I find myself wrapped tightly in negative emotions. I can't let little injustices go and they eat me from the inside out. I can't take normal, childish behavior from my children in stride. I can't stand noises, whether it's several at a time or a single startling noise. Every time one of my children knocks something over, falls down, bumps into me or nearly tumbles, I practically leap out of my skin. I can't stand to be around people, almost anyone. I don't want to leave my house. I don't want to cook. I don't want to shower. I don't want to move.
But for the endless string of stay-at-home mom obligations, work and teacher training, I might not move. I have stopped enjoying any of it. Even snuggling on the couch with my children has become a chorus of complaints because they can't sit still, agree on a cartoon or be quiet enough for me to tune out completely. I spend the days aching for bedtime to come and the evenings lamenting the day past, all its failures, and dreading the next day, knowing I won't manage it any better.
Today I spent most of the day sleeping, yelling or crumpled in the corners of my house sobbing. My children are frightened and even my dog is wary. The adults in my life don't know what to say. My kids lend support like, "I still love you when you yell at me, Mommy," and offering a beloved toy. They are such selfless and honest gestures and yet it doesn't help, which makes it so, so much worse.
I'm sinking and the water is deep.