Tag Archives: crying
Aside

One Time, I Freaked Out.

16 Jun

Lazarus almost choked on a penny.  I don’t even know if that’s a fair description, really.  It was more like he gagged on a penny for a second before expelling it from his mouth.  But I flipped out.  I mean:  FLIPPED OUT.  Allow me to paint a picture:

He was lying on the ground (probably in a dress or naked, his usual uniform) talking to me, and I noticed there was something in his mouth and knew that we hadn’t eaten recently.  So I asked what was in his mouth?  And as he was saying it, I was realizing with some dismay that it was a penny.  I told him to spit it out!  Now!  As he moved the penny from the pocket of his cheek to his tongue, I could feel what was going to happen vibrate through me:  that penny was going to slide down into his throat and he was going to choke and he was probably going to die because Lord knows I do not know what to do in emergency situations.  I yanked him up (by his head, if I remember right) as he started to gag and saw a look of, albeit brief, panic.  I started to spin him so his back was facing me and was starting to reach around him with my hands to find the spot to start giving him the Heimlich, when the penny popped out of his mouth onto the couch in an aura of spit.  You could’ve choked!  You could’ve died!  Why do you do things like this?!  I demanded of him, my voice quivering.  His face rumpled into it’s pre-crying visage, but so did mine.  I couldn’t stand it– this could have been the day he died.  This could’ve been the story I told for years to come.  This moment– so short; so uneventful, really; a moment of almost-but-not-quite disaster– was too much for me to handle.  I began sobbing, shuddering with fear and anxiety and premature grief.

Why doesn’t he listen to me?  Why doesn’t he stop putting small things in his mouth at this age?  Why is he always getting hurt?  Why is this so scary to me?

As I sat on the couch sobbing into my hands wondering all these things, the kids would wander in and out, near and far.  They suggested I go upstairs to scream.  Maybe I could leave the room or something?  Here.  This animal will help you feel better, Mommy.  These little people are kind to me when I’m obviously upset.

I called Joe and sobbed to him for about 15 minutes; he tried his best to calm me down.  But there’s not much you can do to calm down a person in a completely irrational panic.  Yeah, it was scary for the nanosecond it was happening.  But it was over, and no one was hurt.  (Well, I was hurting, I guess, but that’s not what I mean.)  I know that I have emotional responses that are past what would be expected sometimes; and I know that I can become really scared of something that could possibly maybe potentially happen without actually experiencing the “thing”.  And that’s part of why I was so upset.

But I was also beside myself because of this:  As soon as I was able to calm down enough to stop crying, it was back to business with the kids.  And that’s exactly what happened.  As soon as I was done letting my chest heave and my breath run short, Laz wanted me to make the tent that I said I’d make and Zoe wanted to eat.  My whole world was being held together, loosely, with delicate threads of silk, and they wanted food and a tent.  They wanted me back to normal.  They wanted life to go on.  And I wanted to stop.  I wanted to lie in bed and cry for hours and fall asleep.  I wanted to lose control and sob and scream and be exactly what I felt in that moment.  But I couldn’t.  I mean, okay, I did tell Lazarus to shut up (NOT MY PROUDEST MOMENT, TELLING A 3-YEAR-OLD TO SHUT UP, MIND YOU) at some point during the wailing when he asked for his tent to be made.  So I did indulge in my despair some.  But I couldn’t sit in it like I wanted to, like I sometimes need to.  I had to calm myself down as quickly as possible and get over it for then.  I didn’t like it.  I don’t like it.  Sometimes, I hate being a mom because you always have to take care of the kids.  Always.  Having a panic attack?  Kids still want lunch.  Sobbing so hard you might faint?  Kids still need to go to bed.  Just generally freaking out?  Kids are still going to hit you, hug you, lick you, ignore you.

Sometimes I feel so trapped in motherhood.  And it is scary as f**k.  Seriously.  Sometimes I feel so scared of loving them because, hey, maybe they’ll choke on pennies suddenly and die because I couldn’t protect them and care for them like I’m supposed to.  I love them and hate them sometimes for making me step outside of myself.  These little people– so needy, so want-y, so sweet and lovely and caring and callous all at the same time– are my people, my family, my children and what does it even mean?

It means sometimes I freak out but have to come right out of it; that I cannot be as selfish as depression and anxiety tend to make me; that sometimes I keep moving solely because I have to in order to keep 3 other people alive.  Kids, for me, have been both trigger and cure.  It is kind of horrifying (man, do I love to exaggerate and use hyperbole…) to feel such conflicting things about someone you made in your body.

What if you’re just sensitive?

