Hello bigpinklinkers! View Post
I’ve been telling myself for quite a long time now, that ‘it’s ok, you’re just a little bit mental at the moment, you’ll be alright soon.’ Because often, we find ourselves tired, stressed, juggling 6.2 billion plates with just two hands (often while the other halves casually spin just the one on the tip of their finger-they totally have the other hand free to catch it with, if it falls,) and it all can make us feel just slightly crazy.
Except I noticed that I was telling myself week after week that the mentalness was going to go away, and making more excuses when it didn’t. I needed ‘that event’ over with, or when I’d had ‘that day to myself,’ that’s when I was going to be fine. Except, I still wasn’t. Before I knew it, I was in a painfully familiar pit of not wanting to leave the house, making excuses not to leave the house, crying in secret, and trying to hide the fact that I wanted to be crying the rest of the time too, but didn’t want to do it in front of the children, and everyone else I know, and dwelling on the fact that I wished I’d punched Becky from school in the face in 1993, when she said the best thing that could happen to me would be for me to be run over by a bus. I know we are told that violence solves nothing, but responding like that would’ve been really fucking satisfying.
Here is an example of my stream of consciousness, when I’m particularly batshit:
*Wake up, ears are ringing, head feels foggy for no reason*
‘This is going to be a terrible day.’
‘Don’t leave the house today because BAD THINGS WILL HAPPEN.’
‘The children won’t eat anything decent all day. Go on, give them the full sugar breakfast, and then they’ll get diabetes, and you’re going to feel like SHIT.’
‘Ooooh, what’s that on the news? Someone has a terrible illness? You better add that to the list of illnesses you need to be vigilant for, because the children can’t be left without a mother.’
‘Well, they could be, because you’re actually a shit one, and they’d be better off without you.’
‘In fact, if you did die, nobody would actually notice, because nobody really cares.’
‘Remember not to go out today, or if you do, just go to the park and stay in one corner, where you don’t have to talk to any other humans-you are shit at making friends, and you’ll make a dick of yourself.’
‘Oh, you’re looking forward to Mr W coming home are you? I don’t really know why he stays with you-you’re completely dragging him down. He should be with someone much prettier, thinner, funnier, and just, well, better, than you. He’ll probably be off at some point and then what will happen, you’ll have NOBODY.’
‘Stop snapping at the children, you used to be so patient. There’s another good quality you can tick off the list, that you don’t have anymore.’
‘Conserve energy for bedtime, because the children have decided that as you’re the worst mother ever, they’re going to bring you to your knees-you totes deserve it though, for being an all around crappy waste of space.’
‘By the way, while you’re being selfishly self absorbed with these thoughts, and only thinking about yourself, your mum told the eldest off for saying bugger. He’s replied with “it’s not as bad as fuck, nanny.” who swears in front of their fucking kids?’
Like I said-totally batshit. And it’s just soooooooo exhausting. I start every day feeling like I’ve run a marathon. Stuff hurts, that has no reason to be hurting. My eyes ache, my throat feels course, my stomach cramps, and my arms and legs feel like they’re made of lead. Everything sends me into fight or flight-even just handing over money at the till at the shop. The thought of coming to my laptop to write something, was making me feel sick. Plus, not going anywhere, and feeling like I was on the precipice of some kind of life destroying incident all the time, was becoming too much.
I went out last week to get my hair cut, which I was actually looking forward to, (I took this as a step forward,) until the hairdresser heard ‘can you please cut it a couple of inches below my shoulders,’ as ‘do whatever the fuck you want!!’ and gave me a long bob. I didn’t panic as much as I thought I would, about a) actually going there, and b) not being able to wear my hair in the bun it’s been sporting everyday for the last 5 years. It goes into a half bun now, so I resemble a mental hipster, minus ironic beard (unless you count the odd PCOS related chin hair flapping around.)
I’m also seeing a person. Someone actually qualified to deal with the mental. Someone taking my mental seriously, who has a plan. I feel better knowing there’s a plan, because although I’ve tried to embrace the crazy as being one of my quirks, and as a part of me, I also can’t and don’t want to, live with it to this extent anymore. So, it’s time to take a stand.
Just after I started blogging, a large parenting website asked to feature one of my posts. I was more than happy to say yes, and because I was new to everything, I just assumed they’d republish the post exactly as it appeared on my blog. Well, how bloody naïve of me. They basically took my post, rolled it over, held it down, and assaulted it- but should I word it like that?? Am I offending people?? Should I censor my thoughts, my personality, my humour??
