Well that didn’t quite go how I thought it would

So dudes, I’m alive! I made it to Christmas! To BEYOND Christmas!

Christmas Eve saw a phone call derail proceedings somewhat, reassuring me that whatever water has passed under the bridge of my parents is not enough.

Surprisingly 3/4 bottle of champagne did not dull the depression and anger that triggered in me.

Neither did eating my bodyweight on Christmas Day or drinking another whole bottle of sparkling shiraz.

Neither did having chocolate for breakfast three days in a row.

Or reintroducing butter to my diet.

Or making my own mayonnaise, eating potato salad, or baking – and eating – bread.

Curiously, the volume and interactions between four over-tired, cranky, hyped, poorly-fed boys did little to improve my mindset.

Surprisingly, Chef being ill throughout the whole period and basically in bed for the two days off he had over Christmas did little to alleviate my stress.

You can see where this is heading.

Today featured a lot of hovering by mum as she sensed my parlous state – but of course her ‘helping’ was not seen be me as such.

Today featured the boys being particularly fractious (it was unseasonably cold and wet today) with myriad fights and spats and all the rest.

It all came to a head as Chef arrived home from work and Oscar and Grover came barrelling into my room with Oscar claiming Grover had weed on his (as in Oscar’s) bed. Indeed he had.


OH.MY.GOD. The screaming that came forth from my being.

Something along the lines of it being bad enough I had parents incapable of treating each other nicely despite having 26 years to heal the wounds but that I had bred four children incapable of being nice to each other was beyond the pale. (or pail? That’s making my neck itch right there.) Something something something this has been the worst three days of my life in quite some time something something something selfish, ungrateful, mean-spirited varmints something something something



I sat on the beach. In the howling wind and rain. I ran in the soft sand until my heart hurt and I couldn’t get a breath. I sat on the beach some more. I thought a lot about ending it because this will always be a part of my life and that is just not acceptable or bearable. It’s not a phase. It too will not pass. At least not until my parents are in the grave. I sat on the beach some more. Ran some more. And finally cried. Big heaving howling sobs. For about a minute. And then it was gone.

I came up off the beach and sheltered in a little nook of the surf club out of the wind, slumped against the wall and watched as some guys came in from kite surfing, totally pumped and exhilarated from their wild ride out in squally seas.

I eventually walked home and slunk off to our bedroom both embarrassed about my behaviour and not ready to face the boys. I listened as they had their showers and baths and went to bed WITHOUT A PROTEST OR A PEEP for Chef. AT 8 PM.

And here I sit. 10pm. The Perfect Storm playing out on the TV and absolutely none the wiser as to how to deal with/react/resolve/accept the situation as it is. I’m doing a fair deal of catastrophising and grand-standing but I know nothing good will come of that.

But there is absolutely nothing to come of discussing this with either my mother or father. I understand both of their positions. And here I am. Stuck in the middle again.