Hide, Run Away, Disappear

~

I wake from a deep sleep from a dream that seems so real. I can feel all of the emotions, the intensity, and I miss it. I want to go back. I look at my clock. 5:30 am, and immediately the dread sets in. My alarm will go off at 6:15, but I know that before it does, my day will already begin.

And before the sun is up, before the alarm sings, I want to hide. I want to run away. I want to disappear.

Because I know what’s coming. My day.

It starts with my bedroom door crashing open and banging against the wall.

“Mooommmy,” she says entering my room.

I take a deep breath and roll my eyes in the dark. I know she needs something. My poor sweet little girl has been sick and incredibly clingy to mommy this week, and I am at the point to where I want to change my name.

She makes it to my bed, and I feel her tiny hand on my stomach.

“Mommy, is it morning yet?” She asks and then starts coughing. I reach over and pull her into my bed and snuggle against her back.

“No, baby. It’s not morning until the sun is out. Come lie with me and rest.”

And we lie there together. I won’t fall back asleep. I will put my nose in her hair and smell her and hold her next to me and try to make myself believe that I am enough for her, that she doesn’t deserve someone better, that I shouldn’t just disappear.

The alarm sings, and we get up. She follows me to the bathroom and stands at my elbow as I brush my teeth and wash my face. I walk into my closet to get dressed, and she’s right there, and I don’t want to be annoyed by it. I don’t want to be aggravated that she needs me, but I am, and I hate it, and it makes me want to cry because I want to hide. I want to run away. I want to disappear.

I dress and then walk upstairs to wake my son. I crawl into his bed and kiss his head and tell him it’s time to start the day. He is warm and sweet, and I could stay here all day, but he has tutoring, and school, and an entire day awaiting him, so I shake his shoulder and tell him to get up. I pull out some clothes and tell him to jump in the shower. He argues with me for twenty minutes. I stay calm, try not to yell, but the pressure is building as each minute passes, and I know that he will be late for school if he doesn’t get moving. I can’t send him to school without a shower. I start the water, get him a towel, and leave him to take care of everything else. I go to the kitchen to make his lunch, get his bag packed, and feed the little girl who is attached to my hip. When I walk back into the bathroom to check on him, he still hasn’t washed his hair. I lose it, and yell at him that he needs to hurry, that he’s going to be late, and I immediately hate myself for losing my temper. I don’t want his day to start off this way, and now he’s as frustrated as I.

I manage to get him to school, three minutes late, his first tardy in three years of school, and as soon as he passes through the double doors, I turn around and all I can think is: I want to hide. I want to run away. I want to disappear.

I spend the morning cleaning up messes, playing barbies, doing laundry, doctoring my sick little girl. Time flies by, and it’s already time for lunch. I made a big dinner last night and decide left overs will make lunch simple. I heat everything up, plate the food, and call my husband in from his office.

“I’ll be right there,” he says.

“I’m hungry, mommy,” my daughter whines.

“Wait for daddy, baby,” I tell her as we sit together around our table.

She starts picking at her food, and I ignore it. He’s taking forever. What’s going on in his office is more important than lunch. I get that, but it still seems disrespectful, and I can’t help that it bugs me.

He finally sits down, takes a bite of his food and says, “It’s cold,” and immediately gets up to reheat it. No big deal.

Under my breath, I say, “Of course it’s cold. It’s been sitting here for twenty fucking minutes.” But I won’t say that out loud. He isn’t trying to be a jerk. He has no idea that he’s taken so long to get to the table. His job is demanding, phone call after phone call. Some days he can’t even eat lunch. He doesn’t know it bothers me. I won’t say anything, but the entire time we eat, those two words, “It’s cold” will echo in my mind, and as I clean our dishes, I want to hide. I want to run away. I want to disappear.

And the rest of the day is the same. I will hide myself in my closet at least a dozen times. I will chat with friends on the phone, online and via text message, and they will have no idea the state of my mind. They will make me feel less alone, more human, and they will talk me from the ledge where I clumsily stand.

