One day about 8 years ago, I was driving to work very early on a beautiful winter morning.
I made the turn onto my school's street and approached the parking lot, ignoring the dull pulse of dread in my stomach. I felt that way a lot, and I didn't know it was not normal. I just always figured I was a little high strung. After all, I had only recently finished college and returned to the job market, I had my first full-time teaching job, and both my daughters were in high school. I mean, come on! It was the trifecta of dread.
Just as I reached the parking lot, "Rocky Mountain High" came on the radio. My throat suddenly felt tight and achy, and without thinking about it I passed the driveway and continued on down the street to where it dead-ended in a park.
This was before I worked at Some Slummy School. It was when I worked
at Semi-Decent Suburban School which was located right next to a hundred-acre park. Snow had fallen during the night. The sky was a crystalline blue and the sun glinted off the new snow.
I turned the radio up and rolled the windows down so I could feel the cold air on my face. Then I sobbed as if my heart were broken. The song had somehow stabbed me and released a tidal wave of yearning for, I don't know, friends around the campfire and everybody's high? Rainin' fire in the sky? My lost youth?
Then the song was over and I turned the car around and went to work as if I were a perfectly normal person who was not in desperate need of anti-depressants.
Fast forward to earlier this week, when I was all exhausted and croaky-throated with a cold and heavily involved with the preparations for Uncle Sailor's visit. I left work early (meaning, on time) so that I could go home, pick up the food I had prepared the night before (with Josh's help, you have no fucking idea how wonderful he is), then go to my parents' house to serve dinner for 11. (Don't be impressed or feel sorry for me. Sister Julie does shit like this all the time, never complains, and even seems to enjoy it GO FIGURE.)
So, my mom called me in the middle of a resentful conversation that I was having with myself in the car and said, "Dear? Could you pick up salad makings?" Such a simple request. But you see, she had insisted that she would make the salad. INSISTED. Because she still thinks she can do stuff like that. And I still desperately want to believe she can do stuff like that.
I said, "Yes, of course Mom, no problem." Then I hung up, called Josh at work, and ranted to him in my croaky voice about the unfairness of it all. At one point he said, "Are you sure you should even go over there and expose your parents to your germs?" and I responded with something so horrible and bitter that I won't even repeat it. He gently suggested that I was a little over-wrought.
After we hung up, I arrived at my house, packed up a box with dinner and accessories, and got back in the car to drive to Safeway for salad makings. And on the way there, Rocky Mountain High came on the radio. (I know, right? What kind of crappy radio stations am I listening to?)
And it was like a fucking dam broke and I began crying so hard I had to pull over because I couldn't see. And I remembered that day eight years ago, and I cried again for my lost youth and my yearning to be somewhere else, somewhere outside, somewhere beautiful and big and peaceful where I could just sit and be. And I cried for my parents who are old and sweet and unsteady on their feet and so fucking difficult. And I cried because I am afraid I will get Alzheimers, too. Or start crapping my pants like my father. Or be living in a house that is falling apart around me and be so lacking in judgment that I won't know that I should have moved ten years ago. And I cried because my classroom is messy and I left work before I could get organized. And because I can hardly ever remember to bring the fabric bags in to the grocery store and it's all my fault we are killing the world with plastic. And because both my kids have moved out. (I mean, I like that they have moved out, I really, really do. But at the same time, oh Christ it's weird seeing your daughter's teddy bear face-down on the floor of her room as she is carrying boxes out to her car, just take my word for it. )
Yeah, nervous breakdown, on the verge of, obv.
I'M THE SENSITIVE ONE.
Probably time for a check-in with my therapist, you think? Or do I need to actually go to the Rocky Mountains next weekend and get high?