A Friday Afternoon in January

It was just a bad day.  My kid was having poop problems again.  I was playing phone tag with his doctor's office, all because why? For some unknown reason my "smart" phone did not even ring.  It only alerted me to a new voicemail.  Great!  Let's navigate through the doctor's office automated phone bullshit just to try to convince whomever answered that I was returning a call, and please do not put me back on call-back.  I need someone now!  My kid is wailing, tears streaming down his face in pain.  Put a triage nurse on the phone stat!  Is this an impaction?  Or the old with-holding drill, psychological evils.  Questions, answers, pauses, and then we have another appointment to round out our already-full day.  Therapy (as in Occupational Therapist) for my kid for an hour, meet husband to exchange child while I have my Therapy (shrink) appointment, then straight to retrieve child and go to Pediatrician, and don't forget it's Grocery day and we're out of everything.  That left no time for lunch, so what?  I was so stressed I snapped.  The ever-mounting pressure and anxiety of the non-stop day I had planned caused my blood to boil over.  My inner-crazy could no-longer be contained.  RELEASE...  And in the madness I threw an object and broke a window.  There, I said it.  I confessed.  I lost my cool and broke a window.  The kid didn't see it; I made sure of that.  I cleaned up my mess, took it to the repair shop, (paid from my earnings,) and put it back in the frame. It took a few days to accomplish the repair, but I did it!
Three hours later:  There is a large SUV in the desert.  The only other soul around is a giant frog.  The sand opens up and starts to swallow the vehicle.  Suddenly a voice, "We've got about 10 minutes left in our session.  I'm just checking in to see how you're feeling?"
I am the vehicle.  I'm in Therapy playing with, of all things: Hydrophobic Magic Sand.  The desert is just my physical manifestation of my state.  GRIEF.    No giant frog.  No "real" quick sand.  I'm just playing while I spill all my vile Freudian innards to a woman I might otherwise be friends with, except that she is my Therapist and I am anti-social, (yet another vile detail I haven't revealed to her.)  She will find out soon.  I'm in my second session this time around.  I've done Therapy before, for essentially the same issues, just over ten years ago.  I like to think of it as cleaning out the cobwebs of my brain.  I've been sweeping emotional garbage under the carpet for too long.  This is the first time in years I have felt like I truly need it.  So, back to the Therapy session.  Why am I there?  Grief.  My brother died 13 years ago, why in God's name am I still grieving?!  Most recently, they refer to my mental health history as "traumatic."  My brother died from suicide March 5, 2002.  I remember the day like it was yesterday.  And that is really the problem there, because I was the one who found him.  How could I forget?  I was "that girl."  I saw what was meant for someone else to find.  But not me, damnit!  Why me?!  I am 4700 days away from the day my life changed forever and (will I ever get over or past it?!)  Part of me died that day.  I mourn not only the loss of my brother, but also the loss of a girl who thought her life would be so different from this.  This, you know that of which we do not speak: Suicide. 
And I hadn't hit rock bottom yet.  That is something else altogether for another day.
I don't hear people often admit this, but the things in life that always trip me up are the things I don't see coming.   We are proud, us humans!  We don't like to admit our weaknesses.  Just like I didn't see my brother taking his own life coming, I didn't foresee the cruelty and shame that followed his death.  I didn't know I (or my family) would become ousted from our community, shamed, and harassed (yes, even harassed) by former friends and acquaintances.  I cannot escape the trimmers and reverberations of March 5, 2002.  Breathe.