They changed the title, and made what was a humorous post, into something that sounded really patronising. They also put a really stupid picture with it too, that before I’d even looked at the new title, I’d already thought would get people complaining. That, coupled with the title, and the reshuffled content, equalled the miserable trolls coming out in force.
As a fairly fresh faced writer at that point, and someone who is also way too oversensitive, I was devastated at the comments. A few months later, somebody said to me that they felt my writing had changed-that it felt a lot more cautious. She told me ‘you say certain things that could be deemed outrageous, but then it’s like you’re afraid people will take it all too seriously, and you seem to be adding disclaimers afterwards-what’s happened to make you add a censor??’ I hadn’t even noticed I was doing it, but having that happen to me, had subconsciously made me question every single thing I wrote.
So lets go back to what I wrote above: ‘They basically took my post, rolled it over, held it down, and assaulted it.’ There are people who will offended by that, but it’s how I talk, and it’s something that if I saw written somewhere, I’d laugh at it. It’s contextual. One of my favourite films is The Wolf Of Wall Street. I could watch it every night and not get bored, because Leonardo DiCaprio is just 50 shades of fucking awesome in it, and it makes me laugh from start to finish. It totally uplifts me. I was going to write something about it, but remembered that it had come under fire by animal cruelty groups, for certain scenes-to be honest, these weren’t things that I had actually noticed while I watching it. But I thought that I better not mention I liked the film, in case I was accused of inciting poking fun at animal cruelty , which of course, I don’t condone at all. But again, everything is contextual.
Helen from Just Saying Mum said recently that she has ‘the fear’ before publishing anything. I completely get this-I spend a lot of time agonising over the bits of my posts that people are likely to take the wrong way. The thing is, you could end up never publishing anything if that were the case, because someone will always find something to complain about, in the most harmless of posts. I shouldn’t have to censor the things I like, or water down the things I want to say. I shouldn’t have to second guess what someone might not find PC, because it’s a really fine line, and what enrages someone, will not enrage someone else. What someone finds hysterical, will be distasteful to another.
So, there’s no pleasing everyone, and as long as it’s not inciting hatred, or anything illegal, I don’t think anyone should be censoring what they say, just for the benefit of pleasing others-that is a no win situation all around. I know I’ll still have ‘the fear’ when I publish something, but the best thing for me, and everyone who writes, is to say what I want to say, how I want to say it, and f**k the fear.
My youngest has turned three. I could lament about the loss of whom I was still calling my ‘baby,’ to threenagerdom, and how I was all upset and totes emosh (eurgh, what a phrase,) at him being my last baby, and there being definitely no more babies in the household. But I won’t, because his birthday party was comedy gold, and a critical analysis makes for much better reading. It was his party, and he was going to cry if he f***ing well wanted to.
We arrived at the venue, and were greeted by a
cyborg bouncing human with energy and zest for life of a Duracell bunny who had OD’d on Red Bull and speed. She was actually amazing, and made me feel like a lethargic, depressed snail in comparison. She announced all the fun shit she had lined up, and eager eyes of the other parents all held a momentary glimmer of hope that they might be able to naff off to a corner for an hour, and munch interrupted on party rings and fondant fancies. Until, she uttered the words ‘you will be expected to stay with your children at all times, and join in with ALL the games, because *imagine this bit in a Mr Tumble-esque voice* it makes it more fun for everyone!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
At this point, all the dads who had been forced to come along to the atrocities unfolding, looked as awkward as if their wives had walked in on them having that private lap dance that they had promised they’d never, ever have on that stag do. I later perused photos, and zoomed in on one dad in particular, and laughed maniacally at the face of a man who looked like he’d rather be chopping his own balls off with a rusty scalpel, than sing about parachuting to the land of make believe, while pretending bubbles were the happy tears of fairies. They just wanted to be watching the rugby, sinking pints until oblivion.
Pass the parcel became pass the ticking time bomb. Like someone with absolutely no integrity at all, I went against my own opinion that there should only be one present in pass the parcel-the one in the centre-won by whoever, and not the birthday boy-and I put a little gift in every layer. I acted like a tool, enforcing the idea in children that ‘there’s always a winner,’ and other bullshit that is making our society grow up into entitled little gits. I absolutely did that, all from buckling under the pressure to make the littlest’s party good. It backfired. The only protagonists in the backfiring, were my own children. Knowing that there was a selection of gifts of varying cheap crappiness available beneath the layers, they set their hearts on getting a ridiculous, non working watch, from the selection that I’d basically found in the dustbin at the toy shop (reduced so many times they were practically giving them away.) Of course, they were NEVER going to get those, and threw the wind up Nemos they got instead, across the room in a state of pure psychotic rage. Yep-there I am very much contributing to the entitled youths fucking up the country.
