Battle weary

So yesterday I lost it.
Just the same as every other time the pressure keg that is my brain reaches maximum overload.
Just the same build up over a period of weeks where I keep talking to people, keep letting everyone know that I’m feeling pretty overwhelmed or ‘would really appreciate…’ or ‘it would really help me if…’ which they then kick to the curb because I am one of those idiots who can apparently seem really upbeat and incontrol while am really about to l.o.s.e.i.t. so that when I do lose it no one has seen it coming and says, ‘you just have to ask’ or ‘you just have to let me know’.
Rinse and repeat.

The boys (including Chef) are on notice. Start looking after the FUCKING DOGS or I’m getting rid of them. They have one month. I have to shovel shit ONCE, just ONCE during that month and they.are.gone. *


*If you only knew the effort it took for me to stay calm during this discussion. I didn’t use the word shit once. Or fuck. It was all poo and “when I have to pick up dog poo I am not thinking about how much I love my life and my family. I feel like I have been tricked. Duped. Mummy feels she is being taken for granted and it makes me not want to be here. And mummy doesn’t like feeling like that because it makes her very very sad and angry and then I take it out on you boys and that makes me feel even sadder.”

Jesus. When I get like this I almost recoil in pain at the damage I must be doing to these kids.

Chef and I had a blazing row. The same blazing row we always have – that I have been asking for help, telling him I am not coping, that I need his help, that I need him to do these things he assured me he would do. And on and on. And yet here we are. Again. With me feeling blinding rage on a daily basis peppered with daydreams, mind dalliances of walking away from it all. Ending it. Topping myself. These dreams are just pretty little dances like chiffon being caught in a breeze a sway this way, a jolt that way a soft shimmer here and there.

I know now I would never act out these micro plays of my mind which is a lot further down the road than where I was when someone first brought it to my attention that ‘normal’ people don’t ever think about killing themselves. Ever. Huh? Whaddyaknow. I thought it was something that everyone had in their psyche but there you go.

But then there is today. The day after. And I see the boys being careful around me. I see Jasper holding himself in check with me for the first time ever. I have to work really really hard to smile back at Grover as his each of his smiles of purity rain down on me. Felix coming up to me and hugging me, quietly saying “I’d been thinking lately I would try harder to do more to help”. Oscar coming up to me, teary, “ok mama?” as he rubs my arm.
And a little piece of me dies.
The damage I must be doing to these kids.
And I think maybe they would be better if I was gone. If they didn’t have to live with this uncertainty.
That for them, living with the memories of me would be better than living the reality of what it is to have a mother who’s fucked in the head.
And don’t even get me started on the self loathing and the eating issues.
That my body repulses me.
And so it goes.

But I know it will pass.
The pain will subside.
Normal programming will return shortly.
My reality.
My life.