Having a Bad Day

Sometimes I have a bad day.

It's hard to explain because nothing actually goes wrong.
In fact, often times, the bad day is completely innocuous to anybody from the outside looking in.
Like my Beard for example.
I'll say,

"I don't know why, but I feel angry. I feel like crying. There's no reason for it, but I just want to hide."

And he says something like,

"Well just remember, everything's fine. Nothing's really wrong."

Which doesn't help at all.

In fact it then piles a nice big helping of really damaging self critical head noise like
-WTF is wrong with you for feeling like human garbage when there's no logical reason for it you stupid, worthless pig person?!-
Which is just sooooo helpful. Right?

It is days like these, which used to put me in a deep hole.
Before I had a kid, I could collapse under this kind of depression. Sometimes it lasted for weeks, or even months, but it all started with a day, a day I felt terrible for no good reason and I didn't allow myself to just be okay with it.

Since having a kid, actually since getting pregnant, I've been much more aware of how hormones control our general moods and responses so much more than we give them credit for. It's funny, when a woman is pregnant, she's given carte blanche to cry at puppy food commercials and wail hysterically in the eyeliner section of Sephora. She's largely forgiven for things like forgetting her keys or accidentally scheduling a dentist appointment for the same time as her eye appointment.
We forgive pregnant women myriad transgressions because "their hormones are just crazy right now!" but the truth is, there isn't an animal on the planet whose hormones aren't largely controlling everything they do from sun up to sun down.

It's a delicate balance of diet, exercise, sleep, and general well being mixed with personal chemistry and the level of your own fertility that dictates pretty much every motivating factor outside of "don't die".

Hormones tell my Beard he wants to go pick up and put down heavy things at the gym.
They tell him he's hungry or grumpy or stressed out.
They help him play with the baby after a long day at work, and they are responsible for his softening around his spiky edges when I give him an extra long hug (ten second hugs are scientifically proven to release serotonin, a hormone that combats stress and calms us down).

You'd think after thousands of years of evolution, we'd be better at forgiving ourselves for hormonally ruled outbursts and compulsions, but as a society, I'd say we're probably the worst at listening to our biological imperatives we've ever been as a species.
We don't spend enough time outside so we're not aware how much the weather, seasons, moon cycle, and even barometric pressure are effecting our bodies.
We eat overly processed food from all over the damn place, so we're being manipulated by chemical preservatives, along with super high levels of salt and sugar to experience irregular energy rushes and crashes which put our bodies into high stress modes (altering the release of our natural hormonally induced fight, fuck, eat, sleep, or fly responses).
We over medicate rather than try getting two or three decent night's sleep and limiting our exposure to other people, because introvert or not, we all need solitude to recharge sometimes. It's how we check in with ourselves, regulate our behavior and examine our activities. This isn't easy. In fact, I spent a lot of time making sure I was so socially engaged I couldn't check in with myself because I didn't want to know what was going on underneath. I'm getting better about that now.

Long story short, pregnant women are not the only beings who should be forgiven their sometimes erratic or inexplicable behavior.
We're all erratic.
We're all inexplicable.
We're all a seriously complicated mixture of chemistry, biology, and magic, and more than anything else, we are actually capable of controlling our hormonal effects if we concentrate.
But we can't concentrate, if we're too busy judging and criticizing, feeling guilty, and generally bludgeoning ourselves with horrible self talk.

"Just remember, everything's find. Nothing's really wrong." Beard says on his way out the door to meet a friend at the gym.
He's combatting his blues by some social engagement and the release of endorphins.

I am stuck at home with the baby squealing until I nurse him down for a nap, and then not letting me put him down while he sleeps.

So yeah. Nothing's wrong. But I feel shitty.
I feel like crying.
I feel lonely because I have no friend to meet.
I feel crappy because I don't get to go to the gym, or go for a walk, or do yoga, or any of the things that make me release endorphins and feel better.
I feel sad because my Beard just sashayed out the door as though telling me to feel better was the easy fix and now he doesn't have to deal with me anymore.

As though I am something not worth dealing with.

Hormones are making my feelings of powerlessness feel bigger than I can deal with.
Maybe I'm extra tired after two weeks of sleep regression.
Maybe I haven't eaten enough protein today.
Maybe I'm super concerned with the upcoming weeks of somewhat stressful life stuff we have going on, and I don't know what to do, if anything to make things go more smoothly for us, and that has me pumping my system with cortisol, which we all know is the nasty stress hormone that brings on things like anxiety attacks, physical pain, and actual health problems.

But it doesn't mean I'm unreasonable or unworthy.

All it means is that I need to speak up.
I need to say, "I feel bad. I'm having a hard time. It isn't for any specific reason, just a whole lot of life stuff is really weighing on me, and I need something to balance it out."
I need to then take a moment and ask myself what would do that.

What will help me to feel better?
A walk?
A spoonful of peanut butter?
A phone call to my best friend?
Writing a blog post?
A glass of wine and an hour without the baby?

You know what?
Today I think it's the last one.

I think I need to remind myself that I'm allowed a friendly little glass of vino.
I'm allowed to take it into the bedroom with my new book and read for an hour.

A little solitude, a little indulgence; these things can go a long way when you're out of whack.
And the really important part isn't that the wine is a ten dolla holla from the corner store. It isn't that the book is a library book so dog-eared its verging on origami. It's that I took the time to check in with myself and allow myself to feel shitty without excuse.

I am allowed to feel shitty "for no good reason".
Because technically, as a human, there is ALWAYS A GOOD REASON for whatever you're feeling. And even if you never figure out what it is, that doesn't invalidate the feeling!

I hope you're being kind to yourselves, friends.

I'mma go buy that wine.