My Engine

Even my can opener isn't working. Sorta like my brain.

I'm standing in my kitchen in a moment of alone, all children in the care of others, school, or a crib. Prepping dinner seems the responsible use of this time, even though it feels wrong to me. Wrong and heavy and burdensome and demanding... another weight.

Last night I shot up from my pillow, erect, unable to take my pounding heart anymore. Husband says, "Bad dream?"

I think, "This would be a good dream, for it to be a bad dream." There's no way to wake from my quickened breathing, racing heartbeat, sweats, anxious thoughts; they are ceaseless. I settle for, "Something is not right. I'm not supposed to feel this way." Husband settles for holding me while I swirl.

Today I'm sleepless, aimless, worn down, uncertain, confused, foggy... Overwhelmed. By. Everything. And so I choose, in the only free moments of this day, to unnecessarily labor in my kitchen over dinner prep. Since everything feels do or die, the unexpected misbehavior of my can opener sends me into a complete hysteria. Unopened refried beans = everything falling apart.

Short fused is new. Flying off the handle novel. I watch this unhinged version of myself fling a can opener across the kitchen, blasting into things as it crashes across the island and comes to a halt on the kitchen floor. Startled by my rage, I crumble to the floor. Alone, trembling, scared by what I just did.

Over the months I journal. I yoga. I breathe. I meditate. I therapy. I exercise. I pray. I talk and talk and share and share. I seek medication. I call in for support with my kids, my home, my duties. I improve. I decline. I dig out. I fall in.

I wonder if this is the new me. Above all, this makes my heart race the fastest.

Meanwhile, I watch every other woman I know climb the Motherhood Mountain exhausted and harried, but not - like me - completely broken down.

Someone tells me: What if there is a reason for your overwhelm? I grip to this notion like it's a rainbow, a promise of hope. What if this unfamiliar anxiety is not tied to an emotional battle, a depression? What if what is harassing me is rooted in something plainly explainable?

I learn a metaphor that makes my compassionate self pat my downtrodden self on its worried little head. It is spoken by a specialist who diagnoses learning disabilities and, after testing me, he says this: "You are driving a car with two of its four tires flat. The engine is strong - a fine piece of machinery - but despite this it cannot produce what other cars can. It is overworked."

I realize my engine, my brain during this season, doesn't just run more slowly. It doesn't just grumble against the pull. It fully blows out.

I commit to learning about my learning disability like a ninja.

It takes years. It is not perfect. But I grow to treat my brain like a newborn baby, learning its coos and cries and protests - what is best for it and how and when to rest it.

I give refuge to my taxed engine. I buy a new can opener and more frozen pizzas for dinner. I sleep well again.