It pains me to say it, to admit it, but my children are a big trigger to my anxiety.
I never wanted to be the one to bitch and moan about my kids all the time. I love them to pieces, would do anything for them and will protect them to the ends of the earth.
But truth be told, they are a major part of my anxiety.
Socks. Putting on socks every morning as we get ready for school and kindy is the biggest drama in the world.
I get, ‘They hurt’, ‘I hate them’, ‘They’re twisted’, ‘You did it wrong’, ‘Something feels funny’, ‘They’re hurting me’… I could go on – it is a broken record in my house.
‘Socks?! Fucking socks?! Every fucking morning I am dealing with socks! They are the softest thing in the world yet every morning they are so fucking hard!’
Yep I swear. I swear a lot. Not just under my breathe, but quite loudly. Ok I’m usually yelling. I always feel like there is going to be a crowd out the front of my door shaking their heads at me as I take the kids to school and kindy. I’m almost certain everyone can hear me in the street. Maybe the loudness of it scares them all back inside their homes. Good. Be scared, be very scared.
This morning was no different, it was n’t just the socks though. It was also the brushing of the hair. It is like nails down a chalkboard the noises that come out of my daughter as I brush her hair. Every. Single. Day.
So much so , my nerves are shot, I get angry and there are tears. OH MY GOD THE TEARS.
I don’t know if my anxiety would be so bad, if I didn’t have to get tears after every little thing that doesn’t go right.
I want to cry. I want to cry. Every. Single Day. But I can’t. I have to listen to it instead. I have to listen, and listen, and listen to it.
I should be a spy.
They could use crying on me as a torture device and instead of breaking down and giving them the information they want, I’d go nuts and break them in half. That’s how it makes me feel.
Angry. Oh the anger that boils up inside. I hate it. It really makes me hate myself. For feeling so angry. And I don’t know what to do with it. So I yell. I scream. And then my heart breaks into a thousand pieces. Leaving a huge gaping hole inside my chest which is replaced by a huge think chunk of anxiety.
For being such a shitty mum. A horrible, mean, bitch of a mum. I am the mum I really didn’t want to be. The mum who is angry all the time. The mum that behind every smile is struggling with how she is going to cope with the same dramas outside of the home. The mum that every time her kids act this way in front of other people, has a mini heart attack because I have no Idea on how to deal with my own children.
And so now I’ve admitted it. I’ve been brutally honest with you, and although I may feel like shit, maybe, just maybe, one of you feels the same way?
That we are all horrible shitty mothers who have no fucking idea what we are doing, but at the end of the day don’t judge each other for it. Instead we cuddle each other and laugh at how ridiculous it all is. That we, as big kids, are responsible for these little kids, these mini figures of ourselves. And how the hell do we teach them the way of the world, when we don’t really know?