Relapse

I’ve lost it again. I made the mistake of suppressing my emotions and forcing myself to be happy for others and as a result I have imploded. I don’t really know how it happened, or when it started but I know that I had to sleep all day yesterday and dreamt of awful things.

My partner couldn’t handle me so he left me in the house alone while he drank beer with his dad. I needed him and he left me… typical. So I slept. My body was worn out and I slept. I didn’t make him tea, or breakfast, or picked up his socks, scrubbed his kitchen floor or ironed his shirts. I slept. It was the best thing I could do for him, his alternative would be to not have me in his life at all to do any of these things.

He can’t seem to fend for himself anymore, he becomes a hopeless child eating dry crackers or nothing at all. Resenting me for not taking care of him when I need to be taken care of.

I’ve not felt so terrible in months, long before we got engaged, I was losing my grip on life and felt unwanted, as an unmarried spinster with no value at all to anybody. No decent wage to pay my way, a pathetic leech on his funds, I was ready to go and take my failure life with me to make his life better. I still feel a failure but at least I feel like a wanted failure with my solitaire diamond sparkling back at me from the third finger of my aging hand. He keeps me here now. I live for him now.

I can’t seem to clear my mind of the thoughts of what could’ve been, my silly hopes for my future that evaporated when I realised that I was incapable of achieving them, I was my own barrier to my success and I stood firmly planted in the ground, feet buried in cement when it was time to move forward. I failed myself and I make him suffer also. 

They should have told me that I’d never make it, that I wouldn’t survive but they just kept telling me I could conquer the world, but the realities burned up in the acid in my stomach along with my medicine and with any hope of getting better.

I imagine my wedding day, I see run mascara and an ugly bride walking down the aisle to a make believe life in a pure white dress made of newspaper, as worthless as the the woman wearing it. She doesn’t make it to the altar, she gets swallowed by the black cloud that has followed her for 20 years.

Dead End

I’m alone too often with my own thoughts, which isn’t good for me. 

I’m paid staff in a charity shop, with volunteers who don’t turn up half the time. So all I do is deal with people alone who treat me like the scum of the earth for a little bit of money.

I’m told I should be grateful, that I should feel like I’m doing something good, but I’m not and I don’t. I hate every second of it. Serving the general public is the most thankless aspect of my job and I hate being treated like I’m nothing.

This place reminds me of my life’s failures every day. How stupid I was for thinking I would one day be worth something.

I completed a 12 month training course last week at an attempt to prove to people that I had a brain and that it still worked, but again it only reminded me of what I don’t have. A goal or aim in life, a path to follow. I see no paths anymore, I think I used to, I can’t remember. There are no more routes to take, I stand on a square in the middle of the ocean waiting to be rescued but nobody’s coming and I can’t swim.

How Can I Survive In This World As A Talentless Individual?

I honestly don’t know. I’m not what I would describe as surviving in the world, I feel like I’m constantly sinking and floating further away from what is good for me and closer to dementia. My mind is not exercised to its limit here rifling through junk all day. I need more, I know that I need more. I so desperately need to feel important, to feel needed and a necessary part of a vital team, not a speck on the payroll. 

I feel so capable of affecting change, of truly helping people instead of helping line a mans pocket who takes all the credit for the tasks I completed with my broken body. He’ll throw us an email every now and again with a half hearted “thank you” and even sometimes a “well done”, the following week he’ll be in the papers, preened and smug, never having to lift a finger to boost his sales, just promise us a couple of pence more for thousands of pounds of profits.

I’m not smart like him, savvy and business minded would never have been a way of describing me. Determination was never a trait of mine, nor confident and I’m afraid that there is no place for me in this world, other than to have children and burden them when I’m old.

A Woman Belongs… On The Sofa With Her Feet Up

Sometimes it gets a little too much. I can’t control the tiredness and general exhaustion I feel from running my own home. Some days when my workload has been piled to the ceiling and all I’ve had all day is staff talking my ears off so I can’t concentrate on finishing my ever increasing to-do pile, my mind tires of everything in its path. In this heat my feet blow up like balloons, and the sweat is dripping off me as I sit at the desk using all my energy trying to ignore them talking about TV shows they saw and what their favourite colour is. Blah blah. I want to be asleep, I’d sleep standing up if I could.

Exhausted and sticky, I finally return home to find a counter covered in dirty dishes, empty boxes and my fiancé with his feet up after a long day of doing nothing and I can’t help but wonder why he couldn’t, just this once, wash the dishes for me. It’s not like I ever ask, or expect anyone to do it but it would just be nice for a change to not have to walk in from work and have to clean up the mess he’s made while he’s not being at work. One can dream. 

Any other day, I merrily plod along, cleaning, watering my plant pots, cooking our meals while he sits and watches TV. As the mere secondary bread winner, I attempt to earn my keep by cleaning house and cooking, because it is a fact that his job is intellectually much harder than mine, and for a lot longer hours, but that doesn’t make my aching legs not ache and my swollen feet not swell. I am tired, more than usual with an accompanying headache and my patience wearing thin with menial tasks. He didn’t make the bed either. I think I might move out instead.

Not Again

I’m having a difficult time getting out of bed today. Watching movie after movie, I don’t want any of them to end but they do. The more movies end the closer and faster I get to returning to work after my mid-week two day break from my own personal hell.

Extraordinary lives fill my screen and flicker lights across the white walls. It’s like a cell not a bedroom, with a few dots of colour scattered, but mostly white, clinical. Imprisoned in it and left to watch subliminal messages telling me that my life is not good enough, forcing me to sob into the echoing emptiness. 

