I'm standing in the stuffy stock room, clutching the huge freezer that holds the extra stock of ice cream. The door is locked and I'm surrounded by cases of water and soda.
My body is shaking so violently, I feel I may fall over. My face is hot. My hair is drenched with sweat under the mandatory ball cap I wear for work. I cannot stop crying.
Nor I can breathe. I have a little over a half an hour before the end of my shift and it's all hit me just now.
I force with all my might to push the emotions underneath. It feels like a physiological task. I look like I've been crying, but I can't waste anymore time.
Flinging 24 packs of water and soda onto the dolly, my muscles quivering, I feel as if I could lift a car if I wanted. Actually, I do want. The pent up energy is quite uncomfortable.
I pull the heavy cart to the back door of the store, glaring at people as I make my way.
Pricing and stocking, I finish in record time, desperate to leave. I don't know if I can keep a hold of the feelings bubbling just beneath the surface.
In my head, I'm pleading and begging with my boss. Things are moving in slow motion.
Please just let me go home. It's only 20 minutes. I can't do this right now.
He does and I clock out, grab my bag, and leave in record time.
I'm craving a cigarette so bad I could eat one. Literally, chew up the tobacco and swallow it. The crowds swallow and spit me out. I feel my personal space constantly invaded.
Walking out to the Chicago heat, it's like a punch to the gut. 95 and humid. I swap my glasses for sunglasses and count the seconds for the light to change. I pray no one else stands beside me in the bus stop enclosure.
I smoke my cigarette, staring at the ground, trying to keep still. My hands will not stop shaking.
My brain feels as if it's vibrating. My eyes won't stay focused, but the nicotine feels damn good.
Busses and cabs fly by. People are looking at the transit map next to me. I don't move, but their standing so close enrages me.
I imagine ripping my skin off. Feeling it tear. Hearing the sound of it being pulled from my muscles. I imagine tackling someone and punching them in the face until my hand hits cement.
The bus comes. I get on, find a seat. My hands are still shaking. People are looking at me as if I am a crack head in need of a fix. I don't care.
I'm exhausted. I can barely keep my eyes open as the bus moves at a snail's pace.
I get to my stop and step off. The heat and sun are violent, nearly causing me to lose my balance.
I look ahead. Half a block to my building. It feels as if I will never get there. The walk is an impossible task.
The aches and pains start to set in. I repeat in my head "One step. One more step. Another."
Finally, I get there. I unlock the door and press the button for the elevator. It takes three millennium.
I get in the door, get into my room. And here I am. Eyes half open. Phone constantly vibrating from text message updates. Covered in sweat, my face a sunburned pink. I'm still shaking.
I guess I should mention why it is I am having a nervous breakdown. The thought of explaining it is overwhelming. I don't feel like I even have the energy to do so.
Last night, my older sister, age 30, still living with my mother, age 50, paying no rent, but giving lots of lip, is going out to the club. Her favorite pastime.
My mother mentions she's dressed like a stripper. No doubt, a 30 year old woman can dress the way she wants, but her mother will always have something to say about it.
My sister, with nothing of her own save her gargantuan ego and inflated pride, becomes wildly offended. She stands as close to my mother as she can, screaming in her face, spit flying from her mouth.
My mother, a world weary woman, barely any sanity left at this point in her life, a suicide attempt in her not too distant past, calls the police. She has not the emotional wherewithal to deal with this.
The police come. They tell my sister she can't stay there tonight. She says she has nowhere to go. Words are exchanged and my sister is again confronting my mother, attempting to intimidate her. My mother slaps her.
The officers ignore it. They see a middle aged woman who has never escaped adolescence, angry at the world, insecure with her place in life, intimidated by others her age, deserving of that slap.
My sister calls their supervisor and there is nothing the cops can do but arrest my mom.
Currently, my mother, who is no doubt on the brink of slitting her wrists, is in Cook County Prison. She is likely wearing an orange jumpsuit and sharing a rusty toilet with someone who's criminal record is ten times as long as hers. Eating bologna sandwiches, she is probably humiliated and scared.
And my little sisters, whose lives have yet to really begin, will be bailing her out later this evening.
I, helpless to the situation, must sit and deal with the realization that my family is crumbling. It is cracking and deteriorating worse than ever before. This is the beginning of the end. I have to swallow this realization and keep hold of my head.
At this moment, my older sister has returned home for round two. She is screaming in my 75 year old grandmother's face. My grandmother has complained of her heart beating too fast. She is also shaking, angrier than she has been in a long time. It takes a lot for my grandmother to tell someone "Go fuck yourself," let alone utter an expletive. And I am in the city, helpless.
Before you ask...
No, I would not like to talk about it.
I do not wish to exchange IMs or PMs.
I appreciate the gesture and the kind words that will follow. Or not follow, as I'm sure there are many relishing in my misery. This is fine. I'm not unaccustomed to madness of this caliber.
But no, I do not need a helping hand or shoulder to cry on.
You will see me posting in the coming days as if I am perfectly fine, or maybe you will sit and overanalyze my usual sarcasm and bluntness as a cry for help. It isn't.
I will come here for the distractions. For the mere sound of keys being punched on my laptop. Anything to drown out the deafening buzzing and static.
