The storm within.

 A normal day that began with me sleeping in.
Waking up and checking my phone.
Driving in to work, only to not be needed.

 I was on edge: uncomfortable, fidgety, Anxious.
The beginnings of a headache that I was sure would turn into a migraine.
I just couldn't get comfortable.

Let's go for a drive.  Destination: the local food co op.  It's hot and humid out.  The air conditioning annoys me. Sounds begin to irritate me. I'm sweating. My head is still kind of throbbing.  I'm tired.
We get our groceries. We drive home.

The sky opens up, the rain falls. The barometer drops.  The headache recedes. I'm calmed.

The Rabbit Hole

Allow me to take you through what I perceive as a normal person's day:
Wake up.  Shower, Put on the clothes that were laid out the previous evening, have a cup of coffee head to work.
Say good morning to their coworkers, do their job, eat some lunch, do some more job stuff. Go home, spend time with their family and go to bed.

Now, Allow me to take you through my day.
Wake up. Run through every single thing I need to do. Who I need to talk to and about what.  Shower.  Fight a battle with the laundry basket full of clothes that my daughters dropped the shampoo in.  Put on my scrubs. Decide I hate those scrubs today and change.  Get upset that there's no coffee made. Wait for my ride to work.
Say good morning to my coworkers. Listen to the previous day's/night's adventures.  Do job stuff.  Eat. Do more job stuff. Wait for my ride to go home.
Kiss my sleeping kids. Or if it's Saturday, hang out with them.

Yes,. I oversimplified the "normal" person.  I tend to see the world in black and white, good and bad.  Having anxiety throws me even further off the edge. I want to be that normal person. I don't want to say stupid things. I don't want to live in constant fear that the sky is falling but I can't do anything about it.

We toss the word anxiety around, using it to define being uncomfortable or nervous . A difference does actually exist. Anxiety is the Flight or Fight reaction constantly engaged. Waiting for calamity. I'm already stressing over interactions that may or may not happen a week from now.  I've already mentally prepared for divorce even though my marriage isn't suffering.  I prepare to be fired the moment I walk into the door at work. I'm in constant fear that child protective services will show up at my door and remove my children because their clothes aren't perfect.

This is me. This is my thought process. Yes, I know. BREATHE. Sometimes, that's easier said than done.

Dear Resident

Dear Resident,
Tonight was really rough. I didn't want to come to work. I wanted to sit in my pajamas, sipping coffee and spending time with my family.  But I put on the scrubs anyway, feeling like some kind of Martyr going out to make the world a better place.

 I kissed the bearded face of my husband before leaving, hugged my daughters.  Only to later that evening hear you crying because you didn't know where your family was.  That you wanted to go home.  Who was I to have the audacity to tell you that this place was your home? This room filled with a few choice items from your past.

We served dinner, I heard you tell the stories of owning a restaurant. I looked down at my plate, the food at least home made, but probably not what you had served.  What would you give to make recipes that your mother passed down? I was reminded to be grateful the next time I served dinner at home.

I took my shower for granted this morning. Loving the hot water steaming up the room.  My favorite body wash and shampoo.  I dread waking you up, removing you from your warm bed, and wheeling you to the shower room.  I try to be gentle, make sure the water is the right temperature,  But you don't want a shower. You have a perfectly working shower at home. Why can't you go home?

Dear resident, my heart breaks.  It breaks every time I tell you that this is your home now.  Every time your children leave and the tears start to fall. I see the role reversal, the daughter taking care of the mother.  Tucking her in and kissing her good night.  You mean that much more to me, seeing how loved you are outside of the home, and seeing them draw breaths and wipe away tears as they regain composure to return to their families.

I apologize for every time that I forget that I'm young, take my independence for granted, Every time I give a sigh when you say that you need to use the bathroom again, or when I push your wheel chair too fast, or I can't understand what you're trying to say.

You've lived a full life, mine is just beginning.  Thank you for teaching me all that you have.

Pinterest Fail

Last night, I hung out in a blanket fort.  Of course, I'd researched on Pinterest the proper means to do so.  We ended up doing it wrong.  See, rather than hanging it from the ceiling and bringing pallets into the house, we grabbed a broom,  two kitchen chairs, about ten blankets and two Christmas tree poles.

Our blankets didn't match, and we didn't have twinkly lights for ambiance.  We however, had cats that thought it was a cave to claim.

We didn't pull a book in and curl up and read.  Instead, Samantha told me to scoot over because she didn't have room and her head was resting on the broom.  The Cat walked over my head. And then Sam started tickling me. I retaliated. My husband said we were being too loud.

Eventually, Autumn joined the fun climbing in, over the two of us, knocking the fort down, and sending us into giggles that made our sides hurt. We struggled out of the blankets, gasping for breath, laughing.  

We lay on the floor, the three of us, catching our breath.  I looked over at my husband, who just shook his head.

"Mom.  That was AWESOME. Can we do that again sometime?  Blanket forts are fun, especially when they fall on you." 

So, I may have failed on pinterest. But I rocked Monday night.