It’s 7:30 in the morning and my son is supposed to meet the bus in ten minutes and I can’t find his donation form for Jump Rope for Heart, which is due today. I finally stuff the money in an envelope, scratch off a note to his teacher, and hustle him out the door. I can feel the clouds beginning to gather.
I’m in my bathroom finishing my makeup. My hair looks dry and flat. I dampen the front again and attempt to restyle it, with the same results. I hate this cut and I hate myself, so old and tired and fat. I dress, pulling on my red top, and attempt to untangle the long, knotted necklace and can’t, and in my frustration and anger, gather it up in one hand and hurl it against the wall. It lands on the floor and two charms fall off and I turn and leave it there. My husband comes in and says, “Bunny…what’s wrong?”
“I just feel depressed,” I tell him, fighting back tears, and I can’t express more because I don’t know how to express it. I’m not sure I know what “it” is. I am training myself not to make this about him, because it’s not at all. He does not deserve to become the unwitting victim caught in the crossfire of the battle I am having with myself.
I am late and I step out the door and into the cold, gray day and drive to work in silence, as my radio has failed again, and the self-loathing sets in as I consider what I have done to my husband’s morning…my husband, who wakes up in a great mood every day of his life. I’m so angry with myself…I wish I could be a stay-at-home-mom…I wish I were pretty…I wish I could go to the gym…but more than anything, I want to not wish my life away. I want to be my family’s soft place to land, and not an unpredictable bundle of emotions.
I get myself to work and make myself busy, and finally, the clouds lift, and I am spent.