Little Miss Crazy

Sunday night I lost my shit, rather publicly.

I really hate having that side of me be seen by anyone, let alone ‘everyone’.

I kind of feel like crawling in a hole.

After losing my shit, a friend reached out. He knew I needed to say the things to someone who could hear them, hold space for me, and reassure me that I’m not crazy. It was a very helpful meeting that brought me down to code yellow from code red, teetering on the edge of code black.

There are a lot of things I’m not talking about. I’m just bearing them. I’m just taking it because I can’t do anything about them. I’m bearing these things knowing that I’m misunderstood, misjudged, misrepresented.
I’m Little Miss Has-had-enough.

I’ve ‘talked’ about some of them here to a certain extent, but they’re still going on around me and I can’t talk about them in a way that brings any affectual resolution to the actual circumstances.

I feel like I’m constantly standing in the middle of multiple shit storms, and I just have to stand in them. And, while standing, I’m trying to figure out how to stand in a way that accepts, understands, and responds so that I’m at least not contributing to the storms AND at the same time trying to make sure I don’t get covered in shit.

The point at which I said, “I’m done trying to be Little Miss Helpful” was when I realized that shit, meant for me, is being somewhat thrown at one of my children.

My period is creeping up on me and I’m certain that lent some weight to the expression of the emotions, but that hormonal state only adds to the intensity of what is already in existence.

I can take shit and stay silent. I can’t take what’s meant for me being thrown at my children. I came very close to becoming