The sinking black cloud of depression has lifted, only to be replaced by a constantly about to boil over sense of irritation. Occasionally it does indeed boil over, and I am filled with a wretched seething anger that scares the sht out of me. The kind of anger where I tell myself that maybe if I was not the only one to empty the trash or change the cat litter or load the dishwasher or recycle beer cans or pick up discarded swedish fish wrappers then maybe when I found my husbands sunglasses where he left them on my desk I wouldn’t have the urge to take them out into the front yard and stomp them to smithereens. Yeah. Sounds fun, eh?
I feel tired and funny and shaky and odd and I can’t breathe right. Like I haven’t eaten in days, only I just ate tuna salad and an apple.
I am going to the doctor on Thursday, which is good, because I think I might choose depressed over the boiling rage I’m feeling now.
I had a bright side, but now I can’t remember it. Oh, the bright side. Senor Pants just outgrew a huge pile of clothes, so that’s good. I’ve got a saved episode of One Tree Hill to watch, although Jennie did send me an email last night about it entitled simply SO OVER IT so I’m keeping my hopes low. The chandelier I wanted at Pottery Barn sold out yesterday, discouragingly, but I found a (most likely shoddily mass produced in China) exact duplicate on ebay for one quarter of the price, so that’s nice. I enjoy saving money on my shoddily produced goods. Eli has started going to bed at 8 oclock with a minimum of screaming, thank freaking lord, and tonight is the opening game of the new NBA season and the Blazers play the Lakers and it’s on TV and everything.
So there are some good things happening. I just wish I didn’t feel so out of breath all the time. I have no idea if it’s related to my mental state but I really really really feel like I can’t breathe. So bizarre. I suppose this is what happens when you wonder if you should get some kind of help for 17 years. Eventually your body has no choice but to really really really shout “yes” in your face. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Not on the bright side, there is also this. This morning Eli woke up before Mr. E left the house and so Mr. E brought him into our bed, where I was still asleep. And then he had to leave to go to work and Eli lost his shit for about fifteen minutes, and most of the time I don’t care that I am not the favorite, most of the time I don’t care that I am obviously not the fun one and most of the time I am ok with the fact that everything I do is not a game and I am just not wired with fun oozing out my fingertips, that bathtime with me is about getting clean and not about laughing it up, and most of the time I remember that when Senor Pants is sick or hurt or sad I am the one that he wants every single time but this morning, this morning when my son sobbed hysterically at being left with me instead of his father, that just sucked. Throughout this whole experience I have somehow been protected from feeling like a bad mother, and now I feel that too.
Last week I thought things were going better and I probably didn’t even realy need a doctor’s appointment. Not crying every minute felt like major progress. This week I feel like I want to kill EVERYONE and if I have to be the one to take out an overflowing kitchen trash bag one more time I seriously just might.
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