This isn’t a competition…?

This isn’t a competition…?

It’s been a difficult few days. Not in the grand scheme of things, there’s no war, famine or pestilence, but certainly they could have been better.

Firstly my eldest has been ill. Only a cold, but it’s knocked her little socks off and given her a high fever and made her very out of sorts. Three days in and the baby is also snotty and miserable. None of us have had very much sleep. Apart from their dad that is, who can sleep through anything and has been happily snoring away in the other room while I deal with two snotty, radiating and squirmy babes.

Secondly my dad, who I’m very close to, got some bad news from the DWP. They’ve cut his welfare payment by £100 a month, despite him having COPD and mental health problems. So as a family we’ve had to do a lot of consoling/problem solving/reassuring to try to figure out how we can ensure he has enough to eat and a roof over his head. Fuck you DWP.

Thirdly, my partner and I have started couples counselling and as expected, it’s brought a lot of stuff to the surface that has been bubbling away. My constant stream of intrusive thoughts now have additional ones that seem harder to dismiss: “Are we going to get through this?”, “Are all our problems my fault?”, “God, he’s such a bastard” etc (spoiler alert: he’s really not a bastard at all).

My tentative steps towards adequate self care measures (eating/sleeping/doing stuff for me) have gone out of the window and I’ve been navigating the last few days through a fug of extreme tiredness and malnourished hyper-awareness and anxiety. Those sound like they should be mutually exclusive states but trust me, they ain’t.

Today when I was walking my girls back from feeding the ducks, my eldest (who is finally on the mend) was dragging her feet and insisting she take her coat off. I was thinking about money problems and how pathetic it is that my partner and I can never talk about the subject properly. I could feel my temper rising and I tried to cajole my daughter gently through gritted teeth, but I was aware I wasn’t being as calm and understanding as I should have been. I had the thought that my kids would be better off if I just handed them over to my partner. Then they went something like this:

“They’d be much happier with him, he’s very calm and patient and better with them than I am.”

“And then he’d see what it’s really like having to deal with two under threes twenty-four seven”

“No he wouldn’t: he’d go back to his mum’s and make sure he had his family around to help. He’d get off Scott free.”

“Plus, that’s what he wants anyway. He’d give anything for it to just be him and the girls. He never wanted to be the breadwinner and he resents me being the one at home. That would be letting him win.”

What. The. Actual?

Letting him win?! Is this a competition? Is that actually how I feel? That somehow I’m being unsupported because I’m being set up to fail? Could that possibly be true or is this just the ravings of a mind existing off two hours sleep in forty eight hours and half a packet of fig rolls? 

It’s certainly given me something to take to therapy next week anyhow…

A rambling note to self 

A rambling note to self 

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.