feeding my hate

I seem to be spending a great deal of time trying to hide in the dark and quiet corners within my house. There is something troubling me, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. One possible reason for my inability to play an active role in my life is because of this book I am reading. A friend gave it to me after we had spent an afternoon complaining about the way women treat each other. We both agreed that we didn’t trust women on the whole, rather we viewed them with suspicion, as if waiting for the “real” face to be shown. Women wear masks. If fact, we wear several. Most are harmless covers we use to shield our true feelings. We don’t want the world to know that our lives aren’t perfect. Why should I complain about my life? I have all the blessings I could ever handle. How dare I complain? The truth is, my life isn’t perfect. There are times when I don’t enjoy my life. There are times when the responsibilities of being a stay-at-home mother are too much for me. One part that makes it especially difficult is being part of a group of other moms. You might think we could find a common ground, all being mothers. And we do. It feels good to vent, to share the feelings of frustration of dealing with little people day after day. I feel a sense of relief that I am not alone in hating the daily grind of getting kids up, fed, washed, dressed and off to school in the morning. After a while you start to feel as if you are losing your mind. Our routine in the morning is the same and yet I guarantee there will be at least one morning this week in which I will find one or both of the kids just sitting naked on their bedroom floors. When I ask (read yell) what they are doing they respond with blank looks on their faces and ask, “what am I supposed to be doing?” A few months of this and even the toughest, war-worn solider would crack.

There is some relief found in the quiet hours of the morning, sharing breakfast with these other moms, sharing stories and offering comforting shoulders. But, these few happy times are not enough to change my overall opinion that women are devious, manipulative, cruel, and insensitive. It seems to go against all we are taught to think of as women. We usually see women as loving caregivers who act as the glue that holds the many delicate ends of their family together. This is not always the case. In fact, within the last month I found my once “happy place” to be a cold and judgmental playground in which I again felt the target. It is hard to believe the ways in which women can suppress their feelings. These are my friends…..how many times have we as women uttered these words? And how many times have we come to realize that definitions of a friend differ drastically among women.

And forget about dealing with our problems head on, we would rather sit and stew in our anger and hurt feelings. Dan does not understand this and will often say to me, “just tell her that she hurt your feelings.” As if! When I really stop and think about it, if she were my friend she wouldn’t have said those things to my face in the first place. What I hate most is that I just stand there and take it. What a fucking coward I am. I am just so disgusted with myself.