Loopy, Lonely and Lost

Posts Tagged ‘arguments


Posted on: January 31, 2014

Sorry I haven’t written for a while. I’ve been…coping. Just about, by the skin of my teeth, getting from one day to the next.

These past few days I’ve been feeling ill. Nothing serious, just a bug, but I feel all stuffed up and it’s stopping me from sleeping because every time I lie down I cough up a lung, so I know I’m being ratty and over-emotional.

I’m struggling at work. My performance has dipped. I’m alright at the simple, invisible, day-to-day things, but when it comes to anything involving confidence or chutzpah I just can’t do it any more. My boss keeps looking at me with his serious face and I feel like he’s gearing up to have a serious conversation with me and I am completely not in the right frame of mind for that. I can’t talk about myself at the best of times but lately I can hardly look myself in the face in the mirror without wanting to run away.

Today I came home from a busy, stressful, unproductive day at work. Feeling exhausted and vulnerable, wearing the dead-eyed, open-mouthed, nose-dripping stare of the cold-inflicted. Feeling sick. Feeling sorry for myself. Wanting to hide away. Told my parents I didn’t feel up to eating anything and was just going to bed.

Everything kicked off. I mean, World War 3 (only in my house alone we’re probably on World War 3 Million). My mum calling me an ungrateful bitch and threatening to force feed me. Calling me evil for upsetting her (is this what mothers do? I thought if your child was ill you would at least enquire what was wrong before making it all about you).

I really couldn’t cope. Couldn’t make my brain work properly. Couldn’t stop the horrible snivelling crying. Cut my arm with scissors for the first time in years. Hit myself on the head with my phone, which was probably a really bad idea as I now have a huge lump in the middle of my forehead and I don’t know how I’ll explain it (my phone still works though, it’s indestructible, although I’m not sure how that will help as I have no-one to contact).

All I can think about is running away. Got to leave, got to get away somehow, got to stop everything. I don’t know what to do.

My mum calls me these things, and I don’t know what to do.

Read the rest of this entry »

Someone at work gave me a big box of chocolates for Christmas. I brought them home to share with my family.

A few days later, my dad peered into the box, and said, “Where have all these gone?” I was upstairs. They didn’t know I could hear them. My mum said, “Laura’s probably had them”.

I went into the room and told her that a) actually, I hadn’t had any other than those she’d seen me have, and b) even if I had had them, they were mine. She said it didn’t matter if I’d had them or not – but if it didn’t matter, why did she have to accuse me of it? Why couldn’t she have just said “I don’t know”, rather than choosing my name with no evidence?

She said that I was over-reacting, and that must mean I’m guilty.

Guilty was the word that really made me angry. She tries to make herself sound reasonable by saying it doesn’t matter, but no-one’s ever guilty of things that don’t matter, are they?

I went to my room and cried and scratched my arm with my fingernails, and now there are long, raised stripes up my arm. I sat in a corner with a makeshift noose around my neck, but there was nothing to hang from, there never is, and now I just feel numb.

It was such a small and insignificant thing, but I freaked out about it, I often do over things like this, because it’s a recurring theme in the story she  tells me about my life: Laura is greedy and selfish and secretive, Laura is a liar, Laura can’t be trusted.

How can I live with her? How can I eat? How can I do anything when I know she’s always going to be there, waiting to attack me for something?

I know I’m probably overreacting. I know there’s nothing I can do. I just really want to disappear right now.

What if a demon were to creep after you one night, in your loneliest loneliness, and say, ‘This life which you live must be lived by you once again and innumerable times more; and every pain and joy and thought and sigh must come again to you, all in the same sequence. The eternal hourglass will again and again be turned and you with it, dust of the dust!’ Would you throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse that demon? Or would you answer, ‘Never have I heard anything more divine’?

                                                                                                                                                            – Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science

Do you ever feel you’re just repeating yourself? That everything that happens has happened before, and will always happen the same way?

I am struggling to find what I have learned, or how I have developed, or how I can possibly stop the eternal repetition. There’s a cycle that I need to get out of, but I don’t know how – or if what exists outside of it is any better.

