It ain't easy being me.
~ Andrew McCarthy in "St. Elmo's Fire"
I have just done something of which I am not very proud.
I lost my temper with Will. Yelled at him.
And that's an action I try very hard not to take. It's honestly counterproductive, especially with a little fellow like Will, who's still working on figuring out how to properly communicate his emotions. And I try to model appropriate behavior for him, using calm tones and gentle words.
But today, I just snapped a little. Lost my patience and yelled at him to stop doing something (grabbing my hand off my computer mouse to get my attention.)
It wasn't long until we were both sobbing. Him from being on the receiving end of the diatribe and me from the sheer horror at me losing my shit.
It's been a tough couple of days for both of us, frankly.
Yesterday, upon arriving back at school after the Thanksgiving break, I learned that Will's wonderful, amazing, kind, gentle, fantastic teacher had spent the holiday in the hospital with congenital heart failure and would be out of the classroom for at least two weeks. I cannot begin to express how marvelous this man has been for Will (and for me) -- I count him amongst my greatest blessings as a parent. Not only am I concerned for him and his health, but for how his absence will affect my boy. Will is devoted to Mr. H -- all he could talk about in the car on the way to school yesterday was how much he wanted to see him. He doesn't understand the whole of the situation -- he just knows his Mr. H. isn't there. And that's tough.
We're coupling that with some paternal separation anxiety as well -- the Mister was home all last week and Will got used to having him around. Come yesterday, when he was back out on the road for work, it provided yet another adjustment for the little guy to try and handle.
Needless to say, there's been a lot of tears and tantrums and acting out. And this afternoon, I had maxed out. I hate it, but there you are. He and I are fine now -- his upset was immediately over after some hugs and gentle reassurance; mine remains, directed more at my own self than anything. As usual.
I think my inability to manage the situation is also stemming from my internal fight with my demons -- the blue funk has crept in again, as it does every so often. Maybe it's hormones, maybe it's the season -- who knows. I'm taking better care of myself these days -- remembering to take my Mother's Little Helper and getting plenty of exercise -- but still it comes. The blues.
Just part of who I am, I suppose. And I hate it.
I'm reverting to my reclusive ways -- my safe place when this happens. It's not that I don't like to be around people -- I just figure they don't want to be around me, especially when I'm wrestling with my crap. I've been told that's not true, but I'm not sure... somehow the loneliness seems fitting for me during these times.
I feel odd blogging about this -- the last thing I want to do is come across as pathetic or self-indulgent or pandering. I'm way too proud. But I needed an outlet -- someone to talk it out with. The blank page seemed as good an option as any -- and it won't reject me for being too needy or a weirdo. I may delete this post -- I may not. Perhaps it will help to see it in black and white and to serve as a reminder for me as to what happens when I lose control.
This too shall pass -- it always does. But the residue it leaves behind when it exits stage left lingers longer than I'd like. Especially when I do something as yucky as yell at my baby.
Who knows -- maybe this time will be different. Maybe the exercise and healthy eating can help me to get back to where I want to be sooner. Maybe I can find the strength to work it all out. Maybe my tears will finally dry up.
I can only hope.