Still Life, with Anxiety

Eyes open. What time is it? 4:45 am. Great, I can try to go back to sleep for 30 minutes, and probably fail, or just get up early. I know that if I get up early, I am going to wake up and the same time tomorrow, maybe earlier. But I have a million things to do today; might as well.

I have a schedule for everything. There are emails to be checked, Facebook posts, and budgeting. Exercise from 6 to 6:30, then eat breakfast. Get the kids up for breakfast, and dressed for school before I leave at 7:45, sharp. We've been late before, and all hell breaks loose. I have so much to do today, no time for dragging my feet.

I know I have somewhere to be this morning but I truly cannot remember where. There's nothing on my calendar. What is this feeling that I have to hurry up and be somewhere? I live in a city with over 3 million people. They ALL drive like crap. My shoulders are shrugging; my arm muscles tighten. Brake lights, stop lights, blinking turn signals. I turn down the radio at the commercials. I know my therapist said coffee makes it worse, but I woke up at 4:45!

At the grocery store, I am trying to remember what I forgot to put on my list. An absent-minded woman drifts her cart into my hip. Why the hell are people so inconsiderate?! No apology. My heart speeds up; my stomach is in knots. Remember your D.B.T. tactics: change the physical circumstances. I pick up some frozen peas and say nothing.

Where the hell was I supposed to go today? The possible reasons for running a cart into me are playing in the background of my thoughts; shopping lists, schedules, and about two lines from a song on the radio follow close behind. My legs are stiff, and my knee jumps as I race through traffic. This radio is stressing me out.

Another grocery store, and now a stranger is trying to start a conversation with me. What about me invites unwanted conversation? Why does she think that I care about the instant coffee she's buying? Brown rice, chicken breast, broccoli, and a half-pound of cheddar cheese drop into my squeaky cart with a broken wheel. Checkout finds me in another forced conversation. My hand is shaking as I politely smile. Oh man, over-budget again. At least no one pushed their cart into me here.

Another race through drivers with apparent death-wishes. At home, lunch needs to be quick today. Yeah, I know I promised my therapist I'd try to eat healthier. The meat thermometer in my Hot Pocket says 167. Take that, botulism! It retaliates upon my tongue. My DVR is pretty full. What can I watch in 30 minutes? I still have to mop, vacuum, and shower before leaving to get the kids.

Hot water rushes over me, and my muscles relax. Long, slow breaths catch up to me. Steam fills the bathroom, and I am among the clouds. A floral soap escape. My face rests, and my eyes are watery. Smooth droplets run over the glass doors which cradle me, and a few playful bubbles float lazily along from my loofah. A final, long rinse leads to a soft hug from my over-sized body towel.

What time is it? 2:45 pm! Towel flies into the over-full hamper. This shirt doesn't match! Where the hell did I take off my bra? Why is there only one shoe?! My stomach is in knots again. Minutes tick closer to three o'clock. There is no time to be picky. I am in the car with wet, tangled hair by 3:02. I can make the drive in eight minutes, right? More traffic. My shoulders draw up toward my ears.

A bell blares above me, and rambunctious kids run at every side of me. One screams from behind, then runs past. I can't see my kids coming out, and we're already late. Panic mode. Heart pounding, breathing irregular, hands shaking. Cart in my hip, burnt tongue, screaming children, late again, over-budget, psychotic drivers, botulism, eat healthy, exercise. My head shakes uncontrollably. My breathing is difficult now. I am going to have a heart attack. My kids run up for hugs while someone hands me a P.T.O. flyer. I really need a minute, but there's no time for that.

As usual, my kids both hate dinner, especially since they liked it last week. We're going to be late for their bedtime -- it's already 6:45. Wonderful to have spent 45 minutes cooking something, then another 45 trying to get them to eat it. My back hurts. My eyes are sore. They complain about having to take baths. They complain about having to do homework. They complain about having to brush their teeth. They inform me that they are not tired. Two kisses and three hugs each after reading. Not too bad, only fifteen minutes behind schedule.

My fake leather couch complains as I flop down. Leave me alone, I've had a hard day. Tears burn at my eyes, but I really don't know why. I finish my previously abandoned episode of "Chicago Fire". My body feels like an over-worn sock. I still have laundry, birthday planning, and next week's HEALTHY menu to write. Instead, I check my emails. What time is it? 8:15 pm. Another 45 minutes, and I can turn in early. But I should really do what's on my chores list before then.

Facebook is boring. I should really delete my account. I see happy pictures of friends having fun without me. My therapist challenged me to go out with them once a month... Six months ago. I quietly put away some clean clothes while I think of a menu, why that woman ran her cart into me, and those two lines of that radio song still playing. I climb into bed; it is 8:56 pm. I pop an Ambien and shut my eyes. Now, what is it I have to do tomorrow?