It’s amazing how one frustration builds on the last until you’re ready to blow. I can’t think of an emotion more difficult to deal with, and it seems that’s all I feel lately. I have no patience for anything, and I find myself yelling into the void all day long. Whether it’s dropping the soap in the shower over and over, having to pee right after I just peed, being subjected to constant car alarms outside my window, or feeling my pajamas twisting and crawling up my ass while I’m trying to sleep, I don’t know how I haven’t been committed.
It seems each day brings new frustrations, and I can’t seem to get under (or over) them. I think I used to be calmer, I mean I was a middle school teacher, though I’ve always had a short fuse. However, I used to lose my temper and be calm right afterward. Done and over with.
Lately, though, I realize I’m oversensitive to people not moving to the right to let me pass on the sidewalk; over having conversations about digestion and bathroom habits; tired of my hair frizzing the minute I finish primping it; angry that no matter what I eat or not eat, I get nauseating, head-pounding migraines and lose time and sleep; disgusted by the smell of the seaweed and the remnants of dogshit on the streets; and irritated that my husband gets irritated if I express frustration about the reality of our life. I can’t handle super loud music, entitled people who brag about how many cars and condos they have and how large their donations were, people my age who go on and on about their wonderful children and grandchildren, and friends posting endless photos on social media about their travels. I’m tired of pretending to give a shit. Am I jealous? No, just FRUSTRATED.
Where is all this coming from, you ask? It’s what lies beneath. My daughters. Their rejection. The emptiness. The sheer and utter heartbreak. I keep thinking that if I had that part of my life back to normal, whatever that means, I’d be able to handle all these annoyances. They would feel small and insignificant, not so “front and center.” I could say that my children are my world, and this and that are going on with them. I could talk about their boyfriends (or girlfriends, if that’s the case), and maintain bragging rights. I could feel like other people who have such relationships and make plans to see them. I could go back to taking them shopping and listening to their troubles and woes and celebrating their grand accomplishments and small victories.
If it continues much longer, I could easily slip back into the type of depression I had all those years ago. I didn’t want to do anything, see anyone, or eat anything. It was a painful time, and I feel it coming again. My anger, inner loathing, and outward sadness are bubbling all the time. I’m having nightmares, biting my nails, aching in my bones, and isolating myself. I’m not sure I can make it the rest of the summer, even though I gave myself permission to put it all aside until I return home. It doesn’t matter how many vitamins or hormones I take or how much exercise I get, none of that can mend my broken spirit, and September 1 feels impossible.