A cracked flowerpot. I stood at the front window, my palms pressed against the glass. That. I could go outside and throw that flowerpot at a tree. It’s already busted anyway. I imagined it smashing into little pieces, the remaining dirt inside scattering across the snow. If I throw that, will this rage quiet? Will it calm my nerves?

I didn’t throw it, and there it sits, perched on our front railing with a crack snaking its way down the side. Sometimes I see and pause for a moment, longing to walk out there, pick it up, and hurl it the tree. But what good will it do? What will I need to break next?

I’m angry lately, and I want to break things. I’m kind of embarrassed to admit this, but what else is this blog for? It certainly isn’t a place where I tell you all the good things, and there are many good things in my life. No, this is the place where I can confess my bizarre feelings about throwing a goddamn flowerpot at a tree. And I hope you’ll understand.

The other night, I dumped my anger on my husband. No, I flung it at him. We were talking in bed and he said, “why don’t you write your book?” Of course, he knows I want to write my book (I have one in the works), and he suggested it because he knows I’m struggling and he thought working on the book would make me happy. But that was it. There was no turning back. That entire day, I’d struggled to swallow my anger, but I’d managed. Barely. That question ignited me.

I lost my mind. I yelled, and I never yell. It took me at least a minute to realize I was yelling, and even then, I struggled to control it. I went on and on, and I was MAD. I desperately want to write my book. But when? WHEN? I was so angry that I was sarcastic, hostile, and nasty to him. I gave him all of it, all of the pent up frustration and anger that I’d been burying for days. I explained that his implication implied I had all this time and energy to write my book when, in reality, I have maybe 30 minutes to myself most days. I yelled my daily schedule at him as if he didn’t know. I just kept going. How could he not know? How could he not realize that by the time I get the girls settled, the house picked up, and maybe a shower (if I’m lucky), it’s 10 pm? How could he imply that I have the energy or brainpower necessary to write my book? I don’t do anything for me most days. Everyone comes before me, even the dogs.

The poor guy. He thought he was helping. If anyone can handle anger, it’s my husband, and he handled it like a champ. But I felt terrible. And I need to fix this. I don’t want to need to smash things or yell at people. The anger stems, I believe, from feeling powerless and cemented in place. We need to get out of this house. We need to move into our new house. We need a fresh start.

In the meantime, I need to figure out healthy ways to cope. The girls help. Thank goodness for my girls. They shake me from these feelings on a daily basis and I try so hard to learn from Ember Eve’s joy for life and Ivy Q’s love for me. Ember waltzes through this life with pure happiness, and I admire the simplicity in her joy at discovering her world. Ivy looks at me in a way that makes every single difficult moment worth it.  My whole body relaxes when Ivy Quinn gazes and smiles at me. I think, My god, I am so lucky.  Sometimes I sit with both of them in my arms and I breathe their scent. They fix me. 

But I can’t hold them all day. So what else? Exercise? I do think it helps, and I hope to make more time for it. Writing? Yes, but again, when? I’ve been thinking about this blog for a week, and I’m just now sneaking in 30 minutes to write it before I have to take care of Ivy. I will want to tweak and revise before posting, but I don’t have that luxury. So what else?

Maybe I should throw the flowerpot.