Read Online Getting It Through My Thick Skull by Mary Jo Buttafuoco - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Jo Buttafuoco
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month. When my day came, I forced myself to get to the school and inside the classroom. But right in the middle of handing out juice to ten preschoolers in the bright, toy-filled playroom, I felt the now-familiar wave engulfing me. I stammered to the teacher that I wasn’t feeling well. “I’m going to pass out,” I told her.
She sat me down and tried to help. She was kind and understanding, but eventually she had to call Joe to come and get me. I was not capable of driving. I broke down on that car ride home. “You’re making me crazy, Joe. I can’t take this anymore. I’m going out of my mind. I am literally cracking up!” Grim and stone-faced beside me, for once Joe had nothing to say. He was well aware of how his disappearances affected me. He could easily see that I was sinking, and knew that his behavior had everything to do with it.
He didn’t stop disappearing on binges, but he picked up the slack—he had no choice. Joey took care of the grocery shopping and errands for me when I couldn’t make it out the door during the day. He didn’t complain, but that only made me feel worse. My self-esteem was steadily eroding, and this gave the scolding voice in my head plenty more to say. Your husband is God-knows-where doing drugs, and you can’t even take care of your own children! It was a dreadful, downward spiral that soon left me almost completely housebound. I found excuses to have family and friends come see me instead of going out. The planning, fibbing, and hiding my condition exhausted me even further.
In my mind, I thought that maybe having the kids with me all the time was the problem behind these attacks. That was my main fear—passing out or becoming incapacitated while they were in my care. So I asked my mother to come babysit so I could do some Christmas shopping alone. She knew nothing about my anxiety attacks or how days and days passed when I was unable to leave the house. A good five years into my marriage, I was still very much invested in being the good, responsible daughter, wife, and mother. I dreaded my mother’s disapproval. I looked fine, so she assumed everything was fine. There was no way I could tell her what was really going on.
I parked my car in the Toys “R” Us lot and gave myself a pep talk. The kids aren’t here. You can do this! I told myself. You’ll be okay. I got myself into the store and filled a cart. Everything was going fine. And then it started again. Panic engulfed me. My heart started pounding, I couldn’t breathe, I felt like I was about to faint, throw up, and pass out all at once. I abandoned my cart in the store and ran out to my car.
I would have done anything to keep this secret from my mother, but for the life of me I could not get out of that car and go into that store again. I sat in the parking lot, weeping, pounding the steering wheel in frustration, knowing that my mother was about to learn that her daughter literally could not function. For two hours I sat there ashamed, crying my heart out, willing myself to go back into that damn store, check out, and get the presents home. But I couldn’t. Finally, defeated, I drove home to face the music.
My mother could see that something was wrong the minute I walked through the door.
“What’s the matter, Mary Jo?”
“I had to leave the store, Mom. I couldn’t stay. I have these panic attacks that come over me. I don’t know why, but I’ve been getting them a lot. I get so scared that I have to run outside.”
She was concerned, not at all judgmental. “My goodness, how long has this been going on?”
“A long time,” I choked out. “Probably six months or a year. Mom, it’s really bad.”
“Well, honey, it’s hard with two little ones. It’s exhausting. Maybe you need a checkup?” My mother, who could at times be quite critical, was supportive and sweet, but the shame of living with a drug addict wouldn’t allow me to tell her what was really wrong. I felt like a ten-year-old
She sat me down and tried to help. She was kind and understanding, but eventually she had to call Joe to come and get me. I was not capable of driving. I broke down on that car ride home. “You’re making me crazy, Joe. I can’t take this anymore. I’m going out of my mind. I am literally cracking up!” Grim and stone-faced beside me, for once Joe had nothing to say. He was well aware of how his disappearances affected me. He could easily see that I was sinking, and knew that his behavior had everything to do with it.
He didn’t stop disappearing on binges, but he picked up the slack—he had no choice. Joey took care of the grocery shopping and errands for me when I couldn’t make it out the door during the day. He didn’t complain, but that only made me feel worse. My self-esteem was steadily eroding, and this gave the scolding voice in my head plenty more to say. Your husband is God-knows-where doing drugs, and you can’t even take care of your own children! It was a dreadful, downward spiral that soon left me almost completely housebound. I found excuses to have family and friends come see me instead of going out. The planning, fibbing, and hiding my condition exhausted me even further.
In my mind, I thought that maybe having the kids with me all the time was the problem behind these attacks. That was my main fear—passing out or becoming incapacitated while they were in my care. So I asked my mother to come babysit so I could do some Christmas shopping alone. She knew nothing about my anxiety attacks or how days and days passed when I was unable to leave the house. A good five years into my marriage, I was still very much invested in being the good, responsible daughter, wife, and mother. I dreaded my mother’s disapproval. I looked fine, so she assumed everything was fine. There was no way I could tell her what was really going on.
I parked my car in the Toys “R” Us lot and gave myself a pep talk. The kids aren’t here. You can do this! I told myself. You’ll be okay. I got myself into the store and filled a cart. Everything was going fine. And then it started again. Panic engulfed me. My heart started pounding, I couldn’t breathe, I felt like I was about to faint, throw up, and pass out all at once. I abandoned my cart in the store and ran out to my car.
I would have done anything to keep this secret from my mother, but for the life of me I could not get out of that car and go into that store again. I sat in the parking lot, weeping, pounding the steering wheel in frustration, knowing that my mother was about to learn that her daughter literally could not function. For two hours I sat there ashamed, crying my heart out, willing myself to go back into that damn store, check out, and get the presents home. But I couldn’t. Finally, defeated, I drove home to face the music.
My mother could see that something was wrong the minute I walked through the door.
“What’s the matter, Mary Jo?”
“I had to leave the store, Mom. I couldn’t stay. I have these panic attacks that come over me. I don’t know why, but I’ve been getting them a lot. I get so scared that I have to run outside.”
She was concerned, not at all judgmental. “My goodness, how long has this been going on?”
“A long time,” I choked out. “Probably six months or a year. Mom, it’s really bad.”
“Well, honey, it’s hard with two little ones. It’s exhausting. Maybe you need a checkup?” My mother, who could at times be quite critical, was supportive and sweet, but the shame of living with a drug addict wouldn’t allow me to tell her what was really wrong. I felt like a ten-year-old
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