Talking but not really talking

 I’m fed up with being sad, of the tears tripping me, of sitting in my living room in a morose depressed state. I want to snap myself out of it and now I understand when people say they could shake someone so hard to make them come to. I’ve uttered it about a hundred times about others, oh they’d piss me right off with their wallowing and their woe-is-me attitude, and their unwillingness to help themselves. News flash incoming… I’m right there with them. My wallowing is sinking deeper and deeper. Who knew that losing your fella to a trollop would rob you of your motivation and plunge you into a shitty mire of a mucky abyss.

I miss him. I miss him smacking his chops as he tries to suck the meat out of a chicken bone, I miss him belching on command, I even miss the putrid scent in the bathroom after he’s been in it for twenty minutes… okay, I wouldn’t go that far but you get the picture.         He was my one and the only one I’ve ever known, and it’s all gone up the swanny. I often think do I honestly miss the crap he put me through or am I hankering after the house feeling full again. Do I yearn after picking up his skid-stained boxers, of chucking his empty cans in the recycling, of the glint in his eye on his birthday when he wanted a bit of how’s your father… if he hadn’t fallen asleep.

You might think I’m mad, he was a dirty dog and I should be celebrating. But what next? How do I fill the void – in my home and in my heart? Once he’d slung his hook there was a touch of relief but then a flood of sadness, hopelessness, and anxiety. I don’t care much for kicking around the house on my own yet I’m also chuffed the cheating bugger can no longer carry on firing bullets at my wounded heart. Strange isn’t it. We don’t half contradict ourselves over emotions and life dramas. I’m very much stuck in No Man’s Land, not a clue how to move on yet desperate to spread my unclipped wings.

The kids were here again last night and we shared a takeaway. I dote on them and cherish every second but it’s becoming hard work to engage because they don’t know how to deal with it. We exchanged so many pleasantries and had multiple empty conversations, all the while avoiding the key issue. Still, it was lovely to have distracting chats about God knows what. The more I seemed to be interested, they’d kick the convos up a notch, and I was genuinely happy to not have to think about my shit life. But this can’t carry on forever, sooner or later we are going to have to face it head-on and talk about ‘it.’

Maybe I’ll seek solace in work, they’re always banging on about how talking makes things better and a problem shared is a problem halved. I guess it’s easier opening up to strangers. I might try that if I feel brave enough.

Positive test... now what?

It turned out to be a positive test. I took my test and the three backups and they were all a concrete positive. I sunk down into the loo seat, my entire body recoiling. I have no idea what my emotions have been up to but they’ve been running wild and free inside me. My tummy twists, if it had butterflies in it they’d be rioting and desperately attempting to break free from my weary shell. The knots whirl around like nobody’s business. All the while I’m wondering how quickly the baby will cotton onto this. In fact, I’m sure it doesn’t want to come out and will do its utmost to not survive. It’ll be cursing me because it’s a vital life form that deserves to exist but it’s stuck with an absolute mess of a mother.

All I know at this point is that I’m shit scared to move too fast or do anything remotely strenuous to give the foetus any excuse to scarper. I bet it’s analysing my every movement, logging it all for reference. Maybe God or whoever is having a good old gander too. He must think, ‘Hang on, not everyone is fit enough to bear a child, I’ll be the judge of that, thank you. I did invent procreation after all.’ Shit. So like I said, such a lot thrashing around my head and I have to try to deal with it.

When should I tell Scott? That’s going to be tough. What’ll he think? Will he even want another crack at a shot at parenthood? I can see it now, I’ll blurt it out and he’ll slump forward, head in hands, recalling the horror of the last miscarriage, think, ‘Sod this for a game of soldiers, I’m off to the pub.’ No, he wouldn’t actually. Last time he was sweet and as supportive as he could have been in that situation. They don’t give you instructions on how to deal with it, so we scraped through by the bones of our arses. Hit us hard. Will our rough patch get rougher? We’re trying to navigate our issue and steer through some very choppy waters. Will this blow us apart?

