The Unbalancing Act (7 page)

My quack schedule for the day is light and I am relieved. My morning meds arrive, an antidepressant and a benzo of some sort, in other words a crazy pill and a chill pill. Yes please! Katelyn is not back yet, so I get Gerri, the plastic face nurse this morning. I wonder if her face hurts. I wonder if she thinks fondly of her surgeon and the job he did. I watch her try to smile, at least I think that’s what she is doing, and I see the skin on her bottom lip actually pulling apart. She’s going to need some ChapStick for that because I think it cracked, may even be bleeding, but the wine-colored lipstick keeps it a mystery. Yikes! Her hair, which I am sure is gray underneath the golden dye, is a ponytail set high on her head. I can’t quite tell if it’s an extension or a clip-on ponytail, but I do believe that whatever it is, once belonged on the top of a horse’s ass. It’s definitely not human hair. But what the hell, she’s doing her thing.

I eat waffles and yogurt in my room. I always eat breakfast in my room. The whole breakfast in bed thing is fascinating. You lay there, someone brings you food, you eat it, you leave it, and they clean it up. Brilliant! I get in a nice long hot shower. My therapy appointment is at nine o’clock, so I take my sweet time getting ready. I throw on a hoodie and my stretchy pants because according to the calendar and pains in my worn out uterus, my lady friend is coming to visit today. Woop-a-dee-dooh!

After finding out last night that the “mean girls” that I thought were laughing at me were really just baked, I decide to call Eric and check on the boys, but I don’t hatch a plan to bust out. I might as well ride this thing out...at least a little longer. Eric says the boys are fine and they will visit soon. He reminds me how much he loves me and that he is so proud of me and can’t wait for me to be home. I bet he’s telling the truth because usually if I run out, even to the grocery store, he looks sweaty and anemic by the time I get back. I smooch kisses at my boys on speaker phone and tell them how much I love them and miss them. They tell me they are going to build me the coolest LEGO tower I’ve ever seen. Ben tells me that a girl in his class today told him that her mom is a dumb-ass. Although it kind of surprises me, I wonder what he told her about his mom. I can only imagine, “Well, my mommy’s in a mental institution and can kick your mommy’s ass ‘cause that bitch is crazy!” Oh, can you imagine?  The boys think I am at the doctor to get some rest. They are so smart though, they probably aren’t even buying this bullshit.

After my call, I decide to take a walk to ward off the cramps. As I am walking down the long hallway, I see the door open from my old room. It’s probably Bath Salts Mary heading to yoga. I can’t help but get a mental picture. I can imagine her eyeballs popping out and rolling on to her yoga mat while doing the downward dog and then the blood bath that would take place after she started ripping the flesh off the other participants and whipping their skin around in her jowls like a dog eating a pork butt. A tall woman leaves the room stepping quickly, like an invisible elf is walking behind her and jabbing a sharp stick up her ass. This is not Bath Salts Mary, this is someone else. I see a long blonde ponytail and navy blue pants with a white long-sleeved shirt, but I can’t see the front. Whoever it is must have spent the night and whoever it is clearly has a sore bum. Who is this? I must know. I pick up the pace and try to catch up. I never see her face, but I do see which room she goes into. She quickly shuts the door behind her. Well, hell…somebody’s got a little night-crawler around here. I’m not one for gossip, but curiosity may just kill this cat. Hmm…room 74. I’ll remember that.

Ano
ther room filled with glee. There is soft music, a nice comfy couch, and a big fluffy pillow. The walls are a tranquil blue and Dr. Ames, my other designated therapist, is a stout little fella with at least four chins and droopy eyelids. He sure seems like a nice enough guy, but I don’t care to get to know him. In fact, he seems too nice to be for real. Something is off about him. I just don’t get a good feeling. I see a picture of him and his wife on his desk. Oh well, he must be at least somewhat normal. I’m sure I am just being paranoid.

My plan is to get this over with so I can get back to some quiet time. His smile is literally from ear to ear and he welcomes me and offers me something to drink. I choose iced tea and he seems all excited that I accepted his offer. I’d rather have a vodka&7, but I don’t think that’s on the menu. He tells me to get comfortable and his smile fades only when I ask if the pillow case on the pillow is clean. He grabs a cup of ice from his mini-fridge and pours me some tea.

“I can assure you Mrs. Bower, may I call you Vada?” I nod. “I can assure you that it is clean. The staff always changes the pillowcases after each session. It says here in your chart that this type of thing may be a problem for you, is that correct?”

Well, if you think it’s a problem for me that I don’t want to get head lice or to touch some other person’s drool…or hairs… or flakes of their dead skin cells, and that I don’t want to put my head on a spot where some nasty person’s snot may have gotten wiped on, then yes it’s a problem for me.

“Umm…I was just checking. I’m a mother and laundry is part of my life,” I say, trying to ease myself out of that topic.

