Better Living Through Chemistry

I’ve been waking up very early in the morning, a hot/cold current of intense anxiety running through me. Almost every day, in the most dreadfully predictable way, the babyman starts fussing and whimpering at the exact same time.

Like he can sense my discomfort, and seeks to alliviate it by calling for me, by starting the machinery of our day.

This has been a tough year. Not as tough as it has been for some, but as tough as it has been for me since my father died. The uncertainty and pressure and fear—not to mention the health issues and the sudden uptick in my work schedule—combined to mire me in a toxic state of near-constant dread.

The clouds have lifted, though. Which is why I am left to contend with these disconcerting panic attacks, wholly puzzled by them

Why now? Was it because I was trying to hold my shit together so tightly? Is it because now it’s safe(er) to fall apart? Whatever it is, I don’t like it.

This morning I combed my wet hair after a shower and a big handful of brown strands came out in the comb. Not the regular few pieces of hair, but a giant honkin’ nest of hair.

My knees don’t hurt anymore, thanks to good drugs, but now my stress has moved on to a new target—my hair follicles. This is exactly what happened the last time I went bald. I held it together for a year while my dad underwent emergency surgery and chemo, and then we got married. The month after our wedding, I was 45 percent bald.

Six months later I was wearing a wig.

Now I am blessed with these two children, these dependent little souls who need me for everything, not the least of which is my full attention. I want to give them my undivided focus. I need to. It is my job as their mother.

It is also my job as their mother to be well. To care for myself, as well as them. To take the time to shower, groom, wear clean clothes, pay attention to my appearance. And to my health.

Tomorrow I am making the call I’ve been putting off. I will call the doctor. I will get the pills, cough up the cash for a counselor. I need to talk to a disinterested third party who can tell me I’m doing the best I can.

Tomorrow, I promise. I promise them, and myself.