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?