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.


I have stood on the ground where my grandfathers Navy cruiser blew chunks out of the French soil aiming for Germans. He loaded the guns that killed many but didn’t see what he was doing so that makes it okay? No. It doesn’t.

I know why he never spoke of it, I know he knew what he did and what his friends did on that beach. This is war, a word used to justify killing thousands.

I don’t know about any body else but the news becomes more disturbing to me every day, bombings, stabbings, terrorism, dozens dead, thousands dead, millions dead. As long as there have been humans there has been war, but recently it is something else, it’s direct and right there on your doorstep. The battlefields are now schools, shopping malls, theatres, large scale buildings full of people to cause maximum damage. There is no art in war. We fight insane people who have the urge to harm others for the sake of it, we fight religious groups, or those that are posing as religious groups, who want to kill children at concerts for historical revenge on the Western world. What is this? Is this qualified as civil war yet?

In a local town, too close for comfort, a (supposedly) Islamic shopkeeper got attacked by a gang of thugs armed with machetes as a response to recent events. What did he do? Refuse to serve them alcohol? What justifies that? What makes those thugs any different to terrorists? They are terrorists now, it has nothing to do with religion or colour anymore. Then there was the white man in London with ‘mental problems’, a term his family used to explain why it wasn’t a terrorist act. He intentionally sought out to hurt as many people as possible of a specific religion in a public place; definition: terrorist. Hmm… but he’s white!

Before I run away completely with my train of thought, I just want to draw attention to my “(supposedly) Islamic” comment. Yes, well, although we have long established that Islam is not associated with terrorism and that no part of the writings of the Qur’an does it state that it is okay to perform horrific and inhuman acts in order to ‘defend the faith’, and that the saying ‘not all Muslims are terrorists’, springs to mind but there was a serious assault a few months ago in a town not far from where I live where a Sikh man was attacked by a gang of youths in broad daylight, who insinuated, while they were beating his body and tearing his turban from his head, that the attack was because he was Muslim.

Erm… So this is how it is here. One word comes to mind which I won’t type here but it is along the lines of being so blinkered and dumb that there is no hope for the world if these thugs remain a part of it, and that people like this are the reason why terrorism exists.

Now I may not be smart, I may not say the right things, I may upset people sometimes, but I like to think that I’ve got half the brain to decide between what’s right and what’s wrong and yes, historically the British Empire has taken a lot from the world, couldn’t the same be said about the rest of the world at some point in history, many conquests have taken place, we’re all human and this is what happened and it can’t be changed unfortunately.

On the brink of progress we fall at the final piece of straw and allow the uneducated masses have the final say. What happens? War. Haven’t we been here before?

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.

I Got Engaged!

On the morning of the 7th June 2017 my partner brought me breakfast in bed while I rolled about on my crisp white bed linens looking out at the sunny morning in a state of rare contentment. In exchange I made him tea. He made plans to take us to the city, so I showered and started to get myself ready, in the meantime he told me he needed to visit the local builders merchant.

Once he returned he found me head first in my wardrobe looking for my shoes, and handed me the most beautiful bouquet of pink and red roses. I already felt so special but felt that he’d made far more effort than me on our anniversary. I felt a pang of guilt for my lack of thought but last year all we did was eat take away and watch a movie, I honestly thought that our time of extravagance was over now that we have the house to deal with. 

I was ready to go to the city, dressed for winter as the glorious grey clouds of the British summer had descended upon us, just about to leave the house, he called me into the living room (our one finished room).

He asked me if I’d had a good morning, of course I said yes, I was already so happy and no negative thoughts had entered my mind once. Then as he got down on one knee, I think I was prepared to walk away thinking he was making fun of me. I can’t remember how he said it, I think he addressed me by my full name but I’m not sure, all I was thinking was ‘he’s joking don’t get excited’.

After quite of while of debating whether he was making fun of me in my head, I said yes. Then went off to the city to choose my ring, the rest was a strange blur of coffee breaks and jewellery shops, I was amazed that I could take the ring home the same day.

I chose a simple solitaire in white gold. It suits me, it’s not too extravagant but is most definitely a quality diamond that blinds me in certain lights if I look at it for too long. 

I never thought that I would be this happy from a few small gestures but it feels surreal in the way that I’ve realised that this is what I wanted, and that life is now moving forward instead of stagnating in the present. I have something to look forward to, something to work for, to save for which does wonders for my depression. To have something positive to focus on is just what I need right now at the edge of another breakdown at work, and with unfortunate current affairs. A little happy news may just help me through it.

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.