An Interlude with Bunny

Let's take a (short) break from me bitching about my problems to talk about my friend Bunny Walker.  I wouldn't call her my bestie, only because I'm a grown woman and not desperately trying to appear as though I'm still in my 20s.  But I would call her my best friend, and I've known her since I was young enough to use a term like bestie without a hint of irony or enraging anyone else my age.

I have two children, and Bunny just had her first.  Recently I'd mentioned to her in an e-mail that I'd been feeling depressed.  I say depressed because I can't think of a more appropriate term for not being able to handle my shit, being angry all the time and sometimes bursting into tears about it.  Chronically pained?  Irritable Face Syndrome?  Fuck if I know.

Anyhoo, she wrote back saying how she didn't know what was going on with me anymore because the past year had been all about her, and how she never thinks to ask people questions and just assumes people will tell her what they want her to know.

I agree.  People will tell you what they want you to know.  Really, if you're over the age of 25 and expect your friends to ask you several questions to draw you out and get to the heart of your problems for you, then you should be paying them.  Also, you're passive-aggressive and nobody has the patience for you.

As for the past year being all about her - duh.  I'm not going to get all sentimental and gooshy about pregnancy and motherhood, but it is such a monumental change that it's impossible to not get self-focused and caught up in it.  I also wonder if she was thinking about my two pregnancies, which were virtually back-to-back, and how when she'd call me I didn't necessarily yap my head off about stretch marks, heartburn and birth plans the whole time.  I didn't - or at least I tried not to - because at that point in Bunny Walker's life, pregnancy and motherhood just weren't relevant to her interests. 

But when she got pregnant, I was the perfect audience.  What are you eating, what books are you reading, tell me all about the size of your ankles.  I wonder if this is why it could have seemed to her as though it was off-balance, when it really wasn't. 

Just so you know, Bunny, I didn't think you were being too self-absorbed, or ignoring my hidden, silent cries for help.  I just wasn't talking about it.  When you call, we laugh.  A lot.  I didn't want to ruin that by being boring and making everything about me and how poorly I handle just about everything that everyone else seems to be able to do without making a big fuss about it.  So we laugh instead - sometimes about how much I suck.  It was probably better for me anyway. 

So, I'm a big, fat fucking wreck.  I fail a million times before noon and I don't even get up until 1pm.  I'm isolated and don't have any friends within arm's reach - except for my husband, who's probably just as sick of me as I am, but is too nice of a guy to complain or kick me when I'm down.  I'm not the mother I wanted to be, and half the time I'm jealous that it seems as though you're definitely going to be way better at it than I am, and the other half being so proud of you I could fucking cry.  When I'm not hating everyone else, I'm hating myself.  But none of my problems mean that I don't want to hear about yours.  I've been a screeching mess this whole time, I just now started being really honest about it, and talking about it.

See, I told you that it wouldn't be long before we'd get back to what I'm bitching about.