“The commute is killing me,” I said, tears streaming down my face.
My live-in boyfriend Jeff looked at me, puzzled. I couldn’t blame him. The way I behaved when I got home from work every day was, well, puzzling. After a 12-hour work day as a high school teacher and a two-hour commute home through bumper-to-bumper Los Angeles traffic, I arrived home every night in a rage. On the worst days, I would push through the door of our apartment like a tornado, slam it shut, scream at Jeff, run into the bedroom and cry like a five-year-old. This is embarrassing for me to admit, but it’s true. I should probably also mention that I am usually a fairly calm, only occasionally histrionic person. I was not behaving like myself. Keep reading »