I've got the bottle

 I’m Sandy and I’m swimming, no, I’m drowning, in something I cannot shake. I’m a cleaner at the agency. Best job of my life and I’ve been here for well over a decade. If it were up to me I’d stay here until I’m no longer able to get on my hands and knees to make the place nice and sparkly clean. Seeing this place gleam is what powers my engine each and every day. I’m the fairy godmother of clean and would give that Kim Woodburn a run for her money, she’d be well pushed to find fault with my work.

But there’s a blot on my card that continually gets darker. I wouldn’t call it a problem, per se, and I’m totally in control and I mean that and I’m not just saying it. Okay, we all have our vices, our flaws and we all have our little whatever-it-is to aid us in pulling through those tiresome working days. This… thing… it gives me a yank and it’s like it actually holds my hand. It’s a solid and dependable friend I’ve grown to appreciate. Life has a knack of launching stuff at you and you find it tough to cope don’t you, it’s no wonder we turn to things that help us forget or help us power through.

When did it start? Gosh, we’re talking a year or so. My home life was getting disruptive, my fella was let go from the docks and we sniped and argued like it was nobody’s business. He was so laid back about the whole thing I thought he was a DFS sofa. Money issues aside, I’d been rowing with my dad over how best to care for my mum, bless her. It all piled on me and I couldn’t breathe. I was cleaning as per usual. There’d been a bit of a little bash to celebrate Paula’s birthday. I was just about to get stuck in to clearing away when I saw a virtually full bottle of wine on the side. I’m not proud of what I did but I took a swig, then another, then two more. Each gulp faded out my anxieties. Before I knew it I’d nearly wolfed the bottle back.

It's easy to hide. The wine they discard is just that – they expect it to be lashed out. I’ve come to depend on their tiny soirees after work, that’s when I know I’ll be able to quieten my stress down, just a little. My heart quickens when I get in and clock the leftover ale but just as equally sinks if there isn’t any. I know, I know, tight cow I bet you’re calling me. Oh don’t worry, I do buy my own too when I have to and keep it in my handbag. I saw this sturdy plastic bag with a nozzle on eBay you can put wine into, so you can’t hear any clanking of bottles, it was a couple of quid. Bargain.

The thought of not being able to do that terrifies me. I don’t get wasted, I’m always in control, I get fuzzy now and again but I have a bit of a giggle with it, and if you can make your job fun then that’s half the battle won isn’t it?

The Great Escape... into work of all places!

 I’m Ursula and I’m living in absolute hell. Ever get that sinking feeling because there’s nothing you can do to make it stop. I pray each night to God and whoever else fancies a listen, not that anyone seems to. I clasp my hands tightly and I say, ‘Why, God, why?’ Now I understand what white-knuckled actually means. I swear I’m going to pop a blood vessel in my hands I grip them so hard. I’m laden with guilt because I actually enjoy coming to work, it’s my only respite. All the mundane shite that comes with the job – arranging the viewings, chatting to customers on the phone, sorting through photographs, all a great distraction from the fact that my home life is a ticking time bomb.

My oldest daughter, Lucy, has mental health problems. Probably the worst type you can have. Her nerves are off the chart and her OCD actually debilitates our home life. I’m often found screaming into my pillow as I hug it tightly into me, the white knuckles making an appearance again, while I sit on the floor in the bedroom. The number of times I’ve had to do that lately is becoming far more frequent. My hubby tells me I’m a right rock, but how long before I crumble? I can see it in his eyes, his light went out long ago, he’s plodding on trying to hold us all together but he’s clueless about the mental health and he buries himself away whenever he can.

Lucy’s got medical conditions too, she has Crohn’s which is an absolute bugger and I feel for the poor girl with all my heart. As her mum my heart aches, and the pangs get stronger and they take the wind right out of me. Occasionally I have to steady myself because I get this ball of adrenalin that whizzes right up me, it’s horrific. But if I could make her better then I’d suffer all that ten, twenty times worse.

