Confessions of a Terrible Stay-at-Home Mom, Vol. 5
in Thoughtful Thursdays on September 28, 2016
At 6:03 this morning, I yelled at my golden retriever for basically doing her job, which was barking to alert me that someone was in the house. Now, the someone who happened to be walking through my living room was my youngest child. Therefore, her bark succeeded in only irritating what little patience I was already praying was going to be substantially more than the day before.
It was not.
Confession: Mommy is about to lose her sh*t. For those of you keeping track at home, it is now 6:21 a.m.
That is really early, even by my crazy standards, to have a breakdown. Allow me a moment to set the scene: This has been coming on for quite some time.
My life looks amazing—and for the most part it is. I really do have a wonderful husband, and my kids are doing their part to stay off drugs and out of juvey. Any woman worth her salt knows there is so much more to a day’s work than what your life looks like from the outside.
Some days are tipping points. Yesterday, it seems, was mine. Today, I’m still feeling the effects. I have extremely high expectations for myself—some might call me a neurotic, overachieving, controlling perfectionist. I simply want things the way I want them, and if I happen to know better than you how to get the job done, so be it. Other people see me as Type A on steroids with a double shot of espresso and hit of crack (for good measure). While still others have learned to just walk (or run) in the other direction when they see me coming.
Here’s the kicker: I don’t know why I’m this way. I can’t simply stop being me, yet it’s exhausting. I am exhausted and cranky and mean. Seriously, who yells at a golden retriever? They’re like living, fluffy hugs.
Here’s today’s Public Service Announcement: Anxiety and depression take many forms. Anyone who has struggled with those ailments will tell you that neither one looks the same on any two people. Also, folks born and raised in the ’70s and early ’80s tend to have a harder time recognizing and admitting either one of those diseases (and, yes, they are diseases) even exist.
I am a “firstborn” and come from a long line of go-getters and pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstrap people. I have been fighting both anxiety and depression for years, although my demons did not have a name. When I was growing up, we didn’t go see doctors unless we had a bone sticking out. We certainly didn’t go lie on a couch and talk about feelings; we buried them deep like normal people. The only trouble with that is things that are not truly dead have a tendency to rise from the grave.
People with high-functioning anxiety seem okay at first glance. We keep most of our act together, most of the time. We hyperventilate in the car, in the bathroom, or in the closet when our situations reach our danger levels. Believe it or not, making a scene is not our first choice. We feel alone in a crowd of our closest friends. We truly believe that if people knew what we were really thinking, they would run screaming for the nearest exit—because let’s face it, who wants to be friends with an insane neurotic?
Everything has to be perfect.
Our expectations for our family, our spouse, our children are unrealistic. We KNOW this, yet we can’t change our expectations, and when those expectations aren’t met, we lose our minds. This applies to work, volunteer opportunities, and even our children’s schools. We are irritable. All. The. Time.
Most outsiders look at us as though we are just another bitchy-stay-home-spoiled housewife. Because we don’t often mope around and wear three different shades of gray clothes like you see on the TV ads, people with high-functioning anxiety and depression are nine times out of ten misread, and, therefore, severely mistreated.
We don’t sleep, at least we don’t sleep without pharmaceutical help. Sleep deprivation is a highly effective weapon used against prisoners of war. Why? It makes people crack. Our minds race at the most inopportune times of the day and night.
So, before you judge someone for being irrational, bitchy or mean, take a minute and ask yourself, What might be going on in their world beyond a regular bad day? Everybody has something to deal with. I get that. But some of us are doing our level best to make it through every day in one piece.
And if you happen to be blessed with a razor-sharp tongue and biting wit, all around should be thankful there aren’t more casualties.
Here’s hoping your day is peaceful.
Dallas