I don’t want to feel this way. I know it will pass. It’s one day, just one bad day. My children are funny, talented, and wonderful.  I love them and know how fortunate I am to have them, but sometimes I just can’t help it.

I want to hide. I want to run away. I want to disappear.

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46 thoughts on “Hide, Run Away, Disappear”

  1. I feel your pain. I have many days like that. I love my kids more than life itself and I love my husband but sometimes it’s just so much. And I yelled at all of my kids this morning. It wasn’t even their fault, I was tired and cranky and now I feel like shit about it. I hate starting the day like that.

    I am eternally grateful for my girl friends, both in the flesh and on-line who make me laugh and cry and make me feel not alone. You’re not alone, sister. I hope your little one feels better and I hope you get some much needed alone time.

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    • I hate starting the day negative, especially with my children. I remember mornings sometimes being hell as a kid, and it was my fault because I didn’t want to get up, or get ready, or any of that, and my mom would finally break and yell, and I never wanted to become that mom. I’m ashamed I am her more often than I like. Sometimes it seems I ask nicely, “Please put on your shoes,” a dozen times. The thirteen time, scary mommy comes out, and that’s the only time they hear me, they remember.

      I am so grateful for my girlfriends and my online friends who keep me sane. I’m not quite sure I wouldn’t have already disappeared if they didn’t exist.

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  2. Can I say I love you without it being weird? I know that you struggle, and you find it hard to find the time to write — and maybe this isn’t going to make you feel any better about that, but you are such an amazing writer. Yes, this comes from the heart, and it comes from your life, but it truly didn’t have to — this could have just been a story. I suppose I feel a kinship with you as a writer because we share a love for narrative — don’t just list off this happened then this happened etc etc… you told a story here. Your prose is just so fantastic.
    If you’re EVER of a mind to collaborate — ie. you want a story idea to run with — let me know. I always have two dozen story ideas (in fact I had a great one this morning) that I’ll never get around to writing.
    I wish you wrote more. You have a gift — the repetition tool you used — genius. The inner monologue? Perfect. The characterization and admission of vulerability — sublime.
    Seriously. Consider my suggestion. Let me know.

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    • Helena, you can always say you love me, and it’s never weird, especially if you follow it with such great comment, and by comment I mean compliment. Thank you so much for what you said about my writing. I love to write. It frees me. I want to do it more, but my children are still so young and so needy, and I have this whole life that I’m trying to balance with my writing.

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  4. I am finally beginning to attempt to plan to try to pull my head out of my own… well, you know. And so I picked this to read, and the day you described, it’s like you’ve been following me around since school began. Thank you for that. I am not alone. Sigh. Which means *you* are not alone. We are not alone. And so many of us would be so very, very sad if you disappeared. Even the snarky, yelling you. We love her, too.

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    • I think that if you took a look in a lot of homes of moms, you would see more of us. We are not alone. We are over worked and over whelmed and under appreciated, and most days it’s worth it. Most days we smile as we wipe up messes and clean up toys, but some days….some days those bricks keep piling on our shoulders pushing us further and further down until we almost explode. The day I described, the day like yours, is one of those. I’m so grateful that they are not always so…just so.

      I won’t disappear. I just want to sometimes. And thank you so much for loving me. I love you back.

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  5. Don’t hide, Don’t run away, and don’t disappear. We need you here. What would we do without you? We promise to not be clingy and let you change in your closet alone……We will also wash our hair when you tell us to. I know some days are tough but just know you are a really good mom and your family loves you unconditionally. So do we.

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    • Bbbbbeee!!! I know you do, and you have no idea how much I value that, you. You’re one of those who keeps me balanced on that ledge, who helps me to smile when I want to disappear. Thanks for always being there, for the smiles, for…all of them. Hearts.

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  6. I only hit ‘like’ because your writing has such incredible power. I’m pretty sure I felt my heart break, Squishy.