Our youngest two, they’re twins God love them, don’t know what kind of a mood their big sis is going to be in and walk on eggshells most of the time. Don’t get me wrong, the good times are fantastic but getting fewer and far between. I just want it to stop. How can I love her dearly but also want to get away and have some time for me? That makes me sound like a right cow I know, but I’m being honest when I say that I need the breaks. I’ll forget when some of the girls here tell us their latest saga or when I’m flicking through a trashy gossip mag left behind by a client. But it all soon comes crashing back.

Maybe I should just woman up and accept that she’s my whole world, and she bloody well is, and this is life as we know it from hereon in. The guilt nibbles away, trying to wear me down, and it’s suffocating. Who knows how and when I’ll completely break and who’ll pick up my pieces when I’m constantly trying to scoop up everyone else’s?

 

What?! Starting again?

 I’m Beryl. I’m in bits. Floods and floods of tears. I’m worse than a leaky tap, my bottom lip quivers and that’s it, it comes whooshing out. A simple word triggers me good style and sets me right off. Total head is blown. I’m bereft. Suffering the biggest loss I’ve ever experienced. The world as I have known it is no more.

It started this time last year. I suspected my husband of an affair, to twist that knife right in she’s at least a decade younger than I am. I didn’t get it, he had his feet right under my table, and wanted for nothing. I did everything for him – washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning, shopping, banking. He’d roll in from his after work two-pints, gulp down his hearty tea, have his shower, shit & shave, and camp in front of the box most nights. Did I complain? No. I carried on and still pandered to his every need. How the hell did he get the energy or the time to have an affair that’s what I want to know. It’s not as if he was a sprightly thing, and would lounge about in his ripped undies, yawning like a slovenly sloth, snoring like a bear when he’d inevitably nod off.

Not that he had to make much effort for the affair though. She worked with him, well as far as I know still works with him. Anyway, I found out and confronted the bastard. After his crocodile tears dried and he’d pretended to be sorry for about half an hour, he moved out. Twenty two years of marriage down the swanny and I’ve no clue how to carry on. He’s all I’ve ever known; childhood sweetheart, up the duff as a late teen, two-up and two-down in the suburbs with a loft conversion. My life has gone kaput and I’m alone. I’m now faced with the dauting situation of starting from scratch, rebuilding what life I have left.

It's hard trying to talk to the kids. I’d never expect them to pick a side, despite the fact their dad is a lying, cheating scumbag. The pity in their eyes, they don’t know what to do or say so I change the subject to make it easier for them to cope. I sit there when I’m on my own and I weep like nobody’s business. I hanker after a life even though it wasn’t anything special, but it was my life. Everything is on pause and I’m terrified to press play because what sort of a story will play out now? It’s not going to be a fluffy rom com that’s for sure. A horror most probably.

I mean, even if I did pluck up the courage to get myself out there again, who’d even want me? I’ve piled on more than a few pounds over the years, become far too comfortable in my ever expanding skin. You know what, if anyone’s written an instruction manual guiding you through what the hell to do and how to move on, then I’m definitely all eyes and ears. Not even sure I’d want to be with someone else. Ha, hark at me, trying to get in there first before the inevitable rejection comes at me.

The worst kind of baby blues

 I’m Tina. A couple of months ago I miscarried. My world stopped, it fell flat on its arse. To say I was heartbroken was an understatement. It was very much a planned pregnancy. My fella and I, well we’ve been going through a rough patch. All this baby talk, it’s taken its toll. We both wanted it like crazy and it very nearly tore us apart.

It very much dominates everything. Like picking at a scab that will never heal, it’s raw and fresh and hurts so much. There’s no hiding away. Each time I can bear to look at myself, to lift my head and face what’s in front of me, pure torture. I must’ve failed in some way, my body was broken and unable to house a baby. Did I drink too much? Did I eat too much shite? Did I not soothingly talk to my minuscule bump enough? The uncertainty around the whys and the hows is unbearable. Yes, I get that it just happens, like a tortuous lottery where Mother Nature conspires against you getting what you’re naturally meant to have.

