The loud noise starts inside me, and like a missile, it heads straight toward my little children.
My chest fills with air and exhales screams of desperation and frustration.

For silly reasons — playing with my plant’s dirt, not staying quiet when I say so — my rage ignites.
When I say something, it should be done. I am the queen of this house, and like a dictator, I expect things to run smoothly, at my tempo.

How dull a band I lead — expecting every member to play the same chord at the same time.
How absurd I’ve become.
The older I get, the more I expect everyone to bow to me.
And I get extremely angry when they dare to raise their voices.

Yet, part of me feels proud they do.
Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to raise mine.
Still, in the moment, I feel anger.
And at night, resentment, when I remember the terrible human being I can be when sadness and frustration consume me.

My sadness turns violent.
She screams — and her screams are not just scary; they are poisonous.
They whisper in my children’s ears that fear is a form of love — when it clearly is not.

I hate myself on days like today.

I wish I could reset something inside me, so my sadness would not turn violent but simply rest — quietly on my chest, rising up as tears in my eyes, drowning silently into the night.

Could I just get a hug that would reset me?

I long for connection — and yet, every day, I disconnect from myself.

Can you love someone and scream at them at the same time?
I don’t buy the excuses we’ve invented to justify overworked humans.
I just want to be a mother.
The best mother I could have wished for myself. The best mother for my kids.

Yet life refuses.
Life endures.
Life challenges.

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Maki: Mami, are you sad? Let me give you a bissou (kiss).
Proceeds to kiss me.

Maki: Do you want your papi?

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I want to be understood.
I want to be the healer I need.
I want to wake up and feel like my life is meaningful and full of purpose.