“Alright, Miss Vada, today I want to jump right into this. Don’t hold back. You are in a place of no judgments. I want you to think of this room as a box, okay? Try with me to imagine this room is a little box and you safely place your thoughts and secrets into this box. You can lock it up when you leave. Only you have the key. Are you imagining this, Miss Vada?”

What the hell is he rambling on about?  What a silly little man.

“Yes, Dr. Ames. I totally get it.”

“Good. Now remember, you hold the key, you turn the key, so open your box now.”

Did he really just ask me to open my box? I want to burst out laughing. I try to be serious.

“It’s open,” I say, holding back a giggle, but in my mind I wonder what he’d do if I dropped my drawers and spread my legs. I wonder if he’d stop using this ridiculous metaphor, but who knows...maybe he’s really a pervert and is thinking the same thing.

“Okay, I want to go back to the night when you were on the roof, do you recall that night, Miss Vada? It was the night you wanted things to end. I know this may be difficult, so take your time.”

I’d like this to end right now so I can go watch
The Golden Girls
marathon in the T.V. room. I know what he is referring to and I knew this was going to come up at one point or another. I guess I better get this over with so I can get back to my rest and relaxation.

He starts reading from his clipboard, “The incident occurred this past winter, Christmas Eve. Your husband was very concerned about this. Tell me what led to you being up on the roof. What was going through your mind?”

“I just wanted the noise to stop. I had a headache. I just wanted to find some peace. That’s all...some peace. Some quiet. Some calm.”

He looks at me concerned and writes down some notes.

I think back... Christmas had been an absolute freak show. I was so stressed about how much money we were spending trying to buy gifts for what I felt like was a million people. I had the kids’ Christmas parties at school, plus their programs to go to. I had my husband’s company party where you have to look like one of the Real Housewives in order to step in the door. Let me tell you, being a stay-at-home mom at a company party is super fun. Not really. Everyone dresses like they are something special and everyone’s got these big bad jobs and their stupid business jokes which make me want to lick a mousetrap every time I hear one. But it wasn’t just the parties; it was actually Christmas…making the rounds to see all the family so that no one gets offended. I always have to cook crap that I don’t even like, like casseroles. Just the word casserole makes think of dirty dishes. I’m always baking cookies and burning cookies. I have to explain to the family why everything I bring to Christmas dinner sucks, and it sucks even worse knowing my mother-in-law wishes I could feed her son better food. It stresses me out watching the kids open presents from relatives and then I cringe when they toss them to the side. At least they try to be polite sometimes. Max actually opened a little toy phone that would have been more age appropriate if he were a two year-old and he looked up with big sweet eyes at his great uncle and said, “I don’t really like that, but thank you anyways.” Of course I pretended not to hear and bolted my ass out of the room. It was Eric’s side of the family, therefore I felt like he needed to smooth that over. Of course, I still stressed about it. Just the overwhelming feeling of too much to do with too little time, all while trying to teach the kids the real meaning of Christmas, and also making their Santa experience magical and memorable.

“Whenever you are ready, Vada. Remember your box.”

Hahahahaha!

“Okay Dr. Ames, I remember being overwhelmed. There was just so much going on. I had some trouble getting the gifts together and making everything perfect. I wanted to make everything special for my kids, you know?”

I’m not going to tell Dr. Ames this, but I do remember. Christmas Eve after my little lovies finally fell asleep, I was putting together a race track with my eyes halfway open when I realized the 4 D batteries were not included. I remember my eyes burning with tears and I felt like getting a kitchen knife and stabbing the damn box. Why the fuck couldn’t it say “batteries not included” in BIG letters on the box? They should be included anyway! I paid seventy-five bucks for this piece of shit plastic track and you want to tell me that I have to pay an additional ten bucks and leave the house in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve when its sixteen degrees and snowing outside!  Why doesn’t Santa Claus get off his big fat lazy ass and get them himself?  I was so pissed and I am embarrassed to admit this, but I did smack it around a bit. I threw one of the cars and kicked the shit out of the empty box and then I laid down on the floor by the Christmas tree and cried. I cried and cried and cried. Eric came down to see if I needed any help. I bet he wishes he wouldn’t have. I remember saying something along the lines of, “If you don’t find a 24-hour store and come back with 4 D batteries and a large Diet Coke with extra ice and some Milk Duds in fifteen minutes, I will literally test out this motherfucking race track with my minivan.” I think it was thirty minutes, but he made it happen. He also stayed up and helped me get everything else ready for Christmas morning. Unfortunately, it took me almost having a nervous breakdown to get any help.

“So you were feeling stressed and overwhelmed by the season, this is very common Miss Vada, go on...”

I wish he’d quit calling me Miss Vada, I’m not a damn preschool teacher!

