Being Kendra_ Cribs, Cocktails, and Getting My Sexy Back - Kendra Wilkinson [23]
The place was roomy enough for Hank by himself, but add a wife and kid and things got cramped real fast. I quickly learned I couldn’t stay there full-time, there just wasn’t enough space, so I spent the next couple of weeks going back and forth between L.A. and Minnesota (Hank’s parents came up to Minnesota to help out and keep an eye on the baby since Hank was playing football) and moved us out of my Pasadena house and into a month-to-month apartment in Studio City—a place we’d call home until we bought our new house several months later. Finally, after trying to get our lives settled in California, I flew back to Minnesota for a three-week stay, possibly the longest three weeks of my life. That is when I lost my cool, to say the least.
I now understand what some moms go through on a daily basis when dad heads off to work. One day I found myself alone in the apartment with the baby during a blizzard while Hank was at practice. It was pretty bad out and I wasn’t going to risk driving anywhere with the baby in that weather. One day stuck in the apartment turned into two, which turned into three. I hadn’t showered in a while, hadn’t really seen daylight, and other than “goo-goo ga-ga” with Hank Jr., hadn’t really had much of a face-to-face conversation with anyone in the outside world. All of a sudden I started to lose it.
The room started to spin, my dreams and reality started to mix together. I wasn’t sure what day it was or what time it was, and I didn’t know whether I had eaten or what I had eaten. I could barely see five feet in front of me. I was pretty out of it. That is when I knew something terrible was about to happen. Thank God my son was safe. I’m not saying I was a danger to Hank Jr., but thank God he was sleeping quietly in his room away from my madness, because things were spiraling down very quickly. He is a heavy sleeper; he could sleep through a thunderstorm, a giant tractor trailer whizzing by, or in this case a parental meltdown of epic proportions.
It was around bedtime and I just went crazy. Something just snapped inside me and I ripped everything off the walls. I smashed everything, cleared off shelves and tables and shattered anything breakable. I had a sudden bout of depression and hate, and I just broke any object in plain sight. I started shaking. I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I was trying to wrap my hands around anything and break it. I threw plates and shattered them. I ripped up papers and bills and envelopes. Stuff on tables like forks, knives, glasses—I just picked them up and slammed them all. This went on for at least an hour, with occasional breathing breaks in the middle to catch my breath for a minute. But nothing could stop me.
I knew something bad was going on internally with me but I couldn’t control it. I was raging, and the more I raged, the heavier and more intense it got. I wasn’t stopping for anything or anyone. Of course, being alone (Hank Jr. was sleeping and daddy Hank wasn’t home yet), there wasn’t anyone or anything to stop me anyway. I was screaming and crying beyond what you could imagine. The neighbors, if they didn’t know me yet, certainly knew me now. I thought someone was going to call the cops; I was having my Britney moment. Apart from shaving my head and bashing in a window with an umbrella, it was pretty much as you would think. This was not the pretty blonde posing on a billboard on Sunset Boulevard with her family announcing the season premiere of her new show. I was an angry, depressed monster with no producers or editing to fix my flaws. I was crying uncontrollably. I just kept screaming, “Fuck! Fuck! I don’t deserve this shit!” I couldn’t think straight and I was