Have Yourself a Merry Little Melt-Down...
January 14th 2008 12:58
It’s been a while, I know.
Sorry, but the Christmas season was exceptionally silly, and rather than reflecting on the awesome gift of God sending His Son into the world, much of my energy was spent in a state of near panic. Whether it was the conclusion of a very hectic school year, the relief of the end to unhealthy relationships with superiors in business and in my daughter’s cultural pursuits (ie I changed “teams” and shifted dance schools), the lack of satire on TV for engaging my brain, and Neighbours, for disengaging it, or maybe it was just sheer exhaustion, I basically had a meltdown.
The torturously long school term was concluding, and so, on the last day of the school year, I attempted my yearly Christmas cake bake, as way of thanking the teachers. However, my son very conveniently chose to exhibit two year-old tendencies on this day. I exhibited the tendencies of shrew whose mental state was deteriorating rapidly. My sense of danger at my son’s continual excursions into the kitchen whilst the oven blazed evolved into anger that he continued to do so after many periods in “the sin bin” (ie time-outs in his cot). The adrenalin of trying to get this all done without a major accident led me to full blown anxiety, which took everything out of me.
So despite plans to have the family over on Christmas Eve, I ran away. The Saturday came with the blinding realization that I would not be able to cope with the task of preparing a baked Christmas dinner with a two year old attached to my ankles, let alone clean the grot-fest that our home had become. Despite pleading with my husband to not go to Cricket that afternoon, after having a panic attack, then sobbing uncontrollably for half an hour, he went. He offered to take the kids, but the thought of a not yet eight year old being responsible for the physical welfare of a terrible two whilst the father fielded a red ball for five hours did nothing to calm my panic, so I refused. Instead, my son went to his room for a nap, and my daughter (God bless her) watched DVD’s in her room quietly, so I could sleep it off a bit, after texting my brother to ask him to ring the parents and grandparents to cancel the family get-together. The Grinch of Mental Illness, like the ghost of Christmas Past (surely the juxtaposition of Charles Dickens with Dr Seuss betrays my mindset…), had returned to steal the festivities, like he had in my own childhood.
Now I’m not one for Karma, but I did say a quiet “Sucked in!” to myself when my husband, in choosing to put the eleven before the three at home, returned late that night with a badly injured finger from an apparently crucial catch. One of the guys asked me at Christmas Eve Carols if I gave “Ritchie” (bloody Cricket-team nick-names) lots of sympathy when he came home on Saturday. I almost leapt up and strangled the guy for daring to ask. He gathered it was a bit of a sore point (I think my face said it all), and shut up before I unleashed my wrath. He was lucky I had been away the night before, or I might have been beating his skull like a door knocker, using a fistful of his hair as a handle, against the parched earth of the playground, in front of my church family and kids from my Scripture class at whose school the event was being held.
However as I said, I had the previous day, after a failure of a morning at running the kids’ holiday program at our church (honestly, what kid doesn’t like Vege Tales?!? The minister’s kids, who firstly hoover all the popcorn, then take the others off rioting with them), run away. Feeling that a night away at Rydges Parramatta by myself would be far less stressful on the family than a trip to the Psych Ward, I packed my Body Shop kit, gym gear and cossies for a night of solitude, self-pampering and endorphin-chasing.
Solitude is a lovely thing. I love being alone. I love anonymity (can’t you tell, reader of my blog?!). I have, as of last Friday, been married for eleven years. That’s more than a third of my life. Alone is something I have not been for a very long time. Not having someone talking constantly at me hasn’t happened since my daughter began vocalizing. So twenty-hour hours of solitude and peace was required, and it was pleasant indeed. That day is precious to me. I will remember the salve it was, and when required, I intend to repeat the dose.
It did take the edge off the breakdown a bit. It wasn’t a complete cure, but it gave me the space I needed to let my body and mind stop racing… for then.
Sorry, but the Christmas season was exceptionally silly, and rather than reflecting on the awesome gift of God sending His Son into the world, much of my energy was spent in a state of near panic. Whether it was the conclusion of a very hectic school year, the relief of the end to unhealthy relationships with superiors in business and in my daughter’s cultural pursuits (ie I changed “teams” and shifted dance schools), the lack of satire on TV for engaging my brain, and Neighbours, for disengaging it, or maybe it was just sheer exhaustion, I basically had a meltdown.
So despite plans to have the family over on Christmas Eve, I ran away. The Saturday came with the blinding realization that I would not be able to cope with the task of preparing a baked Christmas dinner with a two year old attached to my ankles, let alone clean the grot-fest that our home had become. Despite pleading with my husband to not go to Cricket that afternoon, after having a panic attack, then sobbing uncontrollably for half an hour, he went. He offered to take the kids, but the thought of a not yet eight year old being responsible for the physical welfare of a terrible two whilst the father fielded a red ball for five hours did nothing to calm my panic, so I refused. Instead, my son went to his room for a nap, and my daughter (God bless her) watched DVD’s in her room quietly, so I could sleep it off a bit, after texting my brother to ask him to ring the parents and grandparents to cancel the family get-together. The Grinch of Mental Illness, like the ghost of Christmas Past (surely the juxtaposition of Charles Dickens with Dr Seuss betrays my mindset…), had returned to steal the festivities, like he had in my own childhood.
However as I said, I had the previous day, after a failure of a morning at running the kids’ holiday program at our church (honestly, what kid doesn’t like Vege Tales?!? The minister’s kids, who firstly hoover all the popcorn, then take the others off rioting with them), run away. Feeling that a night away at Rydges Parramatta by myself would be far less stressful on the family than a trip to the Psych Ward, I packed my Body Shop kit, gym gear and cossies for a night of solitude, self-pampering and endorphin-chasing.
Solitude is a lovely thing. I love being alone. I love anonymity (can’t you tell, reader of my blog?!). I have, as of last Friday, been married for eleven years. That’s more than a third of my life. Alone is something I have not been for a very long time. Not having someone talking constantly at me hasn’t happened since my daughter began vocalizing. So twenty-hour hours of solitude and peace was required, and it was pleasant indeed. That day is precious to me. I will remember the salve it was, and when required, I intend to repeat the dose.
It did take the edge off the breakdown a bit. It wasn’t a complete cure, but it gave me the space I needed to let my body and mind stop racing… for then.
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