I’m sitting on the bathroom floor at 2 in the morning because it’s the only place with a lock that actually works in this house. My legs are cramping up and the linoleum is freezing but I don’t care. I feel like such a damn freak right now. I’m fifty-five years old. I have three grandkids and a mother in the next room who can’t even remember my name half the time. I’m supposed to be the "nana." I’m supposed to be the one who bakes the cookies and keeps the peace and doesn't have a single thought in her head except what’s for dinner. But I’m sitting here and my skin is crawling and I feel... I feel dirty. Like, actually disgusting. All day it’s "Mom, where’s my socks?" or "Nana, I spilled the juice" or "Brenda, the nurse is here for your father." I’m everyone's everything. I spend ten hours a day wiping faces and cleaning up messes and listening to people complain. I’m exhausted. My back hurts all the time. I look in the mirror and I see my mother's jowls and these tired, baggy eyes. I’m a grandmother! I’m retired! I should be past all the messy stuff. I should be calm and quiet and... I don't know, just done with that part of life. Like I’m just a piece of furniture that cooks and cleans. But today was the worst. I was at the grocery store getting Mom’s prescriptions and the guy behind the counter—he wasn't even that young, maybe forty—he just smiled at me. That’s it. Just a regular smile. And my heart started thumping like a damn teenager. I felt this heat go through me that made me feel sick. I stood there staring at his hands while he bagged the meds and I was thinking things—HORRIBLE things. Filthy things. I’m a grandmother! I felt like everyone in the CVS could see it on my face. Like I had "HORNY OLD LADY" tattooed on my forehead in neon lights. I almost dropped the bag and ran out of there. I got home and I had to help Mom into the shower. Looking at her skin, all thin and papery, and knowing mine is starting to go that way too... it just makes it worse. Why does my body still want this? Why is it still SCREAMING for someone to touch me like that? It’s embarrassing. It’s pathetic. I look at the way my kids look at me—they see a saint. They see "good old Mom" who stays home and minds the babies. If they knew what I was thinking about when I’m lying in bed at night they’d probably vomit. I want to vomit. It feels like a glitch in my brain. Like I’m some kind of pervert for still having a pulse down there. And the worst part is there’s nowhere for it to go. My husband passed five years ago and honestly? Toward the end we weren't doing anything anyway. I thought I was done. I really did. I thought the pilot light just went out once you hit fifty. But no. It’s like it’s getting LOUDER. The more I have to be "responsible" and the more I have to take care of everyone else's needs, the more this animal part of me is clawing at the walls. It’s distracting. I’m trying to read a story to my grandson and I’m thinking about the way a man’s voice sounds when he’s whispering in your ear. I feel like a predator. I feel like I’m betraying them just by existing near them with these thoughts. I tried to... you know, take care of it myself earlier. And I just ended up crying. I felt so stupid. Just a lonely, old woman fumbling around in the dark while her senile mother mumbles in the other room. It’s not some big special thing like you see in movies. It’s just sad and gross. I feel like I’m losing my mind. I’m supposed to be the "rock" of this family. A rock doesn't get hot under the collar because some guy at the hardware store has nice forearms. A rock doesn't lay awake at 2am wishing she could just be used for once instead of being the one doing all the using and fixing and helping. I’m just so PISSED OFF that it’s still here. Give me a break already! I’ve done my time. I raised the kids. I’m raising the grandkids. I’m changing my mother's diapers. Let me just be peaceful. Why does my body have to betray me like this? It’s like some cruel joke. You get the wrinkles and the gray hair and the saggy tits, but the engine is still running at a hundred miles an hour? WHO DESIGNED THIS? It’s a nightmare. I feel like I’m wearing a costume of a "nice old lady" and underneath I’m just this... this thing. This hungry, desperate thing. I’m gonna have to get up in four hours and make oatmeal. I’m gonna have to smile and be "Nana" and pretend I don't feel like I’m vibrating out of my skin. I’ll go to church on Sunday and sit in the pew and feel like the biggest hypocrite on the planet. I just want it to stop. I want to be as old as I look. I want to be "done" like I’m supposed to be. But here I am. 2am. Bathroom floor. Wishing I was literally anyone else. God I’m so ashamed. I’m just so damn ashamed of myself... and I know I’ll probably feel the same way tomorrow when the mailman comes by. It never ends. It just never ends.