I’ve been having a rough week. There is no real cause, other than depression is sometimes a rollercoaster of awesome emotions. I have found myself in tears daily.
Not just in tears, but crying as my boss talked to me.
Did I screw up? Yes. Was I in trouble? No. Was I crying because of the talk(s)? NO!
He took it like a champ. “Well now, don’t cry about it.”
“It isn’t that!” And then came straight sobbing. Which always makes me hold my breath, in a sorry attempt to stop it. Which, let’s be honest, only makes it worse.
That was Monday.
Tuesday, different talk, more tears.
I locked myself in the bathroom and had a good long sob. Pity party for one.
I thought I was good. I thought I had it under control.
Five minutes later, I was hiding in the locker room, sobbing once more. There comes a point when you realize you just have to give in and allow yourself to not be ok.
I honestly love my job, but sometimes I have regrets: I am not the type of person who can do it all. Single working moms are real life super heroes, and this past few days have been another chunk of time where I question my though process: what made me think I could go from being a Stay At Home Mom whose husband was here, to being a Full Time Working Mom whose husband was on the other side of the globe!?
My morning started off no better. This is the point in the story where I also explain that my blood pressure has been astronomically high lately. While I was making breakfasts and lunches and FaceTiming Justin, our children were going to war, simply because Shea likes to torment her little brother, and Xander likes to hold a grudge and retaliate. Justin gets to calmly sit and eat his dinner, while I try to keep this insanity in check.
Luckily for my boss, I got my daily dose of crying out of the way before he came in this morning. Honestly though, when I pulled in and saw he wasn’t there, I could hear him saying, “I just don’t think I can handle another day of Sam cryin’!” And I finally think I got all of it out of my system.
Until the next breakdown. Because depression doesn’t play by any set of rules. Depression is just that uninvited guest that shows up and eats all your ice cream, and doesn’t help you do dishes. What a jerk.
Which is weird, because I’m a lifeguard. And if I had to navigate my way through water, I’m sure I would be much better off.
Life, however, is a completely different story.
I have so much respect for every Single-Working-Mom. Honestly, I’m not even 3 months into a 12 month stint, and I keep bouncing between Gru, “I got it, I got it,” and Dierks Bentley, “what was I thinking??”
Between work, and life, I’m sucking. Not so much at work. But life? I’m sucking big time. Probably because I’m bad at multi-tasking–really bad, and rather than putting on my big girl panties and tackling what needs to be done, I hide in my blanket fort and hope it goes away. But it doesn’t.
It builds up and snowballs and gets worse. I have Fridays off from work, and from the moment the kids get on the bus to the moment I pick them up from after-school care, I feel like I’m running around like crazy and accomplishing nothing.
The week after Thanksgiving, in an attempt to be more productive, I would skip my lunchtime workouts, and would run home and get things done instead. It didn’t work. On the days I went home and tried to get anything done, I managed to accomplish next to nothing, and by Friday I was so stressed. Which is when I realized Terry the Tormentor is really my trainer/therapist, and if I wasn’t working out with him 3-4 days a week, I wasn’t de-stressing.
Which of course leads to tonight. I’m that kid that sinks straight to the bottom and stares up, hoping someone will jump in and rescue them. There’s no panic, there’s no thrashing. I’m just laying down there, quietly hoping someone will notice me.
I have a really hard time asking for help. I would rather silently sink to the bottom than let anyone know I can’t handle shit. Plus, who do you even ask? How does that even work? Help me, I’m drowning? How can you ask for help when you don’t even know how to help yourself?
Of course, now everyone will know that I can’t get my crappy together. Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, let the record show that this girl is a total train-wreck who can’t handle life.
And let’s be real here, there are plenty of women who do the single working mom thing year round, without an end date. I doubt they find themselves in tears every Thursday night, because of all they need to accomplish in one free day a week. Nah, they probably keep up with their shit throughout the week, and then don’t have to be overwhelmed by the 3,000 tasks they have laid out in front of them.
Let me tell you a secret–I switched internet providers 3 months ago. But because “return Spectrum router,” has yet to make it to the top of my list, I am still paying for 2 internet services. There’s so much wi-fi in my house, my wi-fi has wi-fi. Literally. This is the kind of stuff that makes you go, “what?!”
These are probably the same things that make Justin tell me to get it together. And probably make him worry that the Germany-style, debilitating depression has kicked in. I’m not there yet. When I start throwing out pots and pans, rather than do dishes, I’ll let you know.
I’ll quietly send out an S.O.S. in morse code, from the bottom of that pool, and hope someone can hear me…
When I sat down and wrote my first blog and said this would be random and all over the place, I meant it. My life is random and all over the place. I’m trying desperately to remain calm, because I am anything BUT calm.
I suffer from depression, which manifests itself in all types of ways. Firstly (and mostly), I get angry. And not just “ooh, I was so mad.” I mean blood boiling, steam coming out of my ears anger. Where every word out of my mouth is loud and screamy, and I am often left with a sore throat. All while the little voice in my head is whispering “stop yelling,” and trying to be heard over my own voice that is streaming out of my mouth at Threat Level: Broiling Hot Lava. My husband is also somewhere about, speaking in a normal tone, telling me to stop yelling.
