7:10 a.m. The alarm goes off and I stumble around in search of the phone ringing. And then a door slams and the children’s toilet makes its howling jet engine sound and I glance at the alarm clock and hit the snooze button but turn on static instead. I am not thriving just surviving on five hours of sleep. Jet planes flying overhead and a nagging concern over a public fight with a friend kept me awake until 2 a.m.
7:15 a.m. I do not hear any bickering or arguing children and the howling toilet has quieted down so I sit in front of my iMac and scan the 50 messages in my in-box and right away I find the problem child e-mail. It’s from a woman I barely know and she very politely tells me that I forgot to link to her blog on a project we collaborated on yesterday. My heart sinks. I spent over an hour assembling links but I must have missed her website . . . I write her back and apologize and promise to fix it and I do. A voice, an old voice, starts to whisper of failure and I frown and answer with a silent reproach.
7:20 a.m. I can still taste the Colgate on my teeth and then my daughter runs into my bedroom screaming, “Mom, our toothpaste is broken,” so I give her mine. “Wake up, Ben,” I murmur and hug Jim, who is still wearing pajamas. “Come on, Jim, put that away,” I order, and nod at his maroon Nintendo DS. He smiles, chubby cheeks still rounded like they were when he was a Baby Jim, and I grab the rank smelling overnights from the children’s blue and yellow bathroom and ignore the trail of blue toothpaste spread like Hansel and Gretel crumbs along the tile floor. Ben swallows his medicine and gives me a high-five when he keeps it down. This is Ritalin Day 6.
8:15 a.m. I check my Facebook Page and share the blog of the woman whose link I had forgotten, and this makes it easier for me to breathe. As I sip my coffee, I find a post that takes me to task for something that I said yesterday. Basically, I issued a crappy apology when I was still angry. This anonymous person said, “This particular post, with the caps and emphasis makes it seem like a totally sarcastic/ NON apology.” Tears rise to my eyes. Guilt laced with anger and confusion floods me. She or he was right, but I had already owned it. I issued a real apology and spoke to the friend and we hugged it out.
And now what can I do, aside from agree that, “yes, my first apology sucked, but I made up for it?” I consider shutting my page down. My public persona is killing me and I want to hide. Little El starts to howl as loud as the children’s broken toilet and I try not to listen because she is screaming, “I am a failure.” To that I answer, “No, no I am not.”
10:30 a.m. I look up directions to my new therapist’s office and enter into a full-on neurotic pout. I don’t want to go. She sounded dead on the phone when I talked to her: lifeless, with no inflection in her voice and not even a hint of a smile. And their disclaimer is all lawyerly and cold and it warns that they “They are not a crisis center” and that clients should “not call during non-business hours.” And to top it all off, we must provide our credit card information on the intake forms. If we don’t pay our bills in a timely fashion, they will charge the full amount and the whole thing makes me feel like the plastic digits on my Visa card. Hard. Unfeeling. As if I do not matter.
10:55 a.m. I call a friend and leave a neurotic message whining about my new therapist’s disclaimer. As I am hanging up, the land line rings. It is a phone number I memorized long ago: 703 … This is the phone number to my children’s elementary school. “Mrs. Farris? I have Ben sitting next to me. He chewed on a bead and got it stuck in his tooth.”
“A what? A bead?” I splutter.
“ You must come pick him up and take him to the dentist.” I groan. My new, no-good therapist works in Vienna, a solid 25-minute drive from Burke. My husband almost shouts when I call him: “They need to take care of this crap and stop calling us!” And I roll my eyes, grab the forceps and run up to school to remove the damn bead myself. I f you want to know why we own forceps, really want to know, ask me about Jim and the time he ate the pine needles off the damn Christmas tree.
12:05 p.m. I drive up to a residential house and I realize I cut and pasted the wrong address into Google Maps, but when I call the new, no-good therapist to ask for better directions, she does not answer. Over and over again, I rehearse saying, “I am never late! I am so sorry,” but it sounds lame and even though I navigate to her office via Interstate 66 and Nutley Road, I know deep in my soul that the universe has conspired to keep me from seeing the new therapist. Trust your gut, El, I keep thinking; instead, I pull up in front of her office 15 minutes late.
12:15 p.m. I grab the aluminum handle and twist it until the door to Suite 4 in a tiny brown office building creaks and opens. I enter a narrow, dark, dim-lit vestibule and look for direction. There is a door in front of me and a door to my left. In front of me is a sign: “please flick the switch until the light comes on for the person you are visiting.” I lean over and try not to touch the light switch too close because everything in the office feels dirty and tainted. I wait, and try to take a breath but I don’t want to breathe in any of the air in the office.
I try to tell myself something funny and to look cocky and brilliant and sure of myself but my hand, the one holding the disclaimer, is shaking and the papers make this rustling sound like a breeze tapping against dry maple leaves and I cannot imagine where the hell the therapist is because she does not enter the narrow, dark, dim-lit vestibule. She must not want to be there either, so I nudge toward the door. As long as no one spots me before I turn the handle, then I will make it. I will be safe, and free, and tucked into the black leather seats of my Mazda CX-9 with the seat heaters running on full blast.
A minute later, I pull out of the parking lot and laugh. My day can only get better, and if it doesn’t, I’m okay with that too. After all, as my friend said last night, “superheroing is sweaty business,” and so is living like a character from an Anne Tyler novel.
