Yeah, yesterday was one of those days. It didn't start out that way, but it just seemed to snowball out of control so that, by the end of the day, I was bawling my eyes out in bed. I don't know if it's hormones (mine seem to be going nuts), something in the air, or just a build up of things that exploded into, well, a forty-five minute cry.
Looking back now, I think it was more of a build up. For the past couple of days, I've been feeling dissatisfied. It's been a long time since I've been in a funk, disappointed that I never became the famous movie star/singer that I'd dreamed of being as a kid, the one I moved to Los Angeles to be. Not that I don't love publishing. I do, but (and, yes, there is a "but") my first dream was acting/singing, and then I was going to conquer the publishing world. I was going to be a household name. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Sorry. I couldn't help myself.
Maybe the explosion was building since the morning when my daughter's teacher scolded me for not having my daughter in line in the morning instead of waiting for the kids to walk to class. (The school makes the kids line up on the black top and wait to go into the classroom. I totally disagree with this. What the purpose is to make them stand for 10 minutes before going into class is, I have no idea. But, most mornings, we are lucky to make it before the kids file into class. And... this is another rant. The stupidity of some of the shit they do at school.) Anyway, I watched my daughter do her presentation for her class. She's sweet. She's smart. She's beautiful. She's... shy. (sigh) Not that she'll admit to being shy, but she is. (That gene comes from her father because not one of my family members is shy.) So, while her presentation was sweet and cute and perfect for her, she tripped over her words, and I just wanted her to be a little more comfortable in front of people. And it's hard for me because I want to see her do well, be confident and unafraid.
The day progressed somewhat okay, I suppose, but we had a neighbor kid over for dinner. My daughter is a very picky eater. She's had some health challenges that have caused that. That fact doesn't make it any easier. Even when I know I need to mellow out about it, it's hard, especially as I watch the neighbor girl chow down on salad. (My daughter won't touch salad.) And that feeling of being a failure is building. You know that "I'm a bad mother, I've done something wrong, this is all my fault" kind of feeling that I think all mothers experience at some point.
The feeling of failure and depression is increasing, but I am still ahead of the curve at this point. Not to the breaking point, but it looms just around that corner.
To avoid that, I retreat into the back bathroom. (Mother Nature is calling, after all.) You need to know a little bit about the back bathroom, and the back room in general. It was an add-on (already there when Charlie bought the house), connected to the house, but not actually a part of the house until we made it part of it by inserting a door in a shared wall. We turned the back room into our bedroom. As a result, there is no heat back there. Fortunately, we live in Southern California and, while it does get cold, it's not unbearable. A space heater in the bathroom will do the trick when you're in there.
Our back bathroom is a three-quarter bath and tiny. There's just enough room for a toilet, sink, a shower, and space for two people to stand shoulder-to-shoulder without moving. (Where we live, a second bathroom, even a small one, is a luxury because the houses are small and were built in the 40s.)
Okay, now that the scene's set, I can continue.
So, I go in, turn the heater on, and sit down. A few minutes later, a two-inch cockroach races across the floor maybe a foot from where I am sitting. It scales the small space heater, stands on top, turns toward me, and checks me out. (Truly. It's facing me, and it's antennae are moving as if thinking about pouncing.) While it's doing this, I am screaming bloody murder for Charlie.
I am in a very vulnerable position here. My pants are down, you know, because, well, that's how it is in the bathroom. I stand up. It's still looking at me like it might jump at me. I am still screaming Charlie's name. I pull my pants up, and it flies (flies! AAAHHHHHH)... and lands on the wall. I am looking around for something to kill this thing. I am not letting that disgusting, and too intelligent, cockroach run around in my bedroom. There is nothing to kill it with... but my booted foot. I don't like the crunch sound it makes when you step on them, but there is no fucking way I am not letting that thing run loose in my fucking house. In my head, I'm screaming, "Die! Die! Die!" as I smash it with my boot. Another bloodcurdling scream rips from my throat when it flops on its back to the floor dead.
Needless to say, this morning, I am calling the exterminator... again. We've had an ongoing, on-again off-again battle with these damn things since the city had sewer problems and thousands of them streamed out of the manhole and scurried to our garage door, which just happens to be right in front of our garage, about four years ago. We had a problem for six months, and we finally got them--or so we thought. It started up again about three months ago, and no matter how much we clean, spray, and everything else, they are still here.
I thought they were gone. We hadn't seen any for a couple of weeks, and now this. (sigh) You know, I am afraid to open that small cabinet in the back bathroom (that bathroom is where we've had a lot of issues) because I'm afraid a horde of cockroaches will come streaming out and attack me. Perhaps not a realistic nightmare, but it scares me shitless.
Last night, I was ready to move. I'm tired of that, too. Moving isn't going to happen, though. (sigh)
Anyway, I go back out to the living area. Charlie disposes of the dead cockroach. It's time for the neighbor girl to go home. The daughter is throwing a tantrum, and Mommy is done. I am so done if you poke me with a fork, I might just explode.
But I don't. Instead, I sit silently, trying to break out of the funk. I can't. It's not working. By 10:30 when I go to bed, it's all over. I am angry, depressed, and crying. Charlie doesn't know what to say to me, but is trying. I am not being helpful. I need to vent...and vent...and vent, although most of the venting is going on in my head because some of what I'm thinking is best left unsaid and only intensifies the crying.
Finally around 11:30 (so it was an hour or so), I stop. I don't really feel any better, but I'm not crying and am too spent to do anything but stare into the darkness, trying not to think about the cockroaches. If I just go to sleep, they'll go away, right? I am being delusional, but I have to cope some how. I know I need sleep. Sleep will make things look better, right? Right?
This morning, I am much better. Tired, but better--and hopeful I won't have a repeat of last night.
Addendum: It's not that I'm ungrateful for what I have. I am grateful. It's just that life isn't exactly how I envisioned it at, oh, say, 18--which may be a good thing. :)