    I hope things are better for you now – you have a tendency to wait until you’re pretty much alright again before you publish.

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    • Oh, I have dreamed of messaging you and saying, “I just boarded a plane. See you tomorrow.” Dreamed and dreamed of it. One day…when they’re older maybe. In the meantime, I may take you up on that offer for the shipping of this little monkey to you.

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      • That would be THEE most amazing incredible message to receive…I’m grinning just thinking about it 😀

        That said, you’d have to let me know so I could take time off, or quit my job, cos I’d want to keep you for at least a *little* while…

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      • Well, a trip to England would take a little planning, so I would let you know in advance, but in fantasy land, wouldn’t it be amazing if I could just show up one day? And then stay for a month???

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      • It would be perfection. I would quit my job and take you on a tour of England and SCOTLAND…we’d road-trip to all of it and have such larks…it would be incredible 🙂 *sighs with happiness at the thought of such an amazing dream*

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  8. I SOOOOOO get this. Often times I just want to run away. Start a new life. Get a mulligan on all the shitty decisions I’ve made. But I won’t. I can’t. There’s no way I could leave my babies. Sometimes I lose my temper and take my frustrations out on them, but not very often now that I’ve got my medication worked out. It just feels like sometimes the life I’m living I’m not living for me.

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    • “It just feels like sometimes the life I’m living I’m not living for me.” That’s the day I described in one sentence. And I think it’s called parenting. These wonderful little people may drive us to the edge sometimes, but they also make the world go round most days, and I know your life and my life, whether or not we live it for ourselves, is richer because they’re in it.

      Thank you, Scott, for always being supportive, for having my back, for letting me stalk you. I am grateful to know you.

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  9. As a break in the many nightmares I’ve had the past 2 1/2 months I had a really awesome dream recently that I soooo wanted to return to immediately. I’m glad you “see” and know that the “bad” day will pass. Also try to remind yourself that likely many people would trade that “bad” day for their day – meaning it can always be far worse. Make sure to pat yourself on the back for being the wonderful mother, wife, friend and woman you are. It’s always a beautiful thing for you to share so candidly because many people who read this will say to themselves, “Thank gawd, so it’s not just me…” Great post, Mandi 🙂

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    • I know it can be worse. My bad day is nothing compared to some, and I hate to whine when I know I have a really good life. I just had all of this in my head and had to write it out of me. Part of the reason I wrote this, too, is because I know I’m not the only one, and some of these comments help me to realize that this is a real struggle for lots of moms, and we are not alone.

      Thanks for reading, Mike. I hope you’re doing well.

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  10. I feel this all the time. All of it. I know my kids are amazing and my husband works hard, travels all the time. I have a life many people would love to have. But some days I feel like I, Sandy, AM disappearing. I’m someone’s mom. Someone’s wife. Someone’s something. When I started reading this, I just cried. I was doing some mundane chore earlier and the thought that kept running through my head was ‘I wonder if I could just run away.’ I won’t obviously. But I get it. I truly, truly do.

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    • Sandy, I know what you mean about your feeling like you’re disappearing, like you’re always something for everyone else, so much so that there’s nothing left for or of you. I get that. I don’t want you to feel that because you’re just Sandy to me. You’re wonderful and loving and so very beautifully graceful, and I admire so much about you. I’m so glad I know you. If you run away, take me with you.

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  11. I just had a conversation with someone last night about this. I love my son, but I mourn my old life desperately. My single, free, unencumbered life. Where I could just ask for time off, and go write to the destination in that picture, without worrying about anything but which bikini to pack. Where life wasn’t so mundane.

    My son is home sick this week. That always puts me over the edge. It’s just so much nurturing, on top of already taking care of his every need, because he’s my kid and I love him.

    Life is so hard. I love you, I want you to be happy. But life has sad, it has happy, it has it all. We wouldn’t know the light if we weren’t in the dark sometimes.

