San Andreas Island Read online

September 20, 2016–

  My trip down memory lane gets interrupted by a loud thunk comes from down the hall. “I’m ok!” Lily’s voice calls out, reassuring me. She knows my Mom Worry Reaction all too well by now.

  “Ok!” I shout back. I snap the notebook shut and toss it into my work bag. I tuck my top into my pants, and blindly grab the first pair of flats my hands find. I check on Lily’s status. I can see her at the end of the hallway, sitting at her desk, writing. She’s wearing her bunny sweater—and only her bunny sweater!

  “Lily!? Oh my God! Put your pants on! We have to go!” I can’t believe I’m yelling at her. I’ve been lagging as much as she has. I look over at Dylan. His snores are an obnoxious confirmation of the hierarchy in this marriage. My organs are on fire and my blood is filled with rage.

  Chapter Four:

  What Crazy Feels Like

  As luck would have it, my umbrella is still right where I left it the last time it rained—in the trunk of the car. I somehow manage to make Lily oatmeal on the go, and get us out of the house on time. I grab my jacket and use it to cover her and her backpack as we run out to the car. The rain is coming down and dampening my hair, my clothes, and my work bag in the 40 seconds it taking me to get from the front door to my car. None of us Angelenos were prepared for this bizarre June rainfall. But here we are.

  We buckle ourselves in when we get into the car and I look in the rear view mirror and see that Lily’s buckled, too. I pull out of the driveway. The thought of Dylan sleeping in our warm bed while I’m out here just gets under my skin. I hate him right now. Why does he get to park in the garage? Why does he get to have the cushy life? Wouldn’t it be nice if I could quit every time I didn’t care for a job? He knows I won’t quit mine. Why do I have to suffer the consequences of his hangovers? He doesn’t even care about respecting me anymore. I chose to get married, so these are the cards I’ve been dealt.

  I see Lily in my rear-view mirror, scooping her oatmeal and looking out the window. She’s a warm summer breeze amidst my internal chaos.

  “What do you see out there?” I ask her.

  “The Magic Sand Castle House,” she continues to stare out the window.

  I look in the direction of where she’s looking, and I remember the one she’s talking about. We pass it when we go on walks in the neighborhood. She’s right. It does actually look like a magic sand castle with its shape and that shiny silver door.

  “I don’t want anymore,” she says, handing me almost a full cup of oatmeal. Before I can grab it, I feel it hit the back of my elbow and spill all over the floor mat and her shoes.

  “Fuck!” I shout. Lily looks at me with shame.

  “It’s ok,” I manage to let out - but we both know how I really feel.

  I stuff my anger, just as I find a parking spot—further away than I’d like, but at least I found one. I look back at the spilled oatmeal and roll my eyes as I park the car. I feel like a horrible mom for being upset at her for an innocent mistake. I’m not even going to deal with cleaning that up right now. She unbuckles herself from the booster seat while I grab the umbrella and step out of the car. She pulls her backpack on over her shoulders, climbs out of the car and we share the umbrella as we rush to school. The same moms I see every morning are waiting at the gate, and their looks of judgment pierce me with shame behind their “Good Morning’s” and A-framed hugs. I wish my face wasn’t so transparent, but no one could put enough cucumbers on my eyes to hide the fact that I haven’t felt rested in years.

  “Are you ok? You look a little tired,” the tall one asks, more as an announcement to everyone that I’m not ok, rather than genuine human concern. I hate that she just said that, and I never understand why people do. You might as well tell me I look ugly as hell. And do you really think I’m going to tell you how I am right here, right now, standing in this spotlight at school? I feel a lump in my throat, my palms are sweating and the nausea and stinging in my chest tug at me, pulling me into a silent panic attack from social anxiety. I think I can hide this one if my throat doesn’t close up and I don’t start hyperventilating.

  “I’m fine,” I say with a fake smile. FINE: Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, Emotional. I’m holding Lily, and grateful for the rain so I can hide under the umbrella.

