I Am The Reality

What if I wrote a post in the middle of a typical working-mama anxiety-jag? What if I have too much work today, and tomorrow I am going to be judged on all of my work for the entire school year, based on one observation? What if at least one motherfucker is going to come in and tell me how incompetent I am because her daughter is smart and I should give her high grades? And despite the fact that that mother wears belly-shirts and her very sweet daughter seems to have a memory problem, I am utterly anxious about the conflict? Despite the fact that I am known for my sharp wit, etc, that having any parent kvetch is like a case of salmonella in a public school? What if my new-moan-ya is coming back, just a bit, and I had to sleep the past three days, way more than I expected? And last weekend, instead of work, I was attentive daughter to ailing parent? And what if I am doing laundry, right now, for crissake? I'm 10 minutes from fold and sort.

Instead of a theory, I am the reality, right now. I took the meds I take for the goddamn anxiety disorder, but if I take the PRN for bad days, I'll be sedated, and then what? Why did I choose a profession which earns me just enough? I was brought up to have what I want, and I want my own bathroom. I want to take a leave of absence after a family member dies, or is quite ill. And what if I am quite ill? Must I say always that I am lucky because I am not starving? Or the pathetic line I give my children: "we're actually rich, compared to the rest of the world." Can I just be a product of our piggy lazy society and say I wanna lie on the couch, I wanna minute to volunteer at my kids' school, I wanna go back and get my hair re-done without thinking about the goddamn money?

I am not a sociological theory, I am a lady barely managing financially and emotionally in the lovely woodsy suburb so my kids can get an education worthy of the best private schools around. Somewhere along the line I forgot about me, or maybe money and me. The brawny psycho-pharm guy said it was impressive how much I've done, considering my psychiatric history. Oh, puhleez. Isn't raising two kids, getting a master's degree, trying to live with a man, and working full time enough to actually give someone a psychiatric condition?

I'm off to persevorate more, the imaginary print lining the inside of my skull.