Okay, there’s still a baby in there, even if it hates me. I have to do all I can to keep it alive for as long as possible. I’m too terrified to breathe too deeply or sharply. Since I took those tests, I frantically scan every part of an area with my beady eyes, for potential dangers. I suppose I could be like one of those terminators such as Arnie, who scan everything and it throws up all kinds like who people are and threat level. I could do with that, how I needed it last time. I don’t know why I miscarried last time, it just happened. It’s cruel to never be given a reason, you also don’t get any closure.

I’m trying to be sensible so I’ll make an appointment to see the GP, and I’m going to have to tell Scott, I’ll want him with me. I can’t act in secret. Last time I chickened out of telling him for ages and he was bloody furious. No, I must get my big girl’s pants on and bite this bullet. 

The Cycle of Self-Torment

 I wish things could be different. Ever felt like you just don’t want to be you anymore. That being in your body repulses you as much as it no doubt repulses everyone else. When I say that, I mean others are equally repulsed by me as I am of myself. My insides bubble away most of the time now. No let up, no respite. I see shit loads of posts online about how you ought to be kind to yourself. I genuinely don’t know if I can be kind or how I would go about trying.

Now and again I re-activate this dating app. I scroll through and see some nice men. I’ve come to accept it will only ever be a game, something make believe I try when I have a miniscule amount of confidence. It’s a repetitive cycle even I’m totally bored of now. They have a swipe right thing where you can show you’re interested. Don’t get me wrong, you can tell there are many fakes. The ones who are widowed airline pilots or doctors who are drop-dead gorgeous, dazzling teeth, too perfect pictures… But, there are several decent looking guys on there.

Okay so I have this routine where I re-activate the app, add some of the people who’ve friend requested me, and engage in a bit of light flirting over a few messages. And then I lose my bottle and delete the app. It’s like I don’t want it to become real which is what it would do if I did get to know someone. God help the people who want to get to know me, they’d vomit all over the place if they did. Having this ongoing torment is exhausting and torturous. I know what’s going to happen but all I can do is simply watch by, as if I’m having an out-of-body experience, and go through the same rigmarole over and over again. Maybe it’s a form of OCD? Like a routine you do in vain but can’t help it.

It does feel safer than having to engage with potential partners. I can hide behind my screen and pretend for as long as I need to before I cut the inevitable tie. It’s a shame because some of them are hilarious, hot as hell, charming, I wonder what could be if I let myself… well, live! Sadly my anxiety kicks in to remind me to not dare get above my station and pretend I’m someone desirable and worth loving and taking care of. As well as flirting I might also sabotage by saying something crazy to put them off me. Usually works a treat, radio silence will follow on their part, I’ll have scared them off and see them metaphorically fleeing for the hills quicker than Speedy Gonzales, job done. This is another twisted way of justifying to myself I’m not worth a punt. I get in there first and invent some craziness before they find some of their own within me. But, I… I just wish that I didn’t have to do that. I want to be loved and to be able to be me.

The invasion of the body continues

 Okay, just when I thought I’d got this sweat under control, the hot flashes rip through me and make it all a billion times worse. Summer’s buggered off now but you wouldn’t believe so, the absolute state of me. My hair – my beautiful hair I was always so proud of – is lank, sweaty and straw-like. I resemble Worzel Gummidge and keep looking out for Aunt bleedin’ Sally. This menopause is no joke. Your body is no longer your own and way out of control. My hair presses on my forehead like a boiling towel and the chills that flood me make me shiver uncontrollably. Combine flu, covid, and a shitty cold together and you haven’t got half of it.

I usually wear pretty patterned neck scarves but no chance of that because they feel too tight on my skin and exacerbate the heat factor, in turn making me irritated with the world’s shortest temper. Oh, the temper. Never known anything like it. I flip quicker than a pancake on Shrove Tuesday. The emotions won’t settle. I’m bawling at the silliest of things but then I’ll harden just like that and get angry with myself for showing emotion in the first place. The rage is boiling over though, that’s scary. The other day I needed to scratch an itch on my cheek and it wasn’t anything major, just a light one. But, it wicked me right off and I had the urge to scrape my cheek, oh I was pissed off. Felt like Freddy Kruger wanting to shred through a human torso, the way I wanted to dig this bloody itch out of my cheek. Horrendous.