7 Oct

I’m not sure what I’m going to say, but, like usual, that isn’t going to stop me from writing and letting the whole world watch me stumble through something half-thought out.

 

I’ve always been a crier.  Well, at least since puberty.  So maybe I could blame it on hormones or the (near constant) depression that I used to deal with.  But, the older I get, the more insecurities I shed, the longer I’ve been in counseling the more I realize I might just be this way.

Oh, what a horrible realization that has been.  THIS WAY.  Who in the world wants to be the crying girl?  No one.  No one wants to be the girl who gets her feelings hurt easily or cries at commercials or is saddened easily by just living.  I’ve gotten better at the first thing (somewhat); I finally learned how to not take things personally and so not be hurt by every little thing that ever happens to or around me.  (Pro Tip:  Just say, “I’m not taking this personally” over and over until that is your actual reaction to things.  I’m not kidding– that is all I did and somehow, perhaps magically, it works.)

But the other day my 4 year old did in fact make me cry.  Why, you ask?  Oh… in the literal sense, she just refused to put on her clothes when I asked.  But it was just another example of my perceived failings as a mother:  my child is constantly naked, unwilling to dress herself although she is capable, and disobedient.  What could I do?  Usually I lose my temper; this time I just lost the feeling of having much dignity.  

I think crying symbolizes weakness, unfortunately.  I think every day I walk a little farther from that lie, but it’s something I hold pretty deeply in my heart.  I know that I’ve only ever seen my mom cry 3 or so times in my life.  I know everyone gets pretty awkward pretty fast when you cry in front of them.  I know I hear things about women in the workplace and how you should never let anyone see you cry.

And, yet, I still cry a lot.  I cry because Life is simply too hard to not.  Because there is an unbearable heaviness in my chest sometimes that makes getting out of bed that much harder.  Because my kids don’t listen, and I have no idea what I’m doing.  Because I got married to a man who wasn’t sure about me.  (Side note:  he is sure about me now, so I don’t cry about that so much anymore.)  Because “who am I and what do I believe” is a question I am constantly thinking about or ignoring and seems to matter so much but has no answer (and might not ever).

And sometimes I cry because someone says a piece of criticism to me.  Even kindly put, I’ll still cry.  And I think this is seen as me not handling the critique well… but I don’t really know how to take it any other way, I guess.  I think this particular flavor of tears has to do with chronic feelings of unworthiness (working on it!) and fear that when people find out that I’m “bad” (whatever that means), they’ll be done with me.

But I also cry because I gave birth to a perfectly healthy baby boy after hours and hours of labor and threat of C-section and should dysplasia and he is beautiful and crying and alive.  And because I love my husband so much for the first time that it actually feels like something in my body when I think of him.  And that God loves me in real ways every once in a while that washes away all thoughts of disbelief and fear of rejection.

So, whatever.  I cry.  Big deal.  Maybe one day I’ll believe tears aren’t so bad… but that’s probably not today, is it?

 

A day.

26 Aug

I want to say that today was bad.  That it was harder than usual.  That tomorrow will be not as bad.  To be optimistic.  

But it’s not going to happen.  Today was how the last couple months have been:  draining, daunting, and seemingly endless.  Full of me losing my temper, lots of crying (not from me… today), and just everything I deem horrible right now:  messes, sticky hands, constant question asking, fighting, dry kidney beans all over the floor.  I’m  having a hard time finding the positives in life right now.

Zoe is having a hard time adjusting to Boaz, and I’m having a hard time adjusting to her adjustment period.  She’s regressed in just about every area– including, within the last couple weeks, potty training!  Hurray!  What I thought would be the last straw for me is just another hay bale strapped to my back.  No big deal.  I don’t know how to connect with her; and, when I try to read different ideas or gather ones from friends/wiser folks and implement them, I just want to jump off our roof.  Part of the problem is me:  I have a hard time keeping a stiff upper lip and try, try again-ing.  Part of it is nothing seems to work.  But, after reading this, I started trying to hold her when she’s upset instead of sending her away from me.  That doesn’t seem to “work” (like, stop the screaming), but I’m willing to try that to help her feel like I don’t hate her when she cries.  So I count that as the only positive thing I’ve learned.  (But if you have advice, consider this as solicitation.  I accept any and all advice at this time.)

Right now is a hard time.  I’m not convinced it’ll ever end, though, which is starting to take it’s emotional wear.  I’ve now started my smart coping technique of picking fights with Joe.  Genius, I know.  But heaven forbid I start crying because of how scared and sad I feel right now because of my flipping 4 year old.  UGH.  

I have so much more to say about this, but I’m too tired.  Please figure out a solution for me, and then come in my home and make it work.  KTHXBIEEEE.