Hourglass: A Tale of Anxiety Part 3

“P.S. You’re not going to die. Here’s the truth: It feels like you are. It feels like a lion is chasing you. It feels like a bear has spotted you. But it’s just the anxiety. You’re safe.” — Glennon Doyle

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Rachelle

~~~

For hours and hours, who knows how many seconds, cleaning my apartment. Literally everything that I could reach until my anxious energy disappeared. Then I collapsed on the cleansed cream-colored shag carpet.

I didn't have the strength to get up, so I stayed there, staring at my wristwatch obsessively.

Finally, my eyes closed and I drifted off into a restless slumber.

A loud banging pierces through the peaceful silence, waking me prematurely from my sleep.

Groaning, I look at my wristwatch: 11:30 AM.

I jumped up. I'm late for work!

Shit, shit, shit!

Dashing around my living room, my mind is drawing a blank as to what I'm supposed to be doing!

Ugh, why can't I be normal?

The banging continues. It seems to be my door.

Who's annoying me at 11:30 in the morning?

As if on cue, I received my answer.

"Honey, it's Mommy! Why aren't you answering your phone? The police called me, is it true that you got mugged?"

~~~

Rolling my eyes in annoyance, I yank the door open, inviting Preachy Peggy, aka my mother, inside.

She forcibly hugs me as she always does, trying to act like a concerned, affectionate mother.

What a crock! Under her neat blonde bun, silver bifocals, leather-bound Bible, oversized blue cotton dress, and boring flats, she's the epitome of a terrible mother.

"Oh, honey, I was so worried!" She cries, squeezing my waist tightly. "It felt like my world was crumbling when I got that call!"

"Mom, please let me go..." I wheezed, struggling against her supernatural fifty-six-year-old Christian strength. "I'm late for work; I need to leave!"

She jerks away and glares at me with her beady, bespectacled grey eyes. "Oh, no, you don't! You're staying home!"

Panic fills my gut, my palms become clammy, and my teeth grind together as I shout, "No, I'm not!"

"Are you dishonoring your mother?" She shrieks, eyes burning with religious fury as she pokes my chest. "The one who birthed you? Fed and clothed you? And kept you pure and away from the sins and temptations of this unholy world!?"

In the blink of an eye, I'm a six-year-old being accosted for not wanting to go to church. Or every time I wanted a proper birthday party, or to give a boy a valentine card.

Lips trembling, I mumble, "No, Mommy, I wouldn't dare..."

Almost immediately, her gaze softens. "Good!" She kisses my cheek. "Now, call that job of yours and call out. Today, Mommy's taking care of you."

Full of resignation, I grab my phone and call my boss.

I know better than to fight with Mommy.

~~~

Noon...

~~~

My evidently heard about my mugging through the gossip mill, because once I called, he accepted my call out without any issue.

I'm not sure which is worse: the fact that I was mugged, being gossiped about by my colleagues, or that I'm being held hostage in my apartment by my crazy mother.

All of the above are equally time-consuming and distressing.

Completely against my routine, and will, Mommy makes me take a long bubble bath while she prepares roast beef sandwiches with swiss cheese and wheat sub buns for lunch.

I scoff at the absurdity of it all: a bubble bath in the middle of the day? Calling off work? Mommy spending her precious time 'taking care' of me? Consuming almost an entire day's worth of calories on lunch alone?

None of it makes a lick of sense, time-wise or otherwise.

"Honey," Mommy calls to me from the kitchen. "Lunch will be ready soon. I'm making a side salad for you since you've gained some weight. Oh, and don't stay in there for too long, or your skin will wrinkle and sag more than usual!"

Pain prickles in my chest as tears form in the corner of my eyes. Why does she have to be this way?

Doesn't she understand how painful it is to hear that from your mother? Especially after all the time and effort I put into my appearance?

She knows I'm watching my weight, yet she's making whatever she pleases and then restricting me? How awful!

I cover my ears and sink under the frothy, rose-scented bubbles, praying that either she leaves, or I drown.

Either way, I'll be free.

~~~

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and incidents are fictitious and the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, organizations, or events are entirely coincidental.

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