I wait for someone to report me to my doctor, tell them I’m sick again, keep me away from the place that breaks me down. There’s no one here to observe me. I live with the busiest man alive who doesn’t have a moment in his day to take in my deteriorating health and the distance I’m creating from him. I’m blank. Cooking and cleaning and reading books then falling asleep on the spot where I was frantically flicking through pages in search of answers that I will never find. He bowls through the door exhausted from working after midnight and thinks I’m asleep. This is our life. 

I can’t go to anyone and burden them with my sickness, they have worries of their own. I can’t even go out, I don’t get paid enough to afford the recreational activity of shopping or buying a hot meal. I can spend money when I need to and often I need to before the end of month. I’m sitting with my back pain recapping the agony of the first two days of the beginning of the week. Trying to see the end of a dramatic job that has no grand finale, it cycles around and around like a fairground ride until I’m sick and dizzy and can no longer stand let alone walk straight. Or see a straight line to the next ride, if I truly believe there is one.

Which I don’t.

I don’t believe there is an end to this anymore, that I’ll ever be happy again no matter what I do. I miss baths. They ended my days peacefully, I used to sit in them for hours, relaxing, crying, whatever I wanted to do in those moments of solitude, soothing my ageing muscles. Showers aren’t the same, they’re too quickly over, I can’t stand and calm myself down in a claustrophobic cubicle like I can in a tub, focusing my senses into a mindful state. We’ve lived here a year now, and in a year I’ve had no peace like that. It feels like a decade.

I’ve decided I’m leaving the house anyway. I’ll pay the consequences for it later.

Hungry

I need to feel alive again. I need to do something that makes me worth while. I’m just wondering from room to room around my cold empty house, waiting for the time to move faster so I can start cooking lunch. I don’t want to do housework, or read, or watch TV, I’ve been doing all of that for days and it’s not working. I want to stand on top of a hill and stare down at little buildings and tiny people going about their lives. I want breathe in the scent of trees and run through fields to feel my heart beating my body back to life.
I can’t stay here, confined in this little space, alone and left to play house while my partner goes to win his bread. I hate him for it, I hate depending on him for my own survival.

I loathe my pathetic life. I want to be at that peaceful stage where I’m grateful for oxygen but I only feel hatred for it, the more air I breathe the less air someone more worthy is denied. I feel guilty for being here, on this planet occupying space when smart, talented, more deserving people who were born into this world were wrongfully taken from it . When children die from starvation and I scoff bread and guzzle water like there’s no tomorrow. I don’t deserve to be here, nobody can say that I do, a snivelling wreck planted in middle class Europe to complain of the privilege. Except I am here. No drought or famine has killed me off, no disease epidemic or storm has taken me down, so shouldn’t I be doing something with the certainty of seeing in the next day?

Well I’m not and therein lies the reason for all of this. My precious time is not spent well, my fresh food and safe water are not savoured, my life is filled by making money for luxuries that I use to induce some sort of vague happiness from the pointlessness of the lifelong endeavour to get more from everything, to all but bleed rocks to feed the greed in human nature.

I look at my memories and the only ones of significance are the ones when I feel insignificant. When I’m standing on a mountain chewing a piece of ham and swigging water from a spring, proud of reaching the peak with only minor injuries that will take a few days to recover from, if that. 

I don’t believe we were made to conquer this world as we have, but only to enjoy it and help each other survive it and I think we’ve forgotten that. No one helps anyone, and if it came down to it I know we’d all sacrifice each other to get more, time, money, whatever… I’d be the first to go. I sometimes feel like the only one living, and everybody else are robots, programmed to group together and get along and I just want to sit in my garden and feed the sparrows.

They’ll Never Understand

A couple of weeks ago I wasn’t feeling well. No coughs or colds or flu-like symptoms, I was feeling hopeless, dumb, tired and angry as per my usual side effects of my disorder. That is unwell to me, unfit for work, especially customer service! Can you imagine telling your boss oh I’m feeling really down, I’m not well enough to work? Then them saying, oh no problem, take as long as you need. HA! It’s laughable just thinking about it.

I’m lucky that my boss is aware of my various mood changes and has dealt with my many emotional outbursts and breakdowns with patience and kindness – while I’m already at work though  – but you try explaining to someone in a minute long conversation over the phone exactly how you feel, there wouldn’t be enough time to thoroughly explain before they’ve made up their mind that they don’t believe you or don’t think that it’s a good enough reason to haul someone else out of bed to cover you. For me it is. Our company doesn’t pay for sick leave and I really need all of my money, so when I say I need a day off trust me I really need it.

So, over the years and to prevent embarrassment from having to explain my many thoughts and feelings so that I could be considered for leave, I’ve taken to lying. Looks awful in black and white text but it’s true – see what I did there? – I’ve taken to calling in the early hours so that my voice is still raspy, and I say I’ve caught a cold. I do catch a lot! I’m not always lying, it’s only once every few months or so on those days. You know the ones when you’re really wondering why you’re on this planet and what purpose you were created to be a nothingness of a human being that takes up too much space and uses up too much valuable oxygen… You know those days!

When you just cannot face your awful job because one more vile customer, one more error could be that last nail in the coffin and you know this because you know yourself and your illness, enough to be completely aware of how much more you are able to take before you break. That is why you need that day, that one measly day to mend your head, a few peaceful moments away that could save your life.

But they’ll never understand that, will they?