I want to listen right now at top volume, pumping in the audio, tuning out the terrible.

My projects are the ocean mid-August. When hot and cold collide. Waves swirl, reach to the sun to shut it out, pull from the depths to gather strength. Then crash.

I'm the orange water wing. Meant to float in a pool, to carry the weight of a small child. But in the ocean: I pop. Snapped by a shark, carried by a wave, pounded onto the beach. Where maybe, just maybe, someone steps on me like so much forgotten beach litter.

That's when a co-worker steps into my office after-hours. "I didn't know it was so hard," she says. "Are things better today?"

The problem with letting people know how you're feeling is they know how you're feeling. They allude to it. Step around it or plow right through it.

"I heard you broke down in staff meeting," he said. "Wow."

The problem with letting people know how you're feeling is they constantly remind you: Once you've gotten past the tears, past the reaction, past the loss of words, once you've convinced yourself you can be near people again.

"I'm so sorry. Are you sure you're alright? I'll tell Mary Sue, too. She couldn't be at the meeting today. We really appreciate all you do for us."

The problem with letting people know how you're feeling is they make excuses for why you shouldn't feel that way.

"Is this because my husband hasn't been in the office to help you finish the project?" she asked.
"Yes."
"You should've called him in. He would've come in if he'd known it was such a big deal...."
"I tried. But he took the last few weeks off."
"I won't get in the middle of it....you should call him."

If only I was better at confrontation. If only I could say, "it's really annoying that I'm doing my job AND yours, and I have been for the last month." If only I could say, "I worked 50 hours here this week plus 10 at my other job." If only I could say, "you signed a contract to be here. You asked me to set the deadlines. You agreed to this deadline. But you didn't help me and it seems like you've shown little remorse. You've pushed your other responsibilities onto everyone else. And now people come to me to solve your problems, the ones you've created by your absence."

He came to the office this morning. "I heard it's been rough for you. By the way, I need another week off," he said.

I couldn't respond. Just stared at my screen. Listened to the buzz of the computers. I felt myself pushing the disappointment down. Packing it in with a shovel. "When you get back," I finally said, "I need your help with the newsletter. I'll try to have it all written so you can just design it. Will you order the paper and toner?"

I felt my face wipe itself blank. All the rage, the "I can't believe he just asked for more time off," dissolved into a sudden, nonself, awareness.

"Of course you need the time off," I said. "You have your house to remodel. And a wife & baby to take care of."

I get so angry with myself. Why can't I just tell him to his face? Why can't I be as honest with him as I am with my husband when he does something I think is stupid? Why do I let people do what they want at my expense? Why do I think everyone else's opinions and needs are more important than mine?

It's not just me who has suffered. My husband gets to hear me unload every other day. He feels the effects of my frazzled nerves. He's alone while I'm late at the office.

"It's just one of those days," said a friend after our production fizzled through countless technical difficulties tonight.

"One of those years," I said.

He laughed, thinking I was making a joke. But really, this has been quite the year....