My mum has been saying terrible things, again. It happens so often you could probably set your clock by it, like her crying fits or her admissions to hospital, but every time, I feel it like a punch in the stomach.

It’s not even aimed at me, not really (and I feel guilty for that. If she must hate and insult and accuse, it should at least be equal. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve wished to be the target, to give them a break). It’s the usual stuff, recycled and brought out with a vengeance. My dad is selfish and evil for having a job, that kind of thing.

And she says my brother hits her. And fuck, it makes me feel sick. One of the worst things is that I could imagine it – I want to punch her in the face sometimes, myself (probably something to do with the way I always want to help other people, perhaps as some sort of compensation for the fact I’ve never really had any sort of actual connection with another human being), but I’ve never seen him hit her, and there are no marks, and it’s not his style. He knows exactly what to say to make you want to hit him, but he’s not the fighting type.

I hate that she says it, though. It’s not the first time, but every time it happens, it makes me feel scared and disoriented like very little else will. Because if she’s lying, what does it say about her? It pushes her firmly over the line between being too self-absorbed to notice she’s hurting people and hurting them deliberately. I’ve spent my whole life making excuses for her – she’s ill, she doesn’t know what she’s doing – because despite everything, she is my mother. And there are better mothers out there, but there are worse ones too, and I owe her…something.

I’m worried that this is my life, now. Sitting in this house, trying as ever to be the glue that holds the family together, and failing every fucking day. I’ve been trying to imagine a future away from here, but it’s hard: one mention of “when I move out” leads to “you’re not going anywhere, are you?” and “oh, Laura, don’t leave”.

Recently, someone at work pointed out something to me that I was aware of, but had chosen to ignore: I can never choose anything. Whenever anyone asks me what I want, whatever the context, I feel physically incapable of expressing a preference for one thing over another.  It’s stupid, isn’t it? It’s a pretty basic human thing, making simple choices, but I’m so in the habit of hedging my bets, of trying to find a compromise, that people are noticing, and it’s just another thing that makes me stand out as a bit weird.

Posted on: September 19, 2010


Why can’t I ever be honest?

Why do I have to keep every detail a closely-guarded secret, hide everything in my life away from everyone?

All I know is that it’s what comes naturally to me, that the thought of honesty and openness makes me start to panic.

But it is going to kill me.

I’ve fallen out with my parents because of it. I don’t want to go into the details. But it’s because I am so secretive, so private and so closed-off. And for them, keeping secrets means not trusting them, and that means not loving them.

But I don’t know how to do it. Secrecy is all I have.

I start work tomorrow. I don’t know if I can do it. My mum just keeps talking about how I’ve never worked before, how lucky I am to have got the job, with my inexperience and my uselessness and the fact that I’ve wasted my life.

All I can think about is dying. Mostly as a way of protecting myself. I can’t care about losing my secrets if I’m dead. But there’s another side to it, a side that I’m so ashamed of. Spite. They can’t know me, or question me, or judge me, or intrude on me, if I’m not here. They keep pushing for more, and I can’t help but feel I would be justified in reducing what they have of me to nothing.

There was a small thing that went missing from my room. Nothing particularly important. I went away for my last week of work, and when I got back, it was gone. And my mum had tidied my room (not at my request, I hasten to add). It didn’t really matter. I didn’t mention it.

Only, today, I really could have done with it. I mentioned that I didn’t know where it was, suggested that perhaps my mum had moved it or thrown it away.

She got very angry and started shouting at me, saying she was going to go into my room and find it. Now, I don’t like people going into my room. I’m a very private person, and tend to feel violated when people go through my belongings. I told her it didn’t matter, asked her not to go into my room. Politely. With ‘please’ and everything. Several times.

She kept saying it, though, over and over again, and I kept telling her not to bother, asking her to please stay out of my room.

She went upstairs to do something else. Walking through the house, I glanced upstairs. The door to my room was open. I went upstairs. She was there, going through my things.

I got…angry. Shouted a bit. Asked her why she couldn’t pay me the courtesy of not doing one thing that I’d asked her not to do. She started shouting back, telling me I need to respect her more. I laughed, quite bitterly, in her face.