I’m stuck with this menopause for goodness knows how long. I’m not even sure. I’ve not been to the GP, they have enough to cope with without some wreck of a woman rocking up. I know they can give you HRT but wouldn’t they have awful side effects? I try and steer clear of meds, the way I deliberate over taking an asprin for a headache is bad enough. I’m not computer literate so can’t Google or Goggle or whatever it’s called.  I did see Sandy the cleaner the other day and she kind of saw that I was in a bit of a state, like she possibly understood but no doubt she was thinking what a sweaty idiot I looked. She’s alright though and maybe she’s going through it herself. I get the feeling something might not be quite right with her too. You can tell by looking at someone’s eyes, you can peer right into them.

Anyway, there’s a staff tea out next week. I’m nervous because that’ll probably be a moment when I’m on one and start to shiver and seep sweat out. Pity I can’t give them a heads up and a warning. I’d understand if they didn’t want me there, I’d look a holy show and they’ve got enough to contend with. Part of me wants to shout out that I’m struggling with this alien that’s occupied every part of me and has set up camp for the foreseeable. I wish I had help to deal with it, I want that more than anything.

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? 

Misery, menopause & mayhem

I'm Paula. I've got a dirty little secret. Something I haven't shared before. Something I'm utterly ashamed of. I must offload before I explode! It insidiously creeps up on you, catching you unaware and throws you off kilter. Okay... here we go.... deep breaths. I think I'm going through menopause. I'm in my late-forties and, though biologically possible, I'm nowhere near ready to lose who I am. Because that's what it does. I'm determined to fight, to wrestle every morsel of womanhood from the clutches of Mother Nature who, by the way, should be on MY side. Where's the Girl Code? I'm not ready. My body's still brimming with life. You should have seen me smashing the sambucas at our Amy's last Saturday. I Lambada-d better than any Brazilian. Even Pete commented on how supple I was, now that's a story for a different time! I mean, sure the aches and pains hit me, pain attacked my every nerve, but that's just what happens when we overdo it. I was itching to have fun, so I did. I've not recovered yet.

It's a monumental struggle, and nothing prepares you for it. Why don't they teach it? Why don't they give you a guidebook? How the hell do you navigate such murky waters? I'm sitting here in work, none of my colleagues know about it. I'd die of shame. Can people tell? Can they give you a quick once-over and realise you're 'on the change'? I'm certain Kelly and Tina have both been giving me some serious side-eye. I clocked them looking. Screw them and their perfect young bodies. Tina's pregnant and clearly flaunting it in my face. 

It comes and goes and it's confusing the life out of me. If something's going to pop up to wreck my entire life and existence, at least do me the courtesy of sticking around for goodness sake. It's either in or out, this isn't the bloody Hokey Cokey. Right now, I can feel dribbles of sweat falling down my face. Vile. The office is air-conned to the hilt and I feel like I'm in the Sahara. How? It won't stop. I washed my hair this morning and trickles of sweat are coming out of my scalp. I touch my face and you could cook a whole fry-up on it. Embarrassing! I'm desperate to shrink into my leather seat which is not doing me any favours. I'm scared to get up, I'd leave half my skin on it. Oh no. 

This entity has violated me. I thought something needed permission before it invaded your body. Is part of me dying? Have I lost myself, does the old me no longer exist? Have I shed my old life, like a slippery snake sheds its skin. I'm flat-out exhausted. All I do is fret about what's happening to me, I've never been so isolated. Who can I truly turn to? I'm just a silly woman. Correction, a silly old woman. A silly old drying-up woman whose skin is going to shit and feels like she's suffocated from all angles. A noose tightened around my wrinkled neck. What the hell am I going to do?