Hard Truths

I'm currently in an ice skating rink, surrounded by kids and parents having fun and blowing off steam after a half day of school. It's loud. It's chaotic. It's my idea of hell. And I am sitting on the tip top bleacher, half in the dark, typing on my laptop and hoping no one notices that I'm crying.

I few minutes ago, I said "Fuck you" to my daughter.

Yep. I did. You heard that right. And then I walked away. More accurately, I escaped to the bathroom and promptly burst into tears. And now I can't seem to get the tears to stop.

Is there anything worse than uncontrollable crying in public?

Well...yeah. I guess telling your kid "Fuck You" is worse.

My daughter is in 8th grade. I love her fiercely. She is strong and smart and fragile and beguiling, and...sometimes very, very difficult to be around.

But that is no excuse for what I said, no excuse for the mother I've become.

When the kids were little, I was stunned by the abundant amount of patience suddenly at my disposal. I've never been a particularly patient person. But having small children brought it out in me. I had to be patient; I had no choice. This simple, straightforward logic seemed to unlock something in me, and I became more patient than I had ever been in my life.

That lasted...well, for awhile. I guess I had a good run.

But the stress of parenting two very opinionated, very outspoken, very stubborn girls began to chip away at my seemingly unending well of patience. As they got older, my fuse got shorter.

And then...well, I had a bad year.

First, we lost the election. That may sound stupid to some, but the despair I felt that awful night was crushing, and it has not abated; if anything, it's grown worse. And then, my dad died. The ferociousness and intensity of my grief sort of caught me by surprise. I felt sucker-punched. Life got more intense - estate logistics and family squabbles on top of trying to give myself space to mourn - and my ability to deal with things radically declined. I lost some support systems at a time when I really, really, really couldn't afford to lose them. I felt like everybody wanted/needed/expected something from me, and the burden of it all started to take a toll. I could feel myself drowning in all my anger - all this weird anger that suddenly showed up and ATE all of my patience, just ate it right up like a small snack pack of chips and then looked at me like, "What you got next? Cause I'm still hungry."

And then my teenager-out-of-the-womb oldest daughter actually officially became a teenager, and the shit really started to hit the fan.

I felt overwhelmed and ill-equipped to deal with all the parenting challenges coming my way, plus just...life. Marriage, work, busy schedules...all of it. I knew I was lost - I felt it. I feel it still.

I started having small panic attacks. Sometimes I couldn't swallow around all the anxiety. I stopped sleeping at night. I cried at the most unpredictable of times - or, worse yet, I didn't feel anything at all.

But most of all...I was PISSED. All day, every day. I was, and am, angry.

My anger became so big, it couldn't be contained. I had to swallow it around colleagues, friends, fellow moms, extended family. But I couldn't hold it in all the time. So my immediate family bore the brunt of it. My husband. My kids.

And soon, I found myself dealing with an emotional, raging, unpredictable kid by being an emotional, raging, unpredictable parent.

I told myself I needed time. Time to grieve, to breathe, to regroup, to heal. In my mind, I gave myself the deadline of the end of the year. After the year was over, I'd really start working on turning a corner. That seemed fair. Doable. I gave myself a bit of a break.

A year (and more) has passed. Nothing has changed.

And now here I am, blogging and crying in a suburban ice rink, trying to understand how I went from a parent who spent all day every day with maniacal, tyrannical toddlers and (mostly) didn't lose it to a parent who tells her kid "Fuck you" because she spoke shitty to me.

She won't remember all the nights I got up with her, all the times I held her hand and breathed with her when her anxiety became too much, all the times I hugged her while she cried.

But she will remember what I just said to her. And she should. Because it was awful.

I know I need help. But right now, all my energy is going toward my kids, my marriage, and trying not to completely, utterly, inexorably lose my shit forever and ever more, amen. There isn't much energy or time or money left over for anything else.

And also...I am scared.

I tell myself that tomorrow is another opportunity...that even a minute from now is another chance. A chance to get it right. To be better. To do better.

I tell myself that.

But I have no idea what to tell my 13 year old daughter.

She doesn't care what I'm struggling with, how angry or overwhelmed I am. Because she is all those things too, and it's not her job to worry about me. It's MY job to worry about HER.

She just wants her old mom back.