Forgive me, I was supposed to write this post on Monday, but I’ve been so down and preoccupied with being down that I simply couldn’t. I have a big black notebook that I write my ideas in – but sometimes it takes a while for me to get them typed up. But here it goes.
There are days like these when I struggle to write. Not because I nothing to say, but because I find it difficult to put to words what I’m going through.
I tried to describe what I’m going through to a friend and all I could come up with, was the colour beige. Beige, beige and some more beige. You know that colour of sand: unkissed by the sea, untouched by the ruin of stones and the beauty of shells. Just dry, beige sand.
Beneath the beige brews buckets of tears.
Beneath the beige are bruises from unknown sources.
Beneath the beige I feel pain and sadness and everything in between.
This past weekend on Saturday, my eldest son, Cayden went “missing”. Two of the the friends he usually plays with came to tell us that they couldn’t find him Hubby then decided to drive around the neighbourhood to look for him.
As any mother would, I felt my heart sink. I knew he didn’t know the area well he doesn’t know my new cell number either.
How would he be able to explain to the police where to go or who to call???
I went into a “mini” panic.
I wanted to join my husband, but the two distracting babies would be too much to deal with.
I started packing up the guilt- thereby unpicking every bit of the picture of an “okay-ish” mother I thought myself to be. In five minutes the image was ruined.
The children were crying, probably sensing my torment as I paced up and down the house. Every other second I’d check to see if they pulled up the driveway.
I imagined the worst happening every second and felt like I was literally experiencing it. For fifteen minutes, my mind was my worst nightmare- throwing at me images I’d never want to see again. I felt like I was jumping into flames over and over again, feeling the pain getting worse and worse with every jump.
I tortured myself.
Fifteen minutes lapsed and there they (finally) arrived. I immediately grabbed him close and started throwing questions like daggers. Not my proudest moment. I hated his answers, because he really could have gone missing. The neighbourhood and its people are new to all of us.
I shouted a bit and he understood my fear.
I walked away flustered.
I took a few steps to the kitchen my head sank into my hands. The emotion was just too much. I decided to suck it up and thought I was being too sensitive because my husband seemed just fine.
On the Monday, Cayden went “missing” again. (As if my heart could handle another a jab.)
After school, as I normally do, I waited for Cayden to come out to the car. He usually plays with the children waiting for their parents outside the classroom so I could easily spot him. I asked the children and one of them said he saw Cayden get onto the school bus. “WHAT?!” went through my mind. As well as a few f-words and a mother-something. I asked his teacher and another mommy waiting for her children.
And so the search for Cayden began (again). The children looked all over the school and nothing. No Cayden.
That Monday was one of those days I really didn’t want to get out of the car. You know those days, where you’re driving barefoot, wearing exercise clothes (you didn’t really exercise, you were to depressed), your hair’s a mess, you haven’t tweezed your eyebrows and there’s no cute nailpolish colour on your toes. You know those days when even cracking a faint smile takes all of you. But I was forced to look for my child.
That familiar sinking feeling returned.
After 20 minutes of searching for him, his teacher says she’s going to drive around the block to find him. I decide to take his school bag (which was standing outside of his classroom strangely enough) and put it in the boot of the car. Then the thought crosses my mind: maybe he’s at music class. Before his teacher gets to drive, I run to her and ask, “I know that all extra curricular activity has been cancelled for the term, but could he maybe be at music?” She explains that because the music school is separate, they have their own rules and as she explains, stomach starts doing somersaults and backflips and end in a split. The standby mom gives the music school director and confirms that that Cayden is there.
And just like that- tears start running down my face. Here I am, hairy, barefoot and balling my eyes out. I know they were tears of joy, but at the same time, I just felt like being a mother is so overwhelming at times. It’s got nothing to do with getting up early and packing in lunches or checking that they brunch their teeth. I’m talking about the emotional (high risk) investing you make when you have children. It’s so intense. One second, you’re beaming with pride and joy, the next you’re falling apart. And it becomes worse when you’re a sensitive person.
Anyway, after about ten minutes, he arrives smiling and totally oblivious to the drama he missed. I hug him, because it wasn’t his fault and I cry inside some more.
Something interesting to mention here: the next day I went straight to Cayden’s class to go fetch him. His teacher, always just a ray of sunshine, says that I could have reacted a lot worse. She says I have such a “happy-go-lucky” attitude. I couldn’t believe it because I just couldn’t. But it reminded me of what Blahpolar told me. Beige doesn’t suit me. So as I sit here whimpering, I’m given some pills, I mean, food for thought. People know me by my personality, which is totally separate to my mood. Yes, sometimes the one affects the other, but they are separate.
Anyway from Monday, my mood has been spiraling downwards. I’ve realized that those events could have been a trigger. But I’ve also realized that with writing really difficult scenes in my memoir, emotionally, it all can be so draining. I’ve also picked up that my mood has been changing (going up and down) more often than usual. This is something I need to look into.
It’s Friday and I went from beige to blue. I feel like I’m swimming in deep blue waters, with the undercurrent below me, pulling me down every other second, leaving me gasping for air but also looking forward to the calm when I’m under water. That specific sound that blocks you and helps you escape from the noise above. The scary thing is that you need to be underwater with no air to breathe, to get that sound, that peace.
I’ve alerted my psychiatrist and I’ve had to adjust my medication- my anxiety tablets have gone up a notch. She’s also going to see if she can move my appointment forward. She’s only this side of the world a few days a week, so she gets booked up pretty quickly. So for now I sit, head buried in my face just like all the images of depressed people are depicted. Sad, lonely, unmotivated, and full of drafts. (I have started several posts but I’m struggling to finish them).
I’m not my illness.
But today she’s dragging me down.
PS. Thanks to the teacher and the soccermom for consoling me as best they could. 🙂