What do you do, when you think you have a light at the end of the tunnel… and then it goes out?
Things change. In the very flicker of an eye. Don’t I know that.
I’ve made the decision, to sell my house, but I have no idea, now, where I’m going.
Perth..? It seemed like such a nice idea. But can I really do that, when reality hits?
Reality’s a bitch.
And I’m probably not even brave enough.
It seems two months of stress is about all the human mind can handle. Let’s call this one, for lack of a better euphemism, the straw the broke the camel’s back. Or, alternatively, the very last thing my mind could take before it shattered into a million pieces.
It feels shattered, right now. This isn’t the worse I’ve been- certainly not- but I think it is the most alone and adrift I’ve felt. To give myself some kind of hope… stupid.
Happy endings, fresh starts, that’s fairytale stuff. And we already know reality is a very, very fucking different thing. Fairies don’t exist here. Or maybe they do. I used to be one, remember…?
That seems like such a long time ago.
In real life, little fairies like me, they get stomped on.
I feel it so much, the tiny psychicality of myself. The slightness of my arms, all 47 kilos of me, all five feet two inches. Maybe it was because Tony was so big..? But I feel so very fragile, at times. Like when I’m dragging crap out of the garage, or trying to wrestle with my boy the way his Daddy would have.
But I’m a tough cookie. Do not ever doubt that. I may look little, and I do some stupid things, but I am as strong as they come. Whatever you throw at me, it seems…. I get back up.
I was chatting to my lovely friend the Kitten the other day. Telling her how, at some points, people telling me I’m strong and brave makes me cranky, because what other fucking option do I have? There is none.
But, the Kitten explained, this is a choice. So far, my choice has been to keep going. Every step of the way, to keep pushing through it. I’ve gotten out of bed every day. I’m not in the pysch ward.
Fuck it, I’m not dead. And more than anything else in the world, that is what I want right now. To just close my eyes and sleep for a very, very long time. Because this is too hard.
But I can’t do that to my kids. It’s just not fair. But they’re so young, and resilient, and if this is how life is going to be and I’ll always be tainted by this and I’ll see it every time I close my eyes and no one will ever love me again… then maybe it’s better to do it now, while they’re young, too young to understand. If you are to lose a parent, very young is the best way to do it. I’m guessing the same applies, if you must lose both. And some days I feel like they must, because I just can’t do this anymore. I can’t live with my own mind anymore.
So… this is it. I’m making a very conscious choice here. It’s either a whole fucking packet of sleeping pills… a long stay in the psych ward… or a trip back home. To the place where I first was me. The place where I grew up.
And, so fucking reluctantly, I choose the place where I grew up. I’ll take my children there, for only the second time, and take them to the places I used to play.
The last time I went back, standing on the side of the river with Tony and our son. Tony telling him that “This is where Mummy played, when she was little…”
I choose to keep going. I don’t fucking want to.
But I am choosing to. Rather than crumple, sob, quite literally die…. I keep going.
Maybe I am brave.
Not just me.
All of it.
It always just gets taken away again.
I’ve left anonymous comments on so far because I wanted to keep an open flow of discussion happening on the topic of mental health-sometimes anonymity is a very useful thing.
But, rather freaking ironically, I’ve decided to turn anon comments off. Thanks to a few really spineless losers who, apparently, know me in real life, but certainly haven’t contacted me in real life; and feel they can pass anonymous judgment on me venting my emotions via my blog.
As I’ve said before, if you don’t like it, please fuck off. I write what I like. Yep, I have plenty of people to talk to. You ain’t one of them. And I still prefer to write.
(Sit down, shut up, and be a good girl, Lori.)
Anyway. You can’t say things to me In Real Life anonymously. And now you can’t so it on my blog, either. You have something to say, put your goddamn name to it.
Are you brave enough for that?