  It takes every ounce of energy I have to stay standing here for Lily until the bell rings. I thought we were late, and now I kind of wish we were so we don’t have to tolerate this any longer. The bell finally saves us, announcing that this high school clique flashback is over. I kiss and hug Lily goodbye, but she holds me tightly and her eyes look so sad and scared, desperate for me not to leave. The teachers have told me it’s really hard for her to make friends because she’s so shy at school and it looks like she’s mad because she frowns all the time, and doesn’t want to play or talk to the other children. She only wants to sit with Miss Kayla who braids her hair and sings her songs. I don’t know if she’s ever going to be rid of her separation anxiety. I see Miss Kayla walking towards the gate, and I’m relieved. I need to get to work and out of my shame spiral. She squats down to Lily’s eye level and speaks gently.

  “Good morning, my little butterfly,” Miss Kayla says to Lily, who doesn’t detach from my leg, but manages to meet her eyes—barely. Lily’s told me at home that she thinks it’s “so funny” when Miss Kayla calls the kids butterflies. You’d never know it from looking at her right this second.

  “I got some new cocoons for our classroom, and there’s a very special red butterfly that hatched last night. C’mon, I want to show you.”

  “A red one?” Lily’s curiosity breaks down her wall.

  “Yes,” Miss Kayla says. “They’re little visitors from up there.” She points to the sky, and then reaches out her hand. I kiss the top of Lily’s head as she releases my leg and she gives me a look that reads, Who on earth would decline a butterfly invitation?

  The rain has stopped. I pull my umbrella closed. I’m rushing to get back to my car, and all these parents are blocking my path! Literally standing in the middle of the sidewalk chatting like it’s a Saturday afternoon. I’m for sure going to be late.

  I picture Dylan still sleeping, or in his pajamas lounging on the couch, relaxed as can be. Fuck! Why can’t he help me in the mornings and drop her off? Why can’t he get up and help me with her breakfast, or get her ready for school? Why does he have an excuse for everything? Why can’t he see how stressed I am, doing it all on my own? Does he even notice or care?

  I find myself standing in front of my car, all the way down the street. I’m fumbling with my keys to get inside, and when I do, my body drops into the seat, letting the door slam shut. The smell of oatmeal and musty rain seep into my pores. My body fills up with rage and the next thing I know, I’m hitting the steering wheel, spilling out all my anger, resentment, sadness and hurt onto it. My hands slam against it, and then I clench my fists, banging them against my legs. I hate him! I hate him! I’m trapped!

  The backs of my forearms hit my thighs. “Fuck! This is too hard! I can’t do this anymore!” I’m sobbing and yelling at the top of my lungs so forcefully for what feels like forever, that I’m losing my voice. I don’t even bother to wipe the tears away, because they continue to pour down my cheeks. My eyes are swollen and hurting. The tops of my thighs are throbbing. I shake out of my momentary rage spiral and start to panic, remembering where I am. Shit. I push my sleeves up and check my forearms. My heart sinks for a moment, then shifts to panic when I see the evidence of my “crazy.” This pain will turn into bruises tomorrow. I’ll have to remember to wear long sleeves again to avoid interrogations from my colleagues. What happened to your arms? Did someone do this to you? No, it’s just me and my rage. It’s no big deal. I can’t hit anyone or punch a wall, so this is where my anger goes.

  I’m barely able to keep my hand steady enough to get the key in the ignition. This is what crazy feels like. Right here. He drives me out of my mind!

  And I have no
right to complain. So many people have it way worse than this. The silence in this car wraps me up like a warm blanket. I’ve landed in the only place in the entire world where I can mute the chaos.

  I start the engine and take a deep breath. I can’t believe I just lost it like this. I would die if anyone saw me.

  My cell phone vibrates and the call connects my mom automatically through the car speakers. She insists on calling me every morning on my drive to work. I've been avoiding her and Kyle, not answering their calls or texts, because I don’t want to be a burden and have them listen to my complaints or ask if I’m ok. I'm not ok, but I'm really trying. I swear, I'm trying with all my might to be positive. I show up to work every single day, I care about every single one of my patients, and I've applied to adjunct teaching jobs to see if I can make some extra money. But I've made my world so small. I'm trying with every ounce of energy I have to put one foot in front of the other and survive this life I’ve found myself in. It's so fucking hard to stop crying, though. Ugh.