People offer sympathy in the way they’re most comfortable with. Tea and sympathy, practical support, arm rubs, hugs, offers to offload… I must’ve had it all. It’s a death, of course it is. They may not have ‘existed’ and stepped foot on this planet, but they had a beating heart, they were a something. My something. My world. God, it’s horrific and I hate it. Thing is, I need to get over it. Yeah I know it’s a brutal mindset, but… I think I’m pregnant. What if all this guilt, blame, and hurt washes through me and gets to the baby if there is one. It touches its tiny heart and mind, makes it hate me for killing its sibling. Crazy talk I know, this little one wouldn’t even be inside me if the other one would’ve lived. How the hell am I going to tell Scott?

First things first, I need to take the bloody test. I have three back-ups. I’m going to do it in my lunch break. I’ve been chugging back the water so I’ve enough pee for all the tests. I can’t even describe what I’m going through, the cogs in my head are whirring and the thoughts are mostly horrible and unkind. Should I even be allowed to have a baby after my broken body let me down? Maybe it’s not up to it and can’t take having a human life inside it. Right, just wait until you’ve taken the damn tests. Then you can have your mental breakdown.

They offered me counselling for the miscarriage. I refused, my stiff upper lip didn’t want to wane and quiver, at least not in public anyway. I should’ve had it though, I could have opened up. If I’m pregnant, it presents a whole new bundle of add-ons of issues doesn’t it. Okay, not long to go now. I’ll go and do the tests and whatever the outcome, then surely it’ll be alright? It has to be. I’m afraid to allow anything positive to cross my mind in case it’s snatched away again. Right, deep breaths, and here we go…

Anxiety overload coming through…

I’m Kelly and I’m surprised anyone would ever want to know who I am. No-one cares. No-one seems to check in. Not that I’d deserve or justify people giving me attention. I know I ought to snap out of this dark pit I’ve toppled into, but how? Is it ever too late? I’m too far in,  I’m trapped and smothered by this constant ball of angst. It won’t let me go. Is it just me or does anyone else fret about everything? The words in my head start off fairly coherent but they soon snowball into an unmanageable mess and I can’t fathom out what’s happening. They render me incapable of functioning. They freeze my body and paralyse any hope I have of shaking it off. My weary body yearns to drop to the floor, and my head wants to pop off my shoulders.

The exhaustion is off the scale. You know those Richter scales people use to measure earthquakes, this is what happens to me each time I get anxious or worry. The Richter scale goes boom. I always see it coming, like a ripple turning into a tsunami or a fire that starts off as a pissy little spark. There’s not a thing I can do to quell it and halt it in its tracks. I’m that worn out, I sluggishly go about my days, zombified, I no doubt look a right state. I get the occasional odd look at work. Probably think I’m doped up on some kind of pill. If only. I’m that physically tired but my mind is overactive and relentless with it, it never shuts up.

I’d adore a significant other. I’m entering my thirties and had hoped to be hitched by now and planning a kid or two. But who’d want me? It’s horrific enough worrying about me without the trauma of dealing with insecurities and anxiety around another person. They’d cheat, they’d think I was an imbecile, they’d swiftly come up with reasons to dump me. I can see it now – multiple reasons to end our relationship and hardly any to try save it. The last bloke brave enough to partner with me, I totally ruined it, surprise, surprise. Lasted a matter of weeks and then the rot set in. The ball of angst in the pit of the tummy would fire up wondering why he’d not messaged me, who he was with when he wasn’t with me, what he thought about me. The absolute killer was wondering WHY he wanted to be with me in the first place. That was the straw that broke the camel’s bag. Maybe subconsciously I acted out of sorts and difficult to give him an easy exit. Act like a cow and he’ll run for the hills. It worked.

But I’d like to be someone’s favourite person, to be their shining light, I crave someone who thought of me after a shitty day and their smile would be so wide. I wish with all my heart I could offload. I don’t think everyone at work hates me. Some seem to offer smiles and small talk, making cuppas and offering me a read of their magazine on my lunch break. How would I even start?