Emotional Food Poisoning (or How to Make Your Husband Beg For Mercy)

Wow what a week.

And it’s only Wednesday.
Darn it.

You know, for the past two weeks, every day has felt like Friday, and not in that good, “Friday! Friday! Gonna get down on Friday!” way (thank you, Rebecca Black). No, it’s the “Dear God, it must be over now. It HAS to be over. So tired, so achy, exhausted . . . wait, it’s Wednesday? Crap.”

You peeps know what I mean? Yes? Goody.

This weekend was an odd combination of enjoyment, work, and emotional break-downs. Such a lovely combo. Would you like fries and tissues with that? Super-size your order for an extra headache?

Exhaustion, stress, and bottled fears suddenly exploded like your Science Fair volcano.

Oh yeah, and hormones were in the mix. Dandy! Bloating, break-outs, and breakdowns—my favorite!

I’ll never say hormones are the complete cause of drama: they’re more the baking soda to my vinegar. I don’t even realize everything I’m trying to ignore until I’m too tired, the elephant is too big to sweep under the rug, and doggone it, hormones start sprinkling in. A tooth in the key of unlocking the “let’s tear all the walls down simultaneously” syndrome. Again: Dandy! My favorite.

NOT.

It was bad enough that Chris and I made an emergency ice-cream run at 1:30 am. I don’t believe in comfort food, and I try not to keep sweets in our larder, but if I didn’t get ice cream right then and there, my soul would wither.

It’s bad enough that the next night, I had a miniature relapse. The day after that, I was fighting sobs in my cubicle. So Chris, to prove how much he cared and how sorry he was for not being more helpful and involved, cleaned the entire apartment and took me out to dinner.

There were just too many emotions and fears to contain any more. It was food poisoning of the mind and heart . . . and they would not stop vomiting. Yes, it’s just that gross.
And, FYI nothing is more terrifying than a woman experiencing emotional vomit. The rage, the tears, the complete lack of a mental and emotional filter. Just a woman unloading every thought and feeling.  Something you can't fix until the storm blows over. It's every man's nightmare.

You know, despite my dramatic tendencies, I used to have a great deal of emotional control—a tearless ice queen, even. After I started taking the pill, I cried at the drop of a hat. I caught myself tearing up during my baby sister's viewing of "Pooh's Heffalump Movie." THE HEFFALUMP MOVIE. What the crap? You’d think being off the pill for three months would bring emotional balance, but no. I’m still a mess.

It took this weekend to realize how utterly panicked and stressed I am about moving.
About teaching a new grade this year—even if it is in my area of expertise, first years teaching a new grade level is scary to begin with, scarier when you’ve already had a first year somewhere else.
Bewildered at how to juggle the move, the school prep, the housekeeping, the cooking, and the full time job.
Ashamed of the mess in my home and my physical state . . . oh and the stress-induced cystic zits on my chin. (Why do I have to wear my stress? And not like a t-shirt but like bloody Olympus Mons on my face?)

I discovered that I felt really, really alone, like I had to do everything by myself, and the pressure was killing me. Chris was busy with work, too, so why bother him with silly things like the dishwasher, packing boxes, and cooking dinner? Well, I bothered, and he has delivered. Sometimes it takes a nasty little stretch for both of you to realize how out of balance things had become and how necessary true partnership is.

The good news is we've had a day and a half of normalcy. YAY!!!!  It can only go up from here, folks!

Have you ever had emotional-food-poisoning kind of days? How did you get through it?