Screw that therapist! You deserve a therapist brimming with life! I hope you soldier on making peace with the public/private debate. It sounds hard. Frankly, I hope to have that problem some day. I love Tyler’s Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant. Great post!
Amen Outlawmama!! And thank you so very much re “brimming with life!” I do need that type of therapist b/c I am a handful. Groan–as far as the public/private thing, I usually LOVE it and am grateful for it but sheesh, sometimes when we make mistakes in public . . . grrrr. I love Anne Tyler, especially since I grew up in Baltimore. And, um, I sort am pretty neurotic LOL. So nice to see you here, and thank you so much for your remarks!
On the one hand, writing online means we’re exposing a very real part of ourselves. But on the other hand, it’s so easy to be misinterpreted online. So many details in this post reveal your sensitivity and heart though. The tears, the hand shaking as you hold the disclaimer…I do hope your day got better, even if it kept you from an Anne Tyler novel!
On the one hand, writing online means we’re exposing a very real part of ourselves. But on the other hand, it’s so easy to be misinterpreted online.
So beautifully put. I was thinking about this today. “Ugh, now there are third parties to something who think they’re entitled to an explanation or follow-up, when in fact, they are not.” What matters is what’s between you and your friend. (Now if only it were as easy to truly believe 100% of the time as it is to say!)
I hope I get today where you were by the end of this post. That conclusion helps nudge me that direction, a little.
Amen amen amen Deb: ““Ugh, now there are third parties to something who think they’re entitled to an explanation or follow-up, when in fact, they are not.” In my case, since I acted rashly and said something really obnoxious in public, I had to take the comment on the chin but man, I also said, “Hey, we resolved this offline and we’re good friends and I apologized.” Sigh. So good of you to stop by! And I hope you get to that point too, my friend. I truly do. Much love.
Ah yes, Sarah, so true re exposing real parts of ourselves. And yes, things are misinterpreted sometimes AND sometimes I for one react too fast, you know? Aw thank you so much re “sensitivity and heart.” Thank you so much. xo.
Oh! I love your writing. I keep coming across you on FB, but I’m not sure why I haven’t been to your site yet. I know that sinking, horribly vulnerable feeling in a creepy therapy hallway. Ick.
Aw, thank you so very much Craftwhack, for stopping in and for your remarks above!! And ugh to the sinking vulnerable feeling!! So nice to see you!
I was right there with you. What a great escape!!! Loved the post. Excited to read every single one to come! (((hugs)))
Thank you thank you so very much my dear Lail!! Sorry I have been so quiet–overwhelmed with work and life! Love you!
Calling you! Now!
Damn! I was at the lake!!
Okay… I know you are home because you responded to my comment. Calling you again at 47% power.
xoxo I SO missed you. Can’t wait to talk more.
Will call you tomorrow. Our characters need to talk.
Thank God. By the way. I had 5 GREAT days.
I’m surprised no one is asking about the pine needles and the forceps. Love that you are prepared in so many ways. May you find someone that you like and feel comfortable with. Good luck!
LOL. We received a pair of forceps as a gift when my middle child ate the Christmas tree and got pine needles stuck in his throat. True story. And thank you so very much my friend.
You captured exactly the type of anxiety that a person (okay, me) feels in these day-to-day moments where nothing seems to be going right! I am SO glad you got out of that scary office in time – it definitely sounds fishy. It would be hard enough walking through the door, let alone to face an unsympathic person on the other side!
Oh Jules, thanks you my friend. It is so good to know that I am not the only one who feels day-to-day anxiety like that! And thank you–I breathed so much more easily once I escaped. xoxo.
Oh and I forgot to say earlier, I really look forward to hearing how things are going with your son.
Thank you my friend. A quick update: his teachers said that this week, he was “Day and Night” better. But he still got that bead stuck in my tooth (grinning). xo.
(((((El))))) That therapist sounds like a life-sucking tool – get out quick! Save yourself!! The right one will come along, I promise!!
Simply Trece–I escaped!!!!! xoxo.
I hope you are smiling today my friend. I can’t imagine the strength you have as people feel the right to use tone with you in a flat medium. It’s incredibly challenging to put yourself out there over and over again but you helps and then there are the days where laughter is indeed the only medicine. Xo
I am smiling today my friend, and I am so grateful you stopped by! And yes, yes, so often laughter is indeed the only medicine. xo.
I am glad you are smiling!
This is super late, but, BIG HUGS. And really, that therapist sounds like one worth escaping. My hubs escaped quite a few before finding the right one.
Thank you so much Amber! And it is hard to find good therapists!! ack! Big hugs back atcha!
Once again, your writing sucked me right into your world. I can completely relate to having ‘those’ days where your heart wants to explode! Hope the days eased up a little on you as the week went on…
This comment, coming from one of my favorite writers, is a huge compliment indeed! Thank you so very much my friend!
Your posts are some of the most human on the web. Love it, El. Hope your day did get better, and they continue to.
Thank you so very much August! By the way, I am going to link to your post on Pinterest (am writing a blog on social media). And my day did improve (grinning).
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Ahhh…66 and Nutley Rd…I used to drive that every day to and from work. I hope your day got better!