Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Like Mother, Like Daughter

Genetics are interesting. That's actually the understatement of the year. The argument over nature vs. nurture has been going on for hundreds of years. A loving home can overcome most everything. but when the genetics predispose someone to a physical condition or mental illness, there's just no denying it.

I take medication for anxiety and depression. This is common knowledge. What isn't, is that my 6-year-old daughter will soon be seeing a therapist for the same mental illness as me. Well, the anxiety part, anyway. She knows it. We talk about it all the time. How can we not? When it's so present in our lives, we have to call it what it is.

Anxiety comes in waves, for me anyway. I feel fine for weeks on end, make lofty goals and great improvement on my overall habits and way of living. Then, I can't sleep. And when I can't sleep, I worry more. I get impatient. I say things I regret. I get frustrated with myself for not being patient. I continue to get snap at others around me.

And boy, do I fight it. But more often than not, I just can't, and I end up crying and at a standstill with myself.

Today was one of those days.

I didn't fall asleep until about 4:45 this morning, so I was up a creek already. I didn't get a nap, I was riled up by my two kids and the two I nanny, and I was still looking ahead to the rest of my night: allergy shots, dinner, church. I had to make it to church because I was teaching the 9th grade girls. Brooklyn ended up having a meltdown when it was time to get her allergy shots, stressing me out and making me feel bad. Then, to top it all off, Brooklyn got her arm caught in the automatic door, so she started screaming and I had to wedge it out and its bruised and awful looking, and I couldn't hold it in anymore. I sat with her on the floor of the entry way, then carried her to the car and completely lost it. All I could say was, "I'm sorry". I'm sorry for not reminding you to be careful where you place your hands. I'm sorry you have so many allergies that you have been taking shots to try to control them for the past 2+ years. I'm sorry that you get nervous and worried about everything, so much so that you are debilitated and freeze up. I'm sorry that you're just like me, and it's all my fault. 

I tried to push through, but Brooklyn said it for both of us: I don't want to go inside Wendy's. I don't want to go to church.

We sat in the Wendy's parking lot tonight staring inside at families that we knew enjoying each other's company, eating their dinners. No way was I heading in there. I'm too tired. And I mean tired in mind, body, soul. And she was, too.

Poor Peyton. He started crying because he wanted to eat inside Wendy's, and I refused. I couldn't even bring myself to take him inside when he needed to use the restroom. I had been crying and I didn't feel like explaining myself. No, more than that, I didn't want to see people. I didn't want to BE seen.

Brooklyn says that all the time. She doesn't want to dress up, have us do her hair, wear accessories like headbands or purses. Well, she DOES like all of those things, but she doesn't want people to see them or comment on them. She and I are exactly the same.

I bawled in the Wendy's parking lot waiting for Brandon to come get Peyton. My sweet little boy snuggled up next to my driver's seat, hugged me, and gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek. It just made me cry more. Peyton is just like Brandon. They both love us and want us to be happy, but just don't understand why we are the way we are.

I'm about to pass out as I write this. I'm not going to bother with proofreading or editing. I'm going to bed so I can try to start over again tomorrow.

Genetics are interesting. Understatement of the year.

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