She made me do it

The therapist appointed to me by Human Resources told me I should be able to deal more healthily with my feelings, and I told her she might have better conditions than me to think that's remotely possible. She told me as well I should write how I feel in a journal because that's supposed to help me cope with my demons. Apparently, she has not learned yet that my demons have human form and walk the corridors of my office and the rooms in my house. I'm surrounded and damned, but she does not see it that way. According to that intelligent woman, I have a good life for which I should be grateful, but I find it challenging to be thankful for something that took me so much time to achieve because I'm tired. In fact, I'm exhausted and depressed, according to that woman's diagnosis, and I have homework to go out of the dark hole I'm into. Unfortunately, no one sends me away from my work- which I like- and family- which I love- to listen to my thoughts without constant noise around me. Instead, I have to write after a full day of reports, power points, and children's homework to review. Yeah... I'm so lucky...

I picked a blank notebook from the staples cabinet at work and put it in my backpack. At home, after dinner and the chores no one thinks about but me, I decide to do my homework. I'm a sucker for lists, tasks, and targets, and I know I have to write what the therapist told me, even if the thing I'd like to do is to lay on the couch and forget about the world. I'm on a mission, and I start to write the three things I liked today:

1. I managed to read all my emails (although I only had time to reply to a third or so.)
2. I had lunch without a single interruption on my phone (best ten minutes ever.)
3. My kids did not roll their eyes when I talked to them today—at least not all of them. The therapist said I must celebrate even the smallest achievements, so I will not tell my daughter's humor is worse than an illegal rollercoaster.

As soon as I read my three things I realize I am not being as positive as requested. I could tear the page, but then the notebook would not be symmetric, and the little pieces of paper would haunt me. I leave the page as it is, even if it does not make me happy. I was supposed to write good things, but now I feel stressed.

The second part of my daily writing concerns goal setting: I have to write what I will do tomorrow, so I look at my agenda and immediately notice I have fifty new emails. There it goes, one of my good things of the day. I failed, and I feel miserable, but I pick myself up, looking at my husband, who is already asleep on the couch... my beautiful couch... "Focus!" I tell myself out loud. I say it so loud that my dear half wakes up, and I smile at him. Luckily, he asks nothing, returns to his TV program, and starts snoring a few seconds later. I look at the notebook and scratch my first good thing because it is not good anymore, then I write my goal:

"Read all my emails and avoid opening my account after six p.m."

I like it; that's a good goal. I can do it...maybe.

It's late, and I'm too tired, but I am not the one who quits, so I continue with the third assignment: I have to write a little essay telling who I am and why I have to write in this notebook. I look at the empty page and the pens in front of me. I like to line them in a particular order: blue, green, black, and red. They are separated a centimeter from each other and look perfect. I take a deep breath and change from blue to black. Black is a good color for what I have to write. It suits my current mood.

"Everyone tells me I am lucky, fierce, and stubborn "in a good way," but they don't tell me I am beautiful and the smartest in the room because then I'd know they were lying for sure. There are days I'd like to hear that as well, and maybe today is one of those, despite the fact I know I look like the poor sister of the Devil: my hair is a mess, my body is aching, and I feel like on fire ninety-eight percent of the time. The other two percent of me sleeps. That's another problem: I haven't slept for weeks, so I am more dangerous than usual for the rest of the world:

"Beware, here she comes!" should someone say... but they don't say that either, because they are running. Everyone runs.

This terrible state of mind, soul, and body started a few months ago. I had accepted my new position as group manager, and since I was the only woman in such a position within my department, I had promised I would kill it. Little did I know it would be the other way around, although the truth is that even if anyone had told me, I would not have believed them. After all, during the last twenty years, I've done nothing but prove everyone wrong. I'm a specialist in doing so, and I enjoy it.

I got to know my team on my first day at my new job. I brought a tin of Danish cookies, selected a big room to gather, and made ten rounds of introductions. I had done similar exercises in the past, but this time it was different because, for the first time, I had much older people than me under my wing, a couple of men close to finishing their working days. Do you know how difficult it is to motivate someone to do something different at work when their mind is busy with the kind of flowers they want to plant in their garden or the travels they plan for their golden years? I told my manager I needed some support with such a situation, but all I got was a polite "suck it up." For sure, he said something different, but that's what I heard, so that's what I did. The rest of the team was young: eight individuals with less than two years in the Company but many ideas and enthusiasm. It's always nice when you have a structure to follow, but I soon recognized that the ways of working and procedures in that department were rarely applied, and everyone did what they "felt" needed to be done. I love rules and guidelines. I thrive on targets, visions, misions, and goals.

In less than a week, I started gathering standards, implementing routines and control boards, and bringing more cookies to the office. My manager and peers did not understand my passion for sugar, even more, considering I had never eaten a single pastry. Outside work, I never call them cookies but bait. When people are down, a cookie makes them talk; if they want to celebrate, chocolate is a good party companion; if I have to ask them anything, I can always offer a sweet... and they come to me. Always. But I'm not feeling like this - bad- because of the cookies. I'm sad, miserable, and depressed because I managed to do what scientists around the world did not sort out yet: I became invisible.

Weeks and months passed, and despite all my efforts to become a super me, all I got was a super team. "That's awesome," might someone say reading this, but it is not. The more I managed to elevate my group, get more things done, and do a better job, the more my engineers were recognized around the Company—all of the group except me. My manager praised me for caring for my people "as if they were my children" and knowing if they were in a good state of mind or needed help. He never told me I could extract every drop of talent to the Company's service, train them to be superstars, and listen to them. I was a mother at home and had become a mother at work, which after so many years working, let me tell you: it sucks. Still, that was not the worst. There was more-- a last drop in a full grass of despair-- when, in a management meeting, he said out loud he would be happy to have a woman as group leader in the department. He told it to my face, and I lost my voice. I, the outspoken, suddenly became silent. I was not even invisible: I had disappeared."

I look at the notebook and read what I've written. I don't like it. It is true, but I hate it, and I am sure it does not define me. I leave the pen on the table in its perfect spot. I leave the chair, kiss my husband's head, in the little bold spot I find so funny, and go outside, to the garden. I am lucky; I have a garden. The stars are shining, the grass feels cold under my bare feet, and I feel the cold in my nose when I breathe. Suddenly, I wish I could shout, but it is too late, and I don't do such things. I behave. I'm good. I'm responsible. I'm the one who'll never quit...

I look at the stars again, and suddenly, my chest burns. I feel it is coming, and I cannot stop it. I shout it out loud, harder than ever:

"F**********UK!"

There is no light in the neighbors' windows, and I return to the living room. My husband is awake and is looking at me.

"Did you tell me anything?"

"No," I say, "but we should go to bed."

"Sometimes you look like my mother," he says.

"For Christ's sake..."