I'm in the midst of an emotional meltdown. I don't think it's a breakdown, because I haven't suddenly just fallen and broken into a thousand little pieces. No. I've slowly succumb to a miserable heat generated by a hurried lifestyle, an ingrained sense that being late to anything is tantamount to a deadly sin, and a flurry of anxiety, origin unknown. Well, unknown for the most part.
It's been 10 years since I last saw my mother in any sort of functional capacity. Christmas 2004 was a time when I saw her in a totally new, genuinely weakened state. Metastatic breast cancer that, 3 days later, would grow sufficiently in her brain that she'd have seizures in front of me, prompting a call for an ambulance and then, what she didn't want at all, treatment that led to an induced coma in which we waited for the inevitable demise of the physical body.
These 10 years have given me plenty of time to finally sort out who I was, as ever since I can remember, I have lived this life of what she wanted me to be ... or what she wanted out of me that she could never get, do, achieve, etc. I'm still somewhat angry about the years, experiences, that were taken from me by her from this regard, how I can never make the experiences again as I'm too old to not look totally idiotic doing them. I've achieved some things based on my own interests, but I often wonder if the foundations of those interests weren't actually forced upon me. I do think it is important for parents to guide and facilitate, not to stand idly by as their children try to tread their way through things. But I don't think it's appropriate to dictate entirely what is done when, how, and where. I also think it's critical for parents, now being one myself and having what seem like out-of-body experiences when I criticize my kids over what amount to the little things, to not go all out with the critiques that I believe make a kid overwhelming self-conscious when coupled with the life-long control of the when, how, and where. So that's where I think I get my anxiety from ... the heart-pounding fear that being late to a faculty meeting results in "all eyes on me, judging me, thinking to themselves how disappointing I am, despite all the promise I have, the potential I'm not living up to." The self-doubt and lack of confidence and the resulting desire to close myself off to the world because I can't handle that anxiety of being judged.
When I think about it all, it's wholly irrational. I know I'm fucking awesome but that I need work hard(er) to keep that awesomeness. I know I'm not super gorgeous by the American anorexic standards, but that I sure am classically beautiful. I'm smart as all hell, though that does prompt me to engage in arguments (debates) for the hell of it. I'm lucky to have a tight-knit group of friends who do the same, whose opinions are vast, varied, and respected. I'm lucky to have a best friend who is also a loyal, trustworthy husband. I'm ever so thankful for the healthy kids I managed to bake and pop out, but at the same time bark at - no, yell, full out yell at - when things aren't done perfectly like an adult would do. I have high standards, but I need to fucking check myself with them. They ARE kids. They ARE learning. I WANT them to live THEIR lives knowing that their father and I will always be here, NOT judging them. I don't know, though, how to spiral my way back out of the abyss I've been in since I was about 15 that finally showed there was some light after all once I was 25, after my mother died. Yes, I'm sad that she died, that my kids don't have the grandmother that my one nephew got to experience. But I don't miss the anguish, the micromanaging, the control. No, I'm happy - thrilled beyond belief - that it's finally gone. Yes, I feel guilty for saying that, but not nearly as guilty as I feel for being a raging asshole to my kids, my son in particular. I recently found myself thinking that I shouldn't have had kids, that I wasn't cut out for this role. That I'm probably producing some sort of mass-murdering psychopath who will invariably have mommy issues.
I wish I could just cut myself off from the world for a few months, to genuinely find myself. To experience those things I missed out on between ages 15-25. I just really need a pause, skip, or whatever button. But I'm always the one who has to be there for everyone, to temper the wide ranging emotions of the people around me, to be the rational, scientific one. It's tiring and I think I've earned a break. But it's always other people who seem to get the breaks ... the real recuperative, relaxing breaks, the ones where you come back knowing again who you are, why you're here, why you're doing what you're doing day in and day out. Right now, I'm just done and I need to get more than an hour or two to myself. I've lived for other people for the last 35 years, with very few exceptions, none of them substantially long-term enough to learn about myself ... the only true exception to this was a year I spent with a host family in Germany which, within a year of my return, my mother proclaimed "the worst decision ever made" because, apparently, I came back a different person. Wow, there's a surprise, I got to know my teenage-self and realized, though unable to articulate it, who I was or wanted to be. How in the fuck is that the worst decision ever? And here we go, the renewal of my own mommy issues.
What's the point of this posting? Not much really. I just needed time and space to unload. I keep things so bottled up so much of the time without much release in any meaningful way, so this is how I can vent, sitting on my bed, delaying my own kids' bedtime to write this down. So on that note, off I go, back to the real world after a short 30min writing session....
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