In this house, this is what it always comes down to. We have to earn her respect. We owe her ours.

We left my room and went downstairs and she just kept shouting, saying so many things. You’re a bitch, you’re stupid, stop being such a silly cow.

She said that the only reason I don’t want her going through my room is that I have things to hide. She made me feel ashamed, made me feel guilty and wrong for wanting a space that is mine.

She asked if I’d done anything about signing on for benefits, but she didn’t believe me when I told her the truth (I had, I’ve already been looking, filling in forms, resigned to the fact that I am unemployable. I’m a bit scared about actually submitting the forms – scared of the meetings and the scrutiny and always being reminded what a failure I am – but I have been getting it all started, and it is less than a week since I last worked). She said, you’ll still be here in twelve months’ time, doing nothing.

It’s strange, the things that can turn tears on like a switch. I ran from the room, crying, like some ridiculous, melodramatic thirteen-year-old.

She makes me feel thirteen, though. Misunderstood and righteously angry.

Then she and my dad started arguing, and I feel responsible for that, too. If I wasn’t so over-sensitive, he wouldn’t feel the need to stand up for me.

I feel…pathetic. She’s right, of course she is. Perhaps it’s not nice to say it, but there’s no denying I’m stupid, lazy, worthless. And it’s not so much that she said it that hurts, it’s that it’s true. I’ve spent so long trying not to be a disappointment, and I’ve failed miserably.

I’m thinking a lot about running away. I probably won’t do it, of course. I’d be rubbish at it, and it’d cause at least as many problems as it’d solve. But I’ve got a few hundred pounds, and people I know in various parts of the country. They wouldn’t necessarily be happy to see me, but I could get on a train and stay with them for a week or two, and then just…disappear. It’s not like it’d be any easier to get a job, and I’d always be worried that my family would find me, but in some ways it would be easier to live like that, away from here.

I know it’s not right to think it, not right to so desperately want to get away, but I long for it so much. Whatever my problems have been when I was away from home, when I am here I feel like there is something rough and spiky inside me, like I’m always catching on things and making things worse. I feel uneasy, uncomfortable, and endlessly guilty.

It’s nearly my birthday and the thought that another year has gone by with no change and no progress really stings.

I don’t know how old I am. I think, maybe, that’s because this isn’t, strictly speaking, a real memory. It’s an archetype, a platonic ideal. I can describe it as one occurrance, even if the exact words, the exact timeline, didn’t happen, because that saves me the trouble of casting back in my mind for every time, every distinction between one time and another. They’ve all blurred into one, anyway.

I think I might be about twelve. Read the rest of this entry »

I am okay.

This is the mood that adds truth when I describe myself as a heartless bitch. Every real emotion is hidden away so far inside of me that I don’t feel like it’s there anymore.

I am not hurting. I am not sad, or worried, or frightened. Read the rest of this entry »

I’m still at home, I’m staying until tomorrow.

Life at home is tremendously difficult at the moment. Things are going on, about which I’m wary of going into detail here, where anyone can see it. Basically there is a situation, which is potentially real-world serious (i.e. not just serious in the context of my house, where horrific arguments have stemmed from a single unwashed cup). Everybody is worried, and everybody seems to be disagreeing with each other. I’ve been trying, as ever, to provide some sort of middle ground, some sort of compromise, but, as ever, people don’t really listen. Read the rest of this entry »


Posted on: September 1, 2009

I am so fucking angry and it’s over nothing.

Today, I was watching the television. I was watching a programme that my mother doesn’t watch. My mother wasn’t in the room. I was bored, so I switched it off and went upstairs. When she realised the tv was off, she shouted upstairs to me, called me a “miserable fucking bitch” for turning it off. Read the rest of this entry »


My name is Laura. I was once told that I have cyclothymia. This blog is mostly where I write about living as a person with extremes and instability of mood, and the history of a life that led to the development of those symptoms.

I complain a lot, I'm very repetitive, unreliable, and I tend to contradict myself.

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August 2020