I remember the first time I really felt like an adult: it was my thirtieth birthday and I was at the Vancouver Airport with K, trying to make arrangements after our flight was cancelled or delayed or something. In the end, we had to wait around in the airport all day (from 10 a.m. until 7 p.m.) until our flight took off. K was at an age where she would follow my lead completely. Unfortunately, that meant that I couldn’t sit down on a bench and have a cry like I wanted to. I had to pull up my socks, make a plan, and act like it was all fun and games.
This is what it means to be an adult, I thought. It’s when you can’t complain and whine and refuse to act, because if you don’t hold it together, nobody will.
I didn’t hold it together today. Thank God for Mr. December, who made me go for a walk outside for a while and then let me be. At some point I realized I couldn’t stare at Facebook any longer. I couldn’t really be present with the kids. And though my instinct was to fill the gaping pit inside me with food, I knew I’d regret it later. So I did the only thing I could: I curled up in bed and tried my best to sleep.
Do I feel better? No. But a few hours passed where I was asleep and insensible to the world, and that feels a heck of a lot better than being awake right now. I’m really just waiting for darkness to fall so I can go to bed again, naïvely hoping that I’ll feel better tomorrow.