I kicked a laundry basket across the nursery yesterday. It slammed into the wall and the handle broke off. That’s too bad, because I really liked that laundry basket. That’s the second time I have damaged an object in my house from throwing or kicking it out of anger. The first time happened when I was mad at my husband. I don’t remember why I was mad. I was not pregnant at the time. The second time happened when I was mad at all the crap lying around the house and how desperately I just wanted to clean the house and take a shower, but found myself alone and helpless with a toddler. And pregnant this time. So, I don’t know if it’s just pregnancy hormones, or just me, or a bit of both.
I took my daughter to my mother’s house shortly after breaking the laundry basket. I didn’t want her to be around to see any more of that, or for her to be in the path of harm in case of more flying objects.
I hate being this way. As stated above, I really don’t know if it’s the pregnancy, or what seems like my lifelong predisposition toward depression and anger issues, or both. I hate not knowing, too.
And I hate most of all feeling like there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.
The day I kicked the laundry basket, I missed a kids’ Halloween party I was supposed to bring my daughter to. This makes me really sad. Granted, it was postponed a week due to the snowstorm, and rescheduled to an inconvenient weekend for us (husband has drill so I was alone with the kid). But you would think I would have my sh#t together enough, after waking up at 9:00, to be showered and dressed and ready to go to an 11:00 party across town.
Instead, the minutes ticked by and I realized by 10:59 there was no way I was going to have the energy to get the baby in her costume, get me in something resembling clean clothes, and get ourselves packed up and in the car to get there before the whole thing ended at 1:00.
I used the excuse that I was exhausted and stressed from the pregnancy and from being alone with a 15-month-old, which is absolutely true. But, I could have gone. It would have been fun. I wanted to go.
Instead, I destroyed a laundry basket and realized I needed to bring my child somewhere to keep her out of the path of flying inanimate objects that becomes the victim of my rage when I feel hopeless.
I feel so humiliated and pathetic.
What scares me is, there was this other me watching myself sit in my pajamas all morning on the staircase. Other me said to get up and go to the party! It will be good! You can do it! It was like watching a movie of myself. I don’t know how else to explain it. It was very weird.
The start of the workweek is difficult, but normalizing. The darkness recedes and everything feels “normal” again. Clients to talk to, files to review, coffee to make. The nightmare of weekends at home fades until that empty but safe spot in my heart opens up again, and I can at least be at peace.
Today, though, something told me that this empty spot is no longer safe. I need to start writing about this and trying to get some help. The more the problem is denied, the more it eats away and destroys more than laundry baskets – friendships, family relationships, well-being.
I am probably going to regret hitting “Publish.”