The eldest got over it, but the little one was in a place of no return-that witching hour style moaning and shrieking that made my eyes deaden and join the dads in looking like I wanted to scalpel the balls I very clearly don’t have. I thought that putting an end to the jolly games, and calming him down with my Pinterest cake that I’d laboured over when I would normally have been indulging my Netflix addiction, would get everyone (well, not everyone, just my two, as everyone else was being as well behaved as a Crufts winning dog who had been promised a steak for winning,) to calm the fuck down-especially as while talking to the youngest in my best faux kindly, but actually if-you-don’t-stop-being-a-little-dick hiss, he’d responded by landing a right hook to my nose that would’ve made Mohammed Ali run for the hills.
Yes, I know that the sugar would’ve done nothing to help the situation, but I was aiming to time the end of the party with the sugar hit meltdown, and whisk mine away to have a sugar fit in the car, where there would be no further judgment from our friends (I know they aren’t judging us really, but I’m paranoid.) But some absolute twonk scuppered my plans, by daring to give the now calm youngest, the birthday boy, a piece of cake that contained less chocolate buttons than the people sat either side of him. The world was against me. Giving zero fucks about anything other than his fair share of chocolate buttons, the little one let rip with the rage of a silver back gorilla entering a turf war.
It was at that point that I openly disowned him. My husband was shaking his head in abject disbelief at the behaviour of his offspring. I was a bizarre mixture of pleased that he finally witnessed what I have to put up with every single day, and mortified at the behaviour of my children. The screaming was placated with the correct amount of buttons on his slice of cake (and not with the time out that he should’ve had obvs, because reading this back makes me realise the litany of errors that makes me a shockingly push over parent, and the sole reason for their horrendous behaviour.)
Oh, I forgot there had also been musical statues-see ‘pass the parcel’ for a blow by blow account, just replace ‘pass the parcel’ with ‘musical statues’ instead.
We threw party bags at everyone, apologised profusely to our friends, and to the parents of nursery friends who we didn’t know, but were sure we’d never see again, and left the scene. I imagine the nursery friend parents will be speaking to the nursery leaders, to ask if they can make sure their children aren’t allowed within 20 feet of ours, and will be getting advice about restraining orders.
Me and Mr W responded by getting a babysitter that night, and going out for a debrief-our own party, involving vodka and Miss Millies.
(Twisting-what I am currently unable to do…)
Thanks for the song title, Elton John, that just about fits in with my PCOS series! Yes, this cyster, is currently unable to twist (well, go to the gym,) because of flipping back pain… I’ve had back pain on and off since I was a teenager-too much dance practice, and then a career in nursing, has meant that a few times a year, my back just says ‘um, no. F**k this, we will not let you stand up straight, you will hobble around like a lady approaching 100, with extreme scoliosis, and you will have shooting nerve pains in your arse and legs that will make you feel sick-until I say otherwise.’ Which is usually for about 2 weeks, then off it trots again.
It’s been two weeks, and it’s only really marginally better. I’m not sure whether I’ll be able to make it to the gym next week or not. I’m making a massive deal of this issue, because I have only ever been able to shed weight, and maintain it, by exercising myself almost into oblivion. I’ve never been one of those people who can do it from good diet alone. So I’m massively pissed that this is hindering my weight loss, which was coming along much better than expected. It also makes looking after small, planky, tantrummy humans difficult too, but it’s the exercise I’m most bothered about.
I have lost 2lbs, taking the total up to 20lbs, but I really wanted to be well over 21lbs by now. I’ll just have to be patient, and wait until next week to see what happens. I also may have hindered myself a bit, by using alcohol for, erm, medicinal purposes a few times in the last 2 weeks of enforced resting. That’s another reason the gym is good for me-I find it really hard to train, if I’ve even had one drink the night before. Gone are the days where I could drink till the early hours, and still get up early and work out (the thought of that is making me dry heave,) so I need that extra incentive to avoid my relaxation and sanity juice.
I’ll leave it there, short and sweet, but I will add in that meal and recipe planner that I promised last time, sometime next week, for those who have messaged to ask for them!