"It IS juice!" I yelled, my two-year-old screaming at me for juice as I filled her cup with water and an Emergen-C packet.
It's my feeble attempt at combatting the constant barrage of germs that keep infesting our household.
She tossed the cup to the ground, still screaming for "juice." I grabbed her and the cup, passing her off to my husband as I slammed the basement door out of frustration.
It felt good, so I did it a few times. Then the door to our garage.
"I can't fucking take it anymore!" I screamed. I'd felt it coming since the night before. A shaken bottle of carbonated loneliness, depression, and anxiety ready to explode on the unsuspecting person who decided to turn the cap.
"I'm feeling depressed and anx..." I didn't get to finish.
"What did she do?" he asked, cutting me off mid-sentence.
I sighed, grabbing her back and hugging her tightly.
"Nothing. She did nothing."
My name is Kristen. And I am a fairly high functioning anxious depressed person.
It's exacerbated by post-partum hormones four times over and loneliness that comes with parenting alone.
I spin out every now and then, like a fast moving car hitting a patch of black ice. I don't really know when it's coming and most of the time I'm able to pump the brakes, turn into the curve, and recover.
Scared, breathing hard, but grateful to be alive.
I hide in the closet to catch my breath, leaning up against the door just in case my husband tries to come in.
He never does. But I secretly wish he would.
A few minutes later, I emerge from my cocoon, face red, eyes puffy. I dive into work. The laundry. My kids.
I pick my head up. Wipe my face off.
And carry on.