The Calm Within

I grew up with a mother who was either borderline or manic depressive or something. I don't know. She was never diagnosed. She never went to get real help because she didn't think she had a problem.

She would wake me up from sleep at 2 am and tell me I needed to do the laundry immediately.

But she didn't have a problem.

She would leave the house at midnight and find any open store so she could spend hundreds of dollars on things we didn't need.

But she didn't have a problem.

She would scream at my dad about crazy shit like not getting the right kind of melon at the grocery store and it would end up in a fight where she would run over his foot with the car in the driveway because of a fucking piece of fruit.

But she didn't have a problem.

She would get a job and lose a job and get a job and lose a job and get a job and lose a job because everyone she worked with had problems.

But she didn't have a problem.

In order to survive a house with a mother who was a frantic weather pattern, I had to control the calm within.

I did it the wrong way.

At first I tried to be perfect so nobody would yell at me.

Then I ate nothing for a while so I would disappear. Or to be more perfect, and because I didn't mind if that perfection would kill me.

I couldn't control what was around me, so I controlled what was inside me. But I controlled it the wrong way. Starvation. Self-destruction. Obsessing over numbers. Obsessing over myself.


I got married to a man who was depressed but didn't tell me about it. He was either depressed or had impulse control issues or something. I don't know. He was never diagnosed. He never went to get real help because he was ashamed of having a problem.

He would wake from sleep at 2 am and spend the rest of the night downstairs in the basement, gambling our family savings away.

But he was ashamed of having a problem.

He would start drinking at 8 pm and then take sleeping pills and then drink more and then hide the bottles and then pass out before I got into bed.

But he was ashamed of having a problem.

He would scream at me about crazy shit like forgetting to buy me a card for Valentines Day and he would punch a hole through the car window with his fist while we were driving because I asked him if we could do something for Valentines Day.

But he was ashamed of having a problem.

In order to survive a house with a husband who was a frantic weather pattern, I had to control the calm within.

I did it the wrong way.

At first I tried to be perfect so he would feel better. So he wouldn't punch things.

Then I exercised for four hours a day for a while so I would disappear. Or to be more perfect, because I didn't mind if that perfection would kill me.

I couldn't control what was around me, so I controlled what was inside me. But I controlled it the wrong way. Exhaustion. Self-destruction. Obsessing over numbers. Obsessing over myself.

Then I had children.

Then I had to survive for my children.

Then my husband killed himself.

Now I really have to survive for my children.

I am trying to find the calm within. That is different than the control within. I still want to control what I can. I still want to control myself as an antidote to chaos. I still want to be perfect. But I don't want to disappear, because I have children. I can't disappear, because I have children. I have to survive for my children.