I am pissed off because I’m tired.I’m tired because I have been ‘working’ – either managing a household, caring for one or more children, actually working a job, or all of the above, every day for the last three plus years. I have not slept for longer than four hours in that same period.
This makes me feel resentful. Resentful when my partner goes away for days on end, makes his own schedule, books himself a massage, takes a nap…
I’m told I should put myself first. I should take rather than wait to be given. But I am hamstrung. Hamstrung by poverty and economic dependence. Hamstrung by anxiety that makes me feel I have to constantly be in control to mitigate against risk I see everywhere. Hamstrung by depression which tells me I’m not worthy of the things I want or feel I need. Hamstrung by my beautiful children who cling to my body and demand it’s presence twenty four hours a day. Hamstrung by the bullshit Disneyfied notion of romantic love that tells me that those who truly care for me would put me first.
I martyr myself but no one lights a candle in a dusk vigil – instead I just wear myself down into dust while my family look on, concerned eyebrows and tight lips. They mutter that I am ‘difficult to look after’, excusing themselves. They acquiesce to my ‘irrational’ demands for some semblance of order, cleanliness, predictability and calm. With a roll of the eye and a sigh of frustration which further underlines my own feelings of inadequacy and unlovability. That’s probably not a word but it works well enough.
I wait for rescue: either the rescue by my sometime lover or the guts to rescue myself. I second, third and fourth guess myself – are my fantasies of escape and autonomy purely selfish dreams that risk ensuring I never achieve the inevitable humdrum resigned contentment of marital union all others see as their lot? Do I have to continue to strive alone for a relationship where communication is open, forthright and honest and basic needs mainly met? Can’t I cut my losses and just build a life where I am answerable only to myself? Where my head might stop echoing with my own screams? Where I could put others concerns aside and just focus on what my children need, and what I need? I live in frozen fear of repeating the mistakes of my parents, existing in my own head and making myself ill while my children try to figure this world out unguided, but realise in my efforts to escape that fate I’m already living it. I problem-solve all day – unsolvable problems, nonexistent problems, potential problems, crucial problems within the confines of my skull but when I open my mouth to spill out the answers I’m silenced by the sight of the cogs whirring behind his eyes: he is figuring out his own solutions. His own not ours. I feel I know this for certain despite zero evidence. Our conversations hover around music, poetry, religion and the ‘state we, the world, are in’. Nothing of substance is said. We are nearly always in agreement. Never arguing.