Sports, I love and hate them. My kids love sports. On game days, I would rather hide out and hope for something, Armageddon, zombie apocalypse or a flat. I get them ready. We are always late. I’m a failure. My anxiety is kicking me square in the teeth, as I desperately search for whichever item I’ve lost this time.
I’m gonna puke. Yep, there it goes. Damn, it’s on my shirt, gotta change. What a screw up! We don’t have time for this! I’m going to loose it.
I’m screaming, “Get in the car!”
Crap! Why is my voice so mean?
“Guys, please we have to go!”
We get to the car and I am making small talk to avoid the fear. The crowd, it’s coming. They’ll all look and see I can’t keep it together. Is that a stain on my sons shirt? Yep, great I can’t even get that right. Oh we are getting close. My chest hurts. Smile. Don’t forget you are supposed to smile.
Did everyone get their medicine? Do we have everything? It’s too late. Oh, there are so many cars. Why are there so many people? It’s so loud. Everyone is so loud! It’s bright, all the freaking lights. Why can’t I get it together? I’m messing my kids up for life.
Oh no! I forgot to bring headache pills, always with the headache. It hurts! Crap, I’m screaming again. They are just kids. They are going to run and touch. Why can’t I let them be little kids? Are my sons OK? One has autism. He doesn’t like crowds either. He is pulling his hair. No!
I can’t be a good mom. I can’t even keep everything stable enough to keep him calm. Oh, the other one is running, and he is down. Oh poor baby! Stop acting out son! I’m going to watch this game. Undivided attention, oh the lady behind me touched me! No, don’t touch me!
My hands are shaking. Everyone knows. They know I’m going to lose it. She is touching me again. I cut my eyes to see. She is pointing at my little one. He is climbing. Babe, go get him please! Oh no I’m alone. Why is everyone staring? Stop. Ugh they see it. They see me edging.
Yes, all these things go through my mind. It’s a quick succession I cannot control. It is awful. I often wish I could spew these words at the people around me. Maybe then they’d understand. They won’t. They can’t. You either have this and get it, or you don’t. Empathy is only a reaction taught with care. You cannot understand, yet maybe you will judge every word I’ve written.
The Mighty is asking the following: Are you a mother with a disability, disease or mental illness? What would you tell a new mother in your position? Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.