  “Hi, Mom!” I force a cheery voice. I can’t have her worrying about me right now. I just can’t.

  “Good morning, sweetheart. How are you?” she asks. Good, she hasn’t noticed. She’s never not in a good mood.

  “I’m fine,” I force the words out.

  “You’re not ok. I can hear it in your voice. And Kyle told me he hasn’t heard from you for a while. What’s wrong?” she persists. She’s right. I haven’t talked to my brother in weeks.

  “I’m fine, Mom. Just tired,” I lie. Please talk to me about work or Kyle or anything else.

  “You’ve been crying. Tell me, honey. What happened?” Her words are now intense and her tone went from worried to panic. How can moms tell and why do they have to go straight to panic? It just stresses us out even more.

  “Ugh, it’s just…I don’t know. Everything?!” My tears have their own agenda and there’s no stopping them now. I don’t know if they’ll ever end. I turn off the engine. I can’t drive like this. I can’t even see straight.

  “It’s so hard to be a mom, and a wife and just everything. And I’m so angry all the time. I can’t stop my panic attacks, and I think I was sleepwalking again. I just can’t keep it together and I can’t stop crying! Like right now. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Is this what depression feels like? All this anger pressing down inside of me?”

  I continue my rant. “And people keep asking me at work if I’m ok, and I have no idea how to answer them because I have no idea why I’m such a mess! I should be happy and grateful. I have Lily and Dylan, and we have our beautiful house and I have my clients. I shouldn’t be complaining. So many people in this world have it so much worse.” I’m already exhausted from this conversation. And I know what’s waiting for me later is an emotional hangover.

  “Honey, slow down. It is going to be ok, I promise you.” She’s trying. She really is.

  “Mom--,” I say.

  “You’re a very good mom and wife and daughter,” she says, not hearing me. “I know being a working mom can be so hard, and work is very stressful listening to crisis all day, and—”

  “Mom…” I can’t believe she doesn’t even hear me.

  “Everything is really hard right now,” she continues. “But I promise, it’s all going to be just fine. I remember when I first had you and your brother—”

  “Mom!” I try to interrupt her. She really wants to help, but she’s just not getting it. And my anger is boiling over again. I sigh loudly.

  “I was tired and working, and as you guys got bigger, it got easier. And you’re so good at your work, you’re a natural! Just remember that when—”

  I tune her out. I wonder if all moms can just talk and never realize their kid wants to say something. I know she cares and means well, but I just can’t get a word in, and I’m exhausted from repeating myself. Typically, I’d just give up right here and not say anything. But not today. Today, I’m in apparently in crazy mode.

  “Mom!” I yell at the top of my lungs. I’m stunned at the sound of my own voice and that I’m shouting at her like this. Who have I turned into? This isn’t me. The only other time I remember raising my voice at her was when I was pregnant and hormonal.

  “I’m so sick of this! You don’t listen! It is that bad!” A wave of guilt coats my skin and I feel terrible for yelling at her and cutting her off. But my anger is not quite done spilling over. “No one sees me. Really sees me, or even listens. I just can’t take it anymore. Everything’s just too hard!”

  She’s too quiet now. Maybe the call got dropped.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, I’m here,” she says. And she really is.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m just losing it right now!” She lets me vent. “Remember when Lily was just born and I used to practically live in the nursery room? She was like a week old, and I was standing there, rocking her to sleep. She was so beautiful and such a good baby. But I remember looking around the room, thinking, ‘I’m so exhausted and overwhelmed. How am I supposed to do all of this, and be able to pay my bills, do laundry, go grocery shopping, go to work, go running, do normal things?’ I was frozen as if I were trapped under an avalanche and couldn’t move. And I felt so alone. I had Dylan, but to be honest, I didn’t have him. I felt like it was all on me and has been ever since we got married!”

