Dirty Laundry

I have written 50 blog posts I can't publish.


I can write about being a mom, I can write about CF, about Froggy, about being a writer, about Los Angeles, about a million things. But I can't write about the big D. How could I write about that without hanging our dirty laundry on the cyberspace line?

And yet it encompasses so much of our lives. It is our everyday, our new life, yet it mostly remains private. We have to keep up appearances and pretend that a family didn't really break up, that everyone is still whole. That a child isn't in the middle. Because that would be embarrassing. So we'll smile and nod and just hop over that great chasm that is... well you know.

I can say that I'm tired, disheartened, frustrated, over-worked and angry.

The other day I heard a quote that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up:

"Anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die."

Every day I drink this poison, when I come home to dirty dishes, a list of calls, a stack of bills, a dusty house and there is no partner, no one at 9pm when the dog needs to go out and the clothes are in the machine downstairs, and I still have nebulizers to boil, meds to prepare, and all I want to do is say, "Someone else do it!"

Someone else get up in the middle of the night, someone else wake up to the dog and the cats and the kid, just for one day." And when I do ask for help, there is instant regret. Because the repercussions of entitlement, apathy, or passive aggressiveness are worse than just doing it myself. Okay, maybe a little dirty laundry. Just a bra or sock. What do you expect?

When I ask for help it's what a mom must feel like when she asks her teenager to clean her room. Clothes shoved under the rug, a naked mattress, and a moldy cheese sandwich in the closet. The bare minimum, just enough to say, "I did what you asked, geeeeez." But it never resembles actual help. And ultimately, I come in, rake the clothes out from under the rug, put the sheets on the mattress, and throw away the moldy cheese sandwich.

And then I find myself chugging poison like it's red kool-aid in a South American cult. Because asking for help and getting half-ass is worse than nothing. It looks like help, it smells like help. But it isn't help. It's the cardboard cut-out of help.

Every night I go to bed with the weight of the world on my shoulders. Ultimately, realistically I am responsible for Froggy. What doctors she sees, what school she attends, if her clothes are clean, if she's had her meds, if her bed is made, prescriptions called in, if her teeth are brushed. It's up to me. And it's tough and it's even tougher keeping it to myself. So I'm sorry if I threw in a sheet or two, a towel from the hamper. But you should've seen the other 50 posts.