When my husband met me, I was a saucy, foul-mouthed party hag with a sharp tongue. That's who he fell in love with. He thought it was funny I talked like a sailor and bossed like a queen. When my kids were born, I was too tired to be saucy and had to watch my mouth after Izzy said "shit" at the park one day. I also think being a mom taught me infinite patience, not with just my daughters but everyone. I turned into a softy.

When my husband and I began to fight a lot, I did something I never thought I would—I backed down. I decided I was sick of challenging all the time, sick of fighting so hard for everything. I withdrew inside myself and collapsed inward like a black hole. I thought I was keeping the peace and not fighting in front of the kids seemed like the right thing to do, but it wasn't for me.

After living through what feels like the hardest year of my life so far, I realize I forgot myself when I became a mom and wife. I became Donna Reed when it's my nature to be Roseanne. I didn't realize how much it was killing me to keep quiet and behave until so many things came to a head in September, and I thought I might have a nervous breakdown.

It's too soon to say things have changed much less why, but I feel better, and I think one reason is I'm acting like my old self in one important way: I'm mouthing off like a teenager to my husband. I didn't make a decision to do this; I think it just got to the point where there was nothing more to lose. Inadvertently, I started acting like the person he fell in love with again—a bitch. Says something about him that he bullies me when I retreat and acts like an obedient husband when I give him lip, but whatever works.

I thought there was nothing worse than fighting in front of the kids, but now I think there is—being an example of a doormat. The other night my husband said, "Don't I look good?" and showed me his newly shaved face. I said without missing a beat, "You'd look as lot better if you washed your fucking stubble out of the sink." Instantly I thought, Oh my god, did I just say that? I looked around the room, but it was only me talking. First I felt out of line. Then I thought, maybe the f-word was a faux pas. But perhaps my outburst will lead my girls to a) not marry pigs and b) clean up after themselves more. Not the best example, but I sure felt better.

As much as I hate to admit it, my boss helped in all this. I think one of the reasons she hired me is my direct communication style. When I retreated from my conflict at home, I stupidly thought I could keep it separate from the rest of my life. Then I realized work wasn't going so great and I hadn't gone out socially in weeks because I hadn't felt like it. That should be my first indicator because I live to drink booze with friends. I don't have to even know your ass well to love drinking with you. Just meet me at a mother's club function and give me a glass of wine and you're my best bud.

Last week my boss sat me down and her number one complaint was that while I was there in body, I had checked out. I realized my pain had turned me into as much a recluse as any agoraphobic. I wanted to tell her: I'm sick of being strong, I'm sick of being a team leader, I want to follow for awhile and rest. She said, "You never retreated from your kids because they won't let you, and I'm not going to let you either." I hate when my boss is right.

Being a mother is about being a leader whether I like it or not. I am my kid's guide and idol whether I want to take a nap for a few years or not. I am a breadwinner whether I like it or not. I tell my husband all the time, when we had children we made a commitment to do what's best for them no matter what, but I wasn't listening to my own advice. I was thinking autopilot. Disengaging from my pain is as much denying my responsibility as not giving them a bath when they're dirty.

It was a pretty heavy month.

My co-worker, trying to defend me, told my boss I have been the primary breadwinner for my family since June. My boss said, "Why didn't you tell me? It explains so much and makes me understand so much more." All I could think is: HUMILIATION. I have felt humiliated ever since I lost my badass self and forgot to admit I was human.

Looking at my own mom, I know there's some weird ass energy feeding into it all. My whole life I've done everything I could to not be like her, to learn from her template by doing the opposite. Sometimes I feel like I'm being too hard on her, but then she reminds me why I've been in survivor mode since first grade. My whole life my mom was so fucking passive with men it made me want to puke. She dates bullying, domineering men and thinks they are taking care of her. My sister called me last spring and said, "I'm not supposed to tell you this, but mom's boyfriend beat her up and threatened to kill her." I used to take care of my mom, rush in and save her. This time, I was enraged—not with him, with her. She's nearing sixty. It's time she learned to take care of herself. She needs to make her own damn choices and live with them, and so do I. No man will ever lay a hand on me; I've always known that. I also had to decide I won't be bullied, or I'm no one to judge.

Almost every day I tell my daughters that everyone makes mistakes. I try to teach them confidence, but they will learn by example before they'll listen because goodness knows they only listen when they feel like it. If they have to hear me sass their dad, maybe that's not the best way to teach, but it sure as hell feels good and hopefully no one's going to put my girls down and get away with it.

Last but not least, I admitted I need help. I started taking an antidepressant. I always prided myself in being strong enough to handle anything on my own, and I am, but there's nothing wrong with asking for help. When I went to the doctor, complaining of insomnia, she said, "I think you're depressed." I opened my mouth to say, Nope and started bawling instead. I hate crying in front of people. Then she hugged me. What a crazy concept: being strong and being vulnerable can be the same thing. Motherhood never fails to amaze me by pointing out how much of a child I still am myself.