“Okay, umm...I had some trouble getting the gifts ready and umm...my family came. My family is dysfunctional. They have a lot of problems and I guess I am just not very good at dealing with them.”

I’m remembering what really happened on Christmas morning. My family always comes to watch the kids open presents. My mother always brings an insane amount of gifts for the kids. My mother is a sweet lady. She is one of those ladies who would literally give you the shirt off her back if you needed it. She has short gray hair, because she doesn’t want to mess with coloring it even though she’s only fifty-three. She wears glasses and is a cute little grandma. You can’t help but like her even though she can be bossy at times. Her intentions are always good.

My father and my brother, Heath, showed up and they were at each other’s throats. Heath and dad have a love-hate relationship. Heath still has issues with my parents getting divorced. He was always so sensitive. Although my parents have been divorced for many years, they too have a love-hate relationship. My dad walked in and grabbed the baby and I could see my mother’s eyes dilate and focus and I knew she was pissed that he got to him first. It’s always a competition.

My dad is kind of immature. Don’t get me wrong, I love him with all my heart, but he’s like a six year-old in a fifty-four year-old body. He is always telling jokes, which are quite funny actually. But, he is always getting into some kind of trouble. He’s constantly trying to win sweepstakes and get on game shows. He’s the kind of guy who will bet it all on red, literally. He loses money as fast as he makes it. I can’t tell if he’s a compulsive gambler or if he just really likes to play games. He always exceeds the limits at the casino, but you should see him at a state fair. The man will literally spend hundreds of dollars playing carnival games, like popping balloons with darts and bouncing frogs with a hammer and getting them to land on a lily pad. My kids love it because they come home with bags full of stuffed animals and bouncy balls. He’s a kind-hearted man, but really, he is still a child.

Heath is five years older than me and divorced with no children. He’s a good guy who loves weed by day and bourbon by night and needs to find a good gal who wants to marry a guy who loves weed by day and bourbon by night. His ex-wife was one of those patchouli oil chicks, very beautiful in a hippie kind of way. She always wore long skirts and tight shirts. She always had some new remarkable thing she had discovered, like a new hookah, or a piece of jewelry that could read your mind. They were a good couple, but quite honestly, I think they didn’t work because Heath drank too much. The pot didn’t bother her. She was always smiling, if you know what I mean. He hasn’t done too badly though since the divorce. He started a moving company and him and my dad and two of his buddies bought some moving trucks. They actually run a pretty good business and it helps to keep them out of trouble. The only problem is that business and family don’t always mix well, as they are slowly learning.

Heath and Dad were off whispering in the corner, probably something to do with money, and Mom came out and told them both to just leave and that they weren’t going to ruin Christmas for everyone by telling secrets. It always starts off this way. I had to calm everyone down and convince everyone to stay. I was exhausted before I could even finish the greeting part!

“Dysfunctional can mean many things, Vada. Can you explain?”

“Well, Dr. Ames, I guess everyone has issues and I’m usually too involved in trying to sort out other people’s lives than to focus on my own.”

I lay there remembering how that day came and went and the baby cried and the kids laughed and then fought and everyone had too many cocktails. Except for me because I was too busy taking care of the kids and cleaning up. My mom helped a lot, of course, by wiping shit down and doing dishes, but then she started doing laundry. I remember telling her, “No no no...there is no laundry on Christmas. I’m not doing this today.” She retorted by telling me, “I was just trying to help, but if you don’t want my help then maybe I should just leave.” That made me cry and then I joined her in folding clothes. After that was done, she came up and put her little arm around my shoulder and said, “Now, aren’t you glad that’s done?”  But I wasn’t glad. I wanted to go throw the laundry basket upside down in the snow. I wanted to do something other than chores on one freaking day of the year. So no, I was not glad. I was pissed. But I just smiled and thanked her and told her yes. Why is it that on holidays everyone else gets to relax and have a good time except for the moms?  The men all go off and lay down because they are “so full” from the meal that they were just cooked and served. I swear one day I am going to make a mommy’s only Christmas party and me and my mommy friends are ordering in and hiring a cleaning service (of men) to clean up after us. Men shouldn’t even be invited to Christmas as far as I’m concerned. Once a guy turns eighteen, I say we just send them a card and wish them a Happy New Year.

“Well, Miss Vada, when we neglect ourselves it can lead to serious problems, which we may not realize until it’s too late. Let’s talk about the roof, shall we?”

“Dr. Ames, it was a moment of weakness. When I went up on the roof that night, I may have wanted to kill myself, but then I thought of all the reasons I needed to live, my children, my husband. I may have had suicidal thoughts, but almost dying that night has changed me forever. I cherish every day now. I’m in a new stage in my life and it’s called living!” My pants are on fire from these lies. Jiminy Cricket needs to step in and tell me it is wrong, but he must be choking on the smoke.