When I get sad like this words are hard. My head is too busy. There’s a cacophony of thoughts: you are useless; I want to die; everything is pointless; you are pathetic; crap, the depression is biting; you are disgusting; how can I be a good parent today; this isn’t fair; you are rotten; you don’t deserve to live; no one really cares about you…and on and on…all racing and intertwined. With my brain so busy I lie still in bed. In truth I’m doing better than I thought writing this.
I’ve had a cold for 8 days now and it is flooring me. Yes that’s right. A pathetic little cold. Really it’s me that’s pathetic. No one likes the cold but tough, that’s life, you just get on with it. Except I don’t because I’m so pathetic. I whinge about struggling to stand, I moan about being tired, I indulge in self-pity, I am self-centred and disgusting. It’s a fucking cold. Get over yourself. God I hate myself. The simplest little sniffle becomes an epic. The virus ping pongs from my sinuses to upper chest. I have a bad day, rest, think I’m beating it and back it comes again. It’s like not only is my mind weak but my body just cannot be fucking arsed to overcome the virus. Still it’s only been 8 days. There could still be a long way to go. Or maybe it’ll just get better.
I’m sad because Andy is stressed and it’s my fault. He gets up with the kids in the morning so lazy, selfish arse here can sleep. I don’t sleep by the way. Our house is tiny. Once the kids are up we’re all awake but I appreciate being able to lay in bed. It’s a luxury most parents don’t have, I know that. Anyway he’s struggling. Losing it with them. Simple things are escalating into huge tantrums. I get it. Kids are annoying and he’s stressed and doing his best. It’s my fault this. He’s so angry that it frightens me. I want to try and help him but he just goes mad. I don’t really know what to do. I can’t cope. I wish he’d accept help instead of getting angry at me. He uses me as an excuse to shout at the children “stop crying because mummy’s asleep! Do you think mummy wants to be woken up like this?! Stop it! Stop it now!”. On it goes. He gets more angry and the toddler gets more wilful and I get more scared. Mummy is already awake though. Mummy is cowering in bed; hating how her husband is shouting; hating that she’s the problem; afraid to try and help because it’s very easy for lady muck to swan in and act like Mary fucking Poppins but that’s not fair on him.
So I think about dying and I realise that wouldn’t help. The only thing that would help is for me to be a proper functioning adult but for some reason I’m refusing do this. Fucking loathsome. I used to be very good at problem solving so I tried to come up with practical solutions and had some ideas:
- I will get up with the children tomorrow. I am well enough to do this. (He won’t let me. He will refuse because I need to sleep, I need to get better. He won’t listen or accept what I’m telling him.)
- I will talk to him about his stress levels and recommend that he sees his GP about it. (This is so important to me I put it in my suicide note but he’s still refusing. He will get very angry when I try to talk to him about this and I am scared because I have no strength to deal with his feelings.)
- I will suggest he rings the mental health support line that is available to patients and their carers. (He will say maybe. He’s been saying maybe to doing this for months so maybe really means no way).
Ultimately he must make his own choices. I can’t do anything more. It destroys me further seeing how I am causing all these problems but that he won’t accept help. It’s hard enough as it is, we don’t need to make it any harder. Easy for me to say. The patient. The lazy fucking useless selfish pathetic disgusting poor excuse for a human.
Why can’t I just die?
Oh, right, that only solves the problem for me, not everyone else.
I did quite well with the words. Now back inside my head I go.