We Snuggled; We Snacked.
My depression has also gone so far as to become debilitating–thankfully only once. Unfortunately it was while Justin was deployed, and I was alone in Germany. And I was pregnant. And un-medicated. I could fake sanity enough to get through a 9 hour work day (which, thankfully, began at noon). My partner -in-crime (and snacking) was Bruce, our grumpy pug. We watched tv together, and got fat together. It was fabulous. I cooked for myself until I ran out of clean pots and pans. Then I ordered take-out until I built up the momentum to clean my filthy kitchen so I could start all over again. My therapist at the time was amazing, thankfully. Each week she would reassuringly say, “this week, just try to clear off…” and would name one surface in my apartment to work at. Obviously I survived, but it was certainly the lowest of low points.
Back to anger. My daughter is difficult. Shea is 8, and she is beautiful and funny and sweet. Of course then she is also defiant, confusing, and the puzzle I can not crack. Most people only see the sweet, funny girl, and that’s a good thing! Her teacher has seen both sides, and is probably the most incredible teacher she will ever have. I am beyond thankful for his ability to help her when she is at her most defiant.
This morning it was her outfit. If you know me, then you know I am very carefree. My kids can dress any way they like, even if that means Shea is wearing her white flower girl dress over a pink shirt, with rainbow leg warmers and sneakers (and Justin is staring at me and saying “she looks ridiculous!”). Today was one of those days where I had to step in, and suggest a little more. Even now, an hour after she left for school, it is only 27°F. Shea chose a long-sleeved shirt (perfect choice), multi-colored pineapple print short shorts, dinosaur leg warmers, and penguin knee socks. It was really something, BUT it’s still below freezing, so I asked her to please put a skirt over the ensemble, or a dress. Anything to add an extra layer. “I don’t have any skirts.”
“Ok, here is a skirt.”
Grumbles and growls from Shea. I then brought her 4 MORE skirts. At this point, she is whining at a low and constant hum, something like a window AC unit. My last words are “fine, then you pick something else,” and as I walk away, she is yelling at me that she has nothing.
Nothing? NOTHING?! My heart rate is rising. I’m still trying to grasp on to calm. I suggest pants, skirts, and dresses again. Justin is now reminding her that they have to leave so he can take her to school and get to work on time. It’s already 8am, which is usually when they are walking out the door. Still she refuses.
And then Calm Mom whispers goodbye, and she floats off to the land of Children-Who-Don’t-Get-Mad-and-Growl-at-Their-Parents. Blood Boiling-Angry Mom steps in. And I yell.
Justin tells me to stop yelling. I yell back that “I CAN’T!” Honestly, I can’t. I want to, but the heat building up inside has to come out somehow. For a while, I pushed it back down inside with binge eating. I would get mad; I would stand in the kitchen eating Nutella from the jar, while I searched for a bag of chocolate chips, or any other candy I could shove in my face. Then I would get a stomach ache and find myself looking in the mirror, wondering how it is that I’ve gained 50lbs since getting married.
I’m fresh out of Nutella, and there is no chocolate in the house, and I stopped the self-destructive binge-eating a year ago. So instead, I walk away. I stand in the kitchen and drink my coffee, and occasionally go to check on her progress. Now, with my EXTREMELY CALM husband’s help, she is putting on jeans. That are way too small. I snap, “those do NOT fit! PLEASE put on pants that FIT!” Justin AGAIN (and still calm-how does he do it) tells me to stop yelling. “This is RIDICULOUS! What size are these?! 6?! WHY ARE THEY EVEN IN HERE!?” I take the jeans and leave. I am most definitely making everything worse.
Justin says I created the “Shea Monster,” and he might very well be right. In my defense, I try REALLY hard to stay calm. Really I do. I can go days, weeks even without yelling, or raising my voice. My therapist, and Shea’s, have told me I need to be firm with her, and not let her walk all over me, because it seems when I give up (“you did your homework and answered every question wrong. Let’s erase your answers and work on it together. Oh, you DON’T want to correct it? Fine. Turn it in like this”), I’m letting her win. But how are you supposed to “stay firm” and hold your ground (without yelling), and not give up, when your opponent (in this case, an adorable 8 year old with ADD and Oppositional Defiance) will NEVER back down?
Now Shea is wearing a pair of jeans that are downright falling off of her. Justin asks if she has any clothes that actually fit her, and I can’t decide who I want to yell at the most. I think I just want to stand in the middle of the room, stomp my feet and scream at the top of my lungs. Just because. I get Shea a THIRD pair of jeans, and while she take five whole minutes putting on her sneakers, I take our puppy, Emma, outside. And breathe.
Justin and Shea leave for school. Then Justin is off to work. I have 5 hours to regain my cool, and chances are, by the time Shea walks in after school, that happy sweet girl will have returned.
I still feel like a terrible mom. Justin would (lovingly) agree. Because we love each other, and are ridiculous. He is calm, and I am volcanic. Or at least my mouth is.