But no, I do not wish to talk about it.
My body is shaking so violently, I feel I may fall over. My face is hot. My hair is drenched with sweat under the mandatory ball cap I wear for work. I cannot stop crying.
Nor I can breathe. I have a little over a half an hour before the end of my shift and it's all hit me just now.
I force with all my might to push the emotions underneath. It feels like a physiological task. I look like I've been crying, but I can't waste anymore time.
Flinging 24 packs of water and soda onto the dolly, my muscles quivering, I feel as if I could lift a car if I wanted. Actually, I do want. The pent up energy is quite uncomfortable.
I pull the heavy cart to the back door of the store, glaring at people as I make my way.
Pricing and stocking, I finish in record time, desperate to leave. I don't know if I can keep a hold of the feelings bubbling just beneath the surface.
In my head, I'm pleading and begging with my boss. Things are moving in slow motion.
Please just let me go home. It's only 20 minutes. I can't do this right now.
He does and I clock out, grab my bag, and leave in record time.
I'm craving a cigarette so bad I could eat one. Literally, chew up the tobacco and swallow it. The crowds swallow and spit me out. I feel my personal space constantly invaded.
Walking out to the Chicago heat, it's like a punch to the gut. 95 and humid. I swap my glasses for sunglasses and count the seconds for the light to change. I pray no one else stands beside me in the bus stop enclosure.
I smoke my cigarette, staring at the ground, trying to keep still. My hands will not stop shaking.
My brain feels as if it's vibrating. My eyes won't stay focused, but the nicotine feels damn good.
Busses and cabs fly by. People are looking at the transit map next to me. I don't move, but their standing so close enrages me.
I imagine ripping my skin off. Feeling it tear. Hearing the sound of it being pulled from my muscles. I imagine tackling someone and punching them in the face until my hand hits cement.
The bus comes. I get on, find a seat. My hands are still shaking. People are looking at me as if I am a crack head in need of a fix. I don't care.
I'm exhausted. I can barely keep my eyes open as the bus moves at a snail's pace.
I get to my stop and step off. The heat and sun are violent, nearly causing me to lose my balance.
I look ahead. Half a block to my building. It feels as if I will never get there. The walk is an impossible task.
The aches and pains start to set in. I repeat in my head "One step. One more step. Another."
Finally, I get there. I unlock the door and press the button for the elevator. It takes three millennium.
I get in the door, get into my room. And here I am. Eyes half open. Phone constantly vibrating from text message updates. Covered in sweat, my face a sunburned pink. I'm still shaking.
I guess I should mention why it is I am having a nervous breakdown. The thought of explaining it is overwhelming. I don't feel like I even have the energy to do so.
Last night, my older sister, age 30, still living with my mother, age 50, paying no rent, but giving lots of lip, is going out to the club. Her favorite pastime.
My mother mentions she's dressed like a stripper. No doubt, a 30 year old woman can dress the way she wants, but her mother will always have something to say about it.
My sister, with nothing of her own save her gargantuan ego and inflated pride, becomes wildly offended. She stands as close to my mother as she can, screaming in her face, spit flying from her mouth.
My mother, a world weary woman, barely any sanity left at this point in her life, a suicide attempt in her not too distant past, calls the police. She has not the emotional wherewithal to deal with this.
The police come. They tell my sister she can't stay there tonight. She says she has nowhere to go. Words are exchanged and my sister is again confronting my mother, attempting to intimidate her. My mother slaps her.
The officers ignore it. They see a middle aged woman who has never escaped adolescence, angry at the world, insecure with her place in life, intimidated by others her age, deserving of that slap.
My sister calls their supervisor and there is nothing the cops can do but arrest my mom.
Currently, my mother, who is no doubt on the brink of slitting her wrists, is in Cook County Prison. She is likely wearing an orange jumpsuit and sharing a rusty toilet with someone who's criminal record is ten times as long as hers. Eating bologna sandwiches, she is probably humiliated and scared.
And my little sisters, whose lives have yet to really begin, will be bailing her out later this evening.
I, helpless to the situation, must sit and deal with the realization that my family is crumbling. It is cracking and deteriorating worse than ever before. This is the beginning of the end. I have to swallow this realization and keep hold of my head.
At this moment, my older sister has returned home for round two. She is screaming in my 75 year old grandmother's face. My grandmother has complained of her heart beating too fast. She is also shaking, angrier than she has been in a long time. It takes a lot for my grandmother to tell someone "Go fuck yourself," let alone utter an expletive. And I am in the city, helpless.
Before you ask...
No, I would not like to talk about it.
I do not wish to exchange IMs or PMs.
I appreciate the gesture and the kind words that will follow. Or not follow, as I'm sure there are many relishing in my misery. This is fine. I'm not unaccustomed to madness of this caliber.
But no, I do not need a helping hand or shoulder to cry on.
You will see me posting in the coming days as if I am perfectly fine, or maybe you will sit and overanalyze my usual sarcasm and bluntness as a cry for help. It isn't.
I will come here for the distractions. For the mere sound of keys being punched on my laptop. Anything to drown out the deafening buzzing and static.
But no, I do not wish to talk about it.
