I’ve had a very. bad. week.
The Ya Ya Sisterhood movie comes to mind – the part where Sidda is young and her mom disappears for days on end, blacked out, and wakes up in a hotel room on the coast. This is how I felt yesterday. I felt like abandoning my children just to get away and have to have some time to myself.
My desperation and rage was so intensified I actually called a friend to tell her, just so someone would know. That’s what you learn in recovery – that you are not alone.
This is my afternoon off. I have a babysitter come once a week in the afternoon so I can run errands in peace. But I’ve had such a bad week I decided to indulge in a little free time with my creativity. I am sitting in the coffee shop across the street from my house, with free wifi, sipping wine, and eating goat cheese with honey and walnuts. I feel decadent. Relaxed. At peace.
It disturbs me a little that I am most at peace away from my family. There is an unbalance there. It has me leaning more toward a structured week, one with specific events built in to specific days, though flexible. My kids are not of an age or personality to just play while I clean the kitchen – they must be engaged and refereed. The bad days come when I expect I can do more than I really can. The bad days happen when I pretend my children are not there.
I talked to Bryan today. He is at a conference in Florida. He told me he had eleven hours of sleep last night, and was currently at Universal Studios. I wanted to kick his teeth in, but he was not standing in front of me. I want to be happy for him for getting a day of vacation from his busy work schedule. But I fought with my daughter for an hour and a half last night to go to bed, and she still came into my room at five this morning. I envy Bryan that he is away so much he actually misses this family. I envy that. I look for every opportunity possible to be AWAY from my family. I would feel better if I missed them.
We have a renter now. We’ve always rented one of our five bedrooms to someone, but took a break over the summer for a remodel project. Posha moved in this last week and I think that will help a lot. She is smart, and funny, and understands the recovery process. She can drink wine and watch t.v. with me when I’ve had a bad day. She can stay with the kids in an emergency while I Get Out.
I think one of the things I wrestle with the most is reconciling how Good I’ve got it with how fucked up I am. We can afford to go out a lot, eat fancy dinners, hire a babysitter, see a concert, whatever. But that doesn’t change the fact that I have an anger problem, and a depression problem, and that I am easily overwhelmed. I have become what I have always feared I’d become: high maintenance.
I take solace in the concept of phases. My girlfriend currently has one child in all-day kindergarten, and another in all-morning preschool. This means she has three hours EVERY MORNING all to herself, and the rest of the day with just one child. This gives me hope, because I am not far from that life.
I am not far from having all morning to myself to write or otherwise Get Things Done.
Which leads me to the other thing I wrestle with: the fact that I am a stay-at-home mom with a husband that funds my lifestyle. Because of him, I can sit in my thinking chair every morning, enjoying my cup of coffee. Because of him, I am not also juggling a full time job. Because of him, I don’t have that much to worry about, financially.
So my complaining must be taken in context, I suppose. I am careful to distinguish the struggle of a rageful mom from the struggle of a discontent housewife. In many ways I am fortunate. But in many ways I am special – I can not do things that other moms do. I know this, because I know lots of moms and I see what they do and I am envious. I have limitations.
It is at this point that I realize I am Drunk Blogging and there may not be an end to my lamenting. So I will spare you now and bid you goodbye.