  I catch myself in the middle of this unfair explosion I’m unleashing onto my mom. I can hear the words I would tell my patients: slow down and take a couple of deep breaths. So I do that, feeling my stress push out the oxygen as I’m trying to convince my lungs to breathe. My shoulders loosen up and my head clears up a bit.

  “You know more than anyone on this planet how much I like peace and calm and quiet. Maybe it’s an introvert thing, I don’t know. Or maybe I’ve been like that since I was…six,” I say as I feel my stomach turn. I swear I’m going to throw up.

  “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” my mom says softly. “That should have never happened to you. We can talk about it.”

  “I’m fine. It’s in the past. So long ago. Worse things happen to people. I just felt so ugly and disgusting and filled with shame. Like I became shame. Ugh, whatever. I’m over it.” Please just let me keep suppressing it. It scares the shit out of me and makes me cringe to even think about it. It’s bad enough I have to keep being reminded of it all with my nightmares.

  I roll down the windows, and take in a deep breath. “Mom, I’m just too sensitive for all this.”

  “For all what?”

  “Life. This life I’ve somehow fallen into.” I look out the side window of my car. “How do people do it? How do other introverts do it? Everyone told us having a kid was the next thing we had to do, and that we’d be great parents, and the thoughts of having a baby seemed so sweet when I’d watch parents with their little ones, and their giggles and adorable faces and tiny fingers and miniature clothes. I felt like society’s marketing was so deceiving. And we actually got the perfect kid. Lily’s perfect. But it’s too hard.

  “Before Dylan and I got married, I remember we were talking to Jake and Jane after their twins were born. When they kept pushing the ‘When are you having kids’ questions, I told them I didn’t know. I really need my sleep and my routines and quiet. I remember saying to them that the second I don’t get good sleep, I get grumpy and moody, I can’t focus or get anything done. That I get anxiety with loud noises, that I didn’t have the money to afford all that is necessary that comes with having a child. They said—everyone said, even you said this, too, Mom—that it would be fine, and that it’s the best thing in the world and that you just get through it. But I can’t do it all by myself,” I take another deep breath. “Did I lose you?”

  “I’m here. I’m listening,” she says.

  “This is so hard for me to say, and I feel so disgusted with myself for even thinking these things and feeling these things and saying them out loud. I don’t regret having Lily even for a second, but in th
at moment when I was standing there in the nursery with one-week-old Lily, I feel like I wasn’t built to be a mom. Really. I’m not strong enough for it. I felt lied to—by everyone. Even by you, Mom. Why weren’t you honest with me? Why didn’t you tell me that the insomnia would be excruciatingly painful, that the cries would not subside, and that I’d feel like I was losing my mind? Why didn’t you tell me that the worst side of me would come out? That I would never feel like myself again? That I would ultimately be alone in all of this? That I would feel like a complete stranger to myself, yelling and screaming like never before in my entire life? Really, Mom, do you ever even remember me yelling and screaming my whole life? Even as a kid?”

  I don’t wait for her answer. We both know it.

  I can’t help myself from dominating the conversation. I press on. “I was mute! I had no voice. Now I feel like a totally different person. The stress and panic attacks that I had before having a child were so minuscule compared to what I go through as a mom. No one told me that my husband would be so active and motivated and working and supporting us before we got married, but that when I walked down that aisle that I would be end up in a

  marriage with a different man than the one I married. That I would never get a break - ever! I wish someone told me to only get married and have a child with someone if I was allowed to work part time and to have a nanny and that he must always provide for us financially. In today’s society, women are expected to do it all, and men are lost as to what their roles are anymore. Dylan is a perfect example of that. He knew how to court me, he knew how to be an excellent boyfriend. He knows how to love our daughter.

  “But with me being so independent and striving for career goals and earning more money throughout the years, working hard and long hours, it seems as though he doesn’t know where his place is. But why can’t he also work just as hard? Why does he have to take me for granted? How could he sit back and take the money and claim that it’s ours, when all he’s doing is figuring out how to spend it on alcohol, and he didn’t work for it and he isn’t sharing half of the responsibilities at a job or at home?