I am second week into half term and i love my children, it’s just that you can have too much of a good thing! Ha, no. actually i am just literally mentally lying in the path of oncoming traffic whilst trying my hardest to be a good mum.
they are the best thing really that has ever happened to me and yet in them i see just my own failings as they squabble and grow bored and I spend my days feeling utterly useless and redundant and sort of stuck in a rabbit trap of regrets and recriminations.
The best time is when I have to go to work and can leave them with someone who will take care of them with love and impartiality (my mum, the darling woman). Then i know they are safe and entertained but i don’t have to do the hard stuff of the minutiae… the guilt ridden stretched out bits.
and yet when I go to work i am threatened with eyefuls of tears at the sight of other mothers with their children. or as i collect plates from tables i think how utterly pathetic i am collecting dishes at my age. i should have been a contender. i should be something. instead i wipe tables and hunch over a low sink to wash innumerable mugs and cutlery and other satiated objects.
it’s Tuesday and I’m not working. I am supposed to have a counselling session with my nineteen year old but I’ve no baby sitter. You go, I say to him, as we occasionally attend alone or at least i have and he is due a solitary meeting with our lovely saintly counsellor. except i am feeling the horror of half term and the horror of another wave of the stench of sadness coming over me. and i say. can i go? is it ok if i go and you watch the children. he’s ok with this because he actually wants to stay home as he is tired. i partly feel crap at taking his spot but i am at my wit’s end and need to tell someone.
I cycle fast to the chemist, where sits a month old prescription for sertraline- an anti-depressant. the fact is I’ve been off antidepressants for about six months and it’s been the most shitly low no frills six months ever. I mean, god. is this it?
I enter the pharmacy where the lovely ladies are. i approach the counter and ask if my electronically sent prescription is still there? it is. I almost apologise. I cant do this anymore i say. ive tried ive tried but i cant fight it. to be honest it’s like a fucking monster tsunami of the soul. it sweeps over one and just swallows you up. i feel tears escaping from my eyes. I’m gutted. i wanted to beat this. it’s cancer of the soul.
the lovely pharmacist delays another customer and takes me into a tiny room where she gives me water and dries my tears and tells me she’s there if need be and she hugs me. yes. she hugs me, I am like blanche Dubois. wow, the kindness of strangeness. that’s all that keeps me and my mad sad self going.
I almost feel better. can i get hugs on prescription? and kindness. and someone to cry to?
I cycle on tear-stained and proud this is my own-ly thing I’ve got and i hide it mostly and now it’s out i don’t care who sees.
I see my counsellor. she talks to me and weaves out some sadnesses. i leave. i still have my tablets but i can’t bring myself to take them yet. maybe i can try another day….