    You have kind of disappeared, but now you’re back. Thank you for coming back to us. The blog world is less fun without you in it. Did I say I love you? I’ll repeat it, because I have the feels now. xoxo

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    • I love you, too, Samara, and I’m slowly coming back. I know what you mean about the nurturing. I’ve had a sick kid for a week and now a sick husband which is worse, like having three sick full grown kids, and I’m losing my mind a little more than a lot, but comments like this make it better. “We wouldn’t know the light if we weren’t in the dark sometimes.” Thanks for being part of the light, for your encouragement and for your friendship. I am coming to visit you one day, and we are going to spend the weekend unencumbered and free.

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    • Thank you, Jeri. This means so much coming from you. It really was just a bad day and a struggle with wanting to give up, and writing it out of me was probably more cathartic than anything else. Thank you for your support and your encouragement.

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  13. Personally, I want a time machine to smack the crap out of my 15 year old self! Then I wouldn’t want to run away from several of bad life choices I made! I know this is NOT the point of your article, I just needed to throw that out there! And I am reserving the spot in the sun for myself, okay. Love the pic!

    NIBSIH! 😝

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    • Hey, you can always throw “that” or anything else out there. So, that pic is mine. I took it in Bora Bora, and when ever life gets too complicated and frustrating, I always think of that spot, of standing behind that tree and looking at paradise. Serene, beautiful, warm, sun….what else do you need?

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  14. Oh Mandi.

    There is so much I want to write, but feel that anything I say won’t help because I don’t have children. But I know what it feels like to want to disappear.

    They love you, even if they are sick and you lose your temper. These are just general reactions to not having time to recharge. You need time to recharge. Clingy children who are sick do not give you that.

    Hang in there. Everyone does appreciate and love you. They wouldn’t be better without you. You are an amazing woman and mother and they adore you!

    ❤ from the cray aussie.

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    • Just because you don’t have children doesn’t mean you don’t understand this kind of frustration. I think that it’s pretty common to want to disappear. There’s stress in every part of life, and we all have bad days. This was just mine, and it’s no worse than yours or anyone else’s.

      I know they love me, and I love them unconditionally, even when they are clingy and sick and driving me bat shit crazy. I promise.

      Thank you for your kind words and for always being here, Sharn. I do value the heart from the cray aussie more than you know.

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  15. Sometimes you just can’t help it. I get it; I feel like that some days too. And then I feel horrible for feeling that way. But motherhood is 24/7, and it’s exhausting. You wrote this so beautifully, Mandi.

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    • Mommy guilt…ugh! It is 24/7 and exhausting, but there are far more good days than bad, and I wouldn’t change the bad if I keep getting all of the good ones. Thank you, Dana. I know you understand. I admire you so much for the mother that you are. Maybe one day I’ll be half as good as you.

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    • Thank you, Lisa. I just wrote my heart. I’m not so sure it was beautiful that day, but I’m in a completely different place today, and maybe today I won’t want to hide. I had so many beautiful moments this weekend that make that day seem so minor, and just like you said, made up for everything else.

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  17. “They will make me feel less alone, more human, and they will talk me from the ledge where I clumsily stand.”

    We are so blessed to have those who stand with us at those ledges.
    Thank you for writing your heart, Mandi.

    Truth wins,
    Dani

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  19. Pingback: Something Worth Reading ~ Mother of Imperfection

  20. Yo – just chiming in for all the “daddy day cares” out there. Great read and with such precision and honesty. I suppose men and women aren’t so different after all. The whole time I was reading I was like, “Yup… Yup… Pretty much.” Thank you for sharing. 😊👍

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  22. Yup. Hanging on by a fingernail. I hate those days. The days when I think about how easy it would be to not stick to the curves in our winding country roads and go off into a big ditch or tree. But then I think about how damned safe my minivan is, and all I’d do is screw up an awesome car. Or I think about leaving my husband to raise our son alone and how they couldn’t do it without me. I hate those days.

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