But I’m so out of practice that I’m taken aback and a little scared.
All the while I’ve given the boys complete reign over the tablet and TV. Simultaneously. I only made a halfhearted attempt to get C to stop eating the shells of the peanuts he is cracking.
Earlier C heard sound come from my phone and he scurried over and scrambled into my lap to see.
I have been sitting in Z’s chair and watching clip after clip of Anne of Green Gables on YouTube. The Megan Follows one from when I was a kid. Again and again I watch Marilla tell green haired Anne they are keeping her, and Gilbert rescue Anne from the bridge pile, and Matthew tell Anne that she was always who he wanted as he lay dying. I’ve been searching in vain for the scene where Anne finds out Gilbert is ill and she goes to him. Instead there are endless compilation videos of Anne and Gilbert set to offensively cheesy music. I love them all.
C watched alongside me. And he felt the trembling of my shoulders. It moved into my chest until the heaving began shaking him, too. He grabbed my face between his hands and turned it to him. He took in the tears and made a comforting sound. He pulled me to him for a hug and gave me sweet little boy kisses. And then he looked deep into my eyes. “Mom, it’s ok! It’s ok, mom” before he hugged me again.
I’m feeling too awful and guilty and worthless, basically too self-indulgent to do anything but accept the comfort of a 5 year old.
Z is returning this evening from a two week teaching gig. I’m too focused on thinking about the literal and figurative mess he will step into after an exhausting day of traveling to do anything about it.
And that is it. My ass molding to the chair, watching clip after clip of Canadian TV from the 80s. Being overwhelmed and annoyed by the responsibility of feeding the boys. Wondering who is real, the me who white knuckles it, or the me that falls apart. Feeling jealous and resentful of my friends, and parents in general, who move through life without the aid of medication, who work much harder and contribute much more than I do. The pity party and the shame and disgust will jockey for my focus all day long.
I hate this, I hate this, I hate this. It is a post I have written time and time again. It is boring. It is definitive proof I am worthless and a way to embarrass and punish myself. It is narcissism in black and white.
Most of all I am angry. I hate myself, I hate you for reading this shit, I hate the people I love for doing too much and not enough and everything inbetween. The air pressing down on me, the rage expanding and choking me from the inside. How can a combination so volatile do nothing but nail my feet to the ground?
Let’s jazz it up with pictures!