Overwhelmed. Overstimulated. Overtired.
All of those overs and more, combined into the body of one tiny being, bursting at the seams for the last two days.
When she can take it no more, she screams. She cries. She rages. She balls her little fists up beside her and explodes.
For now, she sleeps. I will not wake her. In her dreams, she is peaceful and all is right with the world. Her waking hours are exhausting for us all right now.
I will not wake her.
They point fingers at me.
All of them.
Say I made her this way. She is my child. So much like her mother.
Why is it that when the absolute worst part of a child's personality shines through, everyone feels so compelled to blame someone else?
I stood in the kitchen and cried yesterday, Christmas afternoon.
She was raging again, and it was my fault. Because it is always my fault. As if I didn't feel that enough already in my heart, there are those who must insist that it is. Always.
She's never sure what she wants. It's never enough when it's given to her. There is always something missing.
And it's my fault.
She swings grand on the pendulum of human emotion. She switches on and off. She seems almost incapable of true happiness.
Why can't she just be happy?
I wish I knew.
As I stood crying in the kitchen, my heart was breaking for both her and for me. All that she is and all that she expresses to this world is so much like me. I can't deny it.
I've learned through my lifetime to control the rage. To temper my anger. To walk away. To find the happiness. To stuff the bad away. To run and let it out.
When the fingers point at me, that's when I want to rage. I want to scream.
I am NOT LIKE THAT, I want to say.
God knows that if I was, if I didn't work so hard to control it, I would be.
And things would be so different.
I have more reason that most people to rage. There are deserving targets of my anger. There are people who've deliberately chosen to hurt me in unimaginable ways. There are people who act only through selfishness, through hubris, through narcissism and hurt me. Some who don't even have the capacity to realize the pain they inflict. Over and over.
The finger pointers.
I could in turn point my finger at them. Point out their flaws and their faults. Tell them abundantly how they've failed.
The rage stays inside. I talk it away from the ledge. I breathe. I find my center. I let it go as much as I can.
She hasn't learned.
It's my fault.
It's my fault.