Here it comes, I feel it.  The anger welling up, sitting on my chest like a brick.  The tension pounding in my head. The tunnel vision. No, this is not a panic attack—this is anger, pure unadulterated anger.  The kind that makes me want to throw things at the wall, punch a wall, scream out in frustration.

What brought it out this time?  All 5 of my kids have been rude and disrespectful to me.  They argue with me, they talk back, they ignore me, they ignore my suggestions, they don’t respond when I talk to them, if they do it’s one short answer and in a go-to-hell tone.  I’m so sick and tired of feeling like I don’t matter to them, that they’re taking me granted, that nothing I say or do is right to them.

It’s gotten so bad that I’ve had fleeting thoughts of suicide.  Maybe they’re better off without me. Maybe I should just give up.  They don’t care, so why should I? It doesn’t matter what I say or what I think, they are going to do whatever they want anyway…

Some days I don’t want to keep on, keeping on.  I’m barely holding it together and it’s like the Dutch boy and the dam (plugging the hole with your finger type shit but not fixing it).  Some days I just want to give up and say, “fuck it.” 

What exactly am I fighting for?  They show annoyance with me when I ask them about their day, if they need help with anything, tell them to change because the clothes they’re wearing are falling apart, take a shower because they haven’t had one in 3 days, what time they have to work, if they’re okay, say we’re going to do something as a family.  I’m tired of holding it together just to get crapped on. I’m tired of busting my ass trying to make the house clean only for them to just trash it in 12 hours and complain that their friends don’t want to come over because it’s messy here.

I’m angry because I feel like their punching bag, that they don’t care that I bust my ass to make sure they have the things they need and want, that they don’t take care of what we have, that they talk back and argue over damn near everything that I say, that they don’t care.  They don’t listen, hell half the time they don’t even hear me when I’m talking.

I feel like I’m on fire, my vision tunnels up, my skin flushes, my head and heart pound in unison, I feel like I can’t breathe, the thoughts that rush through my head in a matter of milliseconds are intrusive and sometimes suicidal, I start shaking and the pin-prickling feeling goes down my skin. 

This is what red feels like to me.

Oh, no, I’m late again!  I’m always late it seems like these days.  Constantly running behind, forgetting to this or to do that.  And then it spirals out of control, the feelings start bogging me down.  I’m late, again. Can’t I do anything right? Another failure…I am a failure.

Then I start falling, falling down what I call the “rabbit hole.”  Just like Alice in Alice in Wonderland. Falling deeper and deeper and trying to get out.  Sometimes I catch myself on the edge and can hold on for dear life and not fall too deep, because I know that the further I fall into the rabbit hole, the harder it will be to get out.

I know that if I hit the bottom it will take everything in me to find a way out of the rabbit hole.  The rabbit hole, the characters in Wonderland, and Wonderland itself are what I liken my depression to be when it gets bad.

Something small happens, usually it’s something small, insignificant.  Maybe I am late, maybe I forgot to do something, maybe it’s a smell, it’s the date, someone says something or nothing at all, whatever the trigger is—usually it is something minor.  Then I’m standing on the edge of a gaping hole staring down into the depths of the hell of my own mind. Then, if I’m not too self-aware, I will start struggling with other thoughts and fall.  Down, down, down, down…

Then I hit the bottom.  Struggling with my own demons, my memories, my flaws, my mistakes, myself.  Everything piles up and crushes me, my chest and mind race. The White Rabbit is running around, neurotically telling me everything that is wrong with me and my life.  The Cheshire Cat is grinning in the background, laughing at me and speaking in riddles.

When I look around trying to find a way out of Wonderland and up the Rabbit Hole, it is a maze, a puzzle, a riddle trying to get out of my own mind.  My mind is confusing me—putting up barriers so I am unable to tell the truth from the “fairy” tale. Sometimes I feel too small, like I don’t even matter in this world or I’m unable to do anything.  Sometimes I feel too big, that I’m all my mistakes and too clumsy to navigate life.

I find myself sitting alone in my mind with different thoughts screaming at me, like the characters in Alice in Wonderland.  Laughing at me because I’ll never fit in. Rude thoughts, domineering thoughts, belittling thoughts. Logical thoughts fighting with the illogical thoughts.  All I can do is try to put the pieces together, try to find my way out. Do you know how hard it is to run away or fight your own thoughts?

Sometimes I fall down the rabbit hole for a short period of time, an hour or so.  But usually, if I don’t catch myself, it lasts for days. Then I’m on autopilot, survival mode, fight vs. flight, and I am fighting myself.  I know it’s ridiculous to be playing croquet with flamingos as mallets, to paint roses red (I guess I do need to fix that mistake I made), to be taking directions from a cat, and so much more.  I have to pick apart what is happening in my mind to get back “home.”

While my inner Queen of Hearts is screaming, “Off with her head,” my inner caterpillar is asking, “Who are you??”  This is the question I have to latch on to in order to leave the so-called Wonderland in my mind. I am me. I make mistakes, but they do not define who I am.  I am a mother. I am a daughter. I am a friend. I am loved. I am smart. I am strong. I am a warrior. I am a survivor. I am not a failure. I am not an idiot.  I am not weak. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I am a good person. I deserve happiness. I deserve to be kind to myself. I am me.

Is it just me, or do you have a voice inside your head that likes to tell you how big of a screw up you are?  The one that likes to yell obscenities at you when you are at your weakest or when you’re trying to sleep at night.

Mine likes to tell me I’m a huge fuck up, a horrible mother and person, and I can never do a damn thing right.  It also likes to remind me that every little thing is my fault. My fault. You screwed up again, can’t you do anything right???  Often laced with profanities and self-hatred.

My therapist told me that when the bitch starts talking to me like that to do something called the “open chair” talk.  Pretend that voice is a person sitting in a chair opposite of you and dispute what it says. Or, pretend you’re talking to someone and lift them up.

Typically before I saw a therapist when those thoughts would emerge I would either a) tell them to shut the hell up; b) shove those feelings into a box; or c) fall into what I “lovingly” call the rabbit hole.  Rinse and repeat every day, several times a day, at night, when I’m cooking dinner, when I’m trying to pay bills, when I’m trying to look like I got my shit together at school events, at any point during my day.

Now I tell myself I screwed up, but I am not a fuck up.  If I did make a mistake, I will try to own it and fix it.  I also was told to analyze the situation around those feelings.  Did I really make a mistake? Was it something in my control? It’s hard to do that when you’re in the moment, damn hard.  But you have to break the habit of downing yourself. Learn to lift yourself up.

You burnt dinner? So what!  It’s cereal night!

You didn’t give your kids what they wanted because you couldn’t afford it? So what!  They’re learning real life values.

You said no for the fiftieth milion time?  So what! You have boundaries too.

You screwed up your checking account? Whoops, shit happens.  Learn from the mistake, ask for help and try not to do it again.

Look, shit happens.  Some of it will be your fault and some of it won’t.  You cannot let it consume you. You cannot let it wear you down.  You have to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and keep going. Because, my dear, you screwed up, but you are not a screw up.