I've been on the verge of it for days, maybe even a couple of weeks now, but today it happened. I can't stop crying. Well, I can, I'm sure. And I will, I'm sure. I have to reign it in because I have to go to work.
It might've started with PMS and that raw, hypersensitive feeling. Then again, maybe it's just an ongoing thing and I crash when I've just finally wound myself too tightly. I don't know how other people do it. How do people stay constantly moving and keep their shit together? Then again, FB profiles are hardly to be trusted indicators of how a person really feels. We're all our own PR reps. If I stop and attempt relaxation, I feel like I'm letting someone down or forgetting something. So, I can't really relax. I start my days when Critter wakes up, which is thankfully not usually any earlier than 6am these days. From there, it's pretty much non-stop in one way or another-- largely making sure there is plenty of prepared healthy food on hand in addition to other household chores (which are pretty much half-assed) and chasing a toddler around-- until I get home from work around 10:30, make the kids' lunches for the next day, and crawl into bed.
It sucks. If everything gets done around the house, I feel like I'm letting my son and/or step daughter down because I haven't focused as much on them. If I focus on them, I leave more work for my husband to do when he gets home and also has to figure out how to navigate all the responsibilities in the evening. I have to admit, though. Unlike me, he is able to set it all aside and chill the fuck out. I can't, and it's hurting everything. It's hurting me. It's hurting us. I feel like things won't get done unless I do them, and with regard to food and housework, they mostly won't because I'm the only one with daytime hours available to actually get stuff done. But, it should be ok that things don't get done, right? Stuff'll still be there tomorrow, but I can't let it go. I don't want the kids raised on convenience food and TV; and I don't want the kids raised on a family divided by work schedules or gender stereotypes or anything else within our control. I don't want to be an evil stepmother. I don't want to be a wet blanket wife. I don't want to be a dull mother. And right now I feel like I'm all of these things, for various reasons. Fucking hobgoblins.
And then, there's today. I was already on the edge of having a meltdown, so I should have known better, but nope. I did it anyway. Let me start with this: I pride myself, professionally, on understanding that people are victims of their own brain chemistry as well as their experiences; and I believe people who want help-- however horrifying their thoughts or potential behaviors might be-- should get compassionate help. That said, I've been avoiding following any story in the news for the past year since Critter was born because it's far too depressing and I can't handle the extra reminders of how fucked up the world can be. While I love my job, I get quite enough of that at work. For some reason today, I decided to attempt reading an article from "This American Life" about a 16 year old who wanted help. He wanted help. He didn't want to hurt anyone. He was a pedophile. Again, I pride myself on my compassion and understanding. So, I opened up the article, read the first paragraph, and I haven't stopped crying since. I'm sure the article got easier to stomach, but the description of what the boy saw that gave him his own epiphany is now haunting my thoughts. I want to scrub my brain clean of the image described and I can't.
I know there is more good than evil in the world, but the evil is so striking and so atrocious and so insidious and calculating... it leaves me feeling some version of helpless and hopeless and utterly enraged. This is where we see that the other side of my compassion coin is my belief that death is sometimes
the only way to prevent some people from continuing to hurt others. While it's tempting to succumb to my own rage and hate, with insanely violent and torturous thoughts of my own toward perpetrators of this nature, my compassion doesn't allow me to believe in death or pain as punishment. Rationally, I know more pain doesn't help anyone, so I would like to believe in death as a last resort
to bring an end to suffering. I just hope with every fiber of my being that my compassion is not tested in this way. I hope my Critter, my Kiddo, and all the Monsters, and Teenies, and Littles I'm blessed to know all live charmed lives, safe from the overflowing torment of others.
Passing go with tears today. Wish I could play ostrich for the day, but I have to get to work. Time to pick myself up, dust myself off, and try to do some good. Maybe I'll take a day off tomorrow to play ostrich and paint my dang toenails.
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