Loopy, Lonely and Lost

Posts Tagged ‘crying

I’ve been sitting at the top of the stairs, eavesdropping. Like a flashback to being a child, listening in secret because to my face I only get half-truths.

My mum’s been crying. Sobbing her heart out. She’s depressed, she says – again.

It’s snowed. Our street is quite icy. I have to get to work tomorrow – one or other of my parents usually takes me, and my dad’s working tomorrow. I know it might be difficult getting out of our street, so I said if it’s still bad in the morning, I’ll get the bus.

She’s weeping and shouting because, she says, she’s worried about me. Worried that I’ll have to get up half an hour earlier, worried in case the bus has an accident, worried I might miss the bus home and have to spend £4 on a taxi. She’s crying and angry because she’s under so much stress because of me. She says she’s depressed because she’s so worried about me.

Do you see? Do you understand why I’m so desperate that she never finds out about any actual problem that I have? These are such tiny things, aren’t they? I hate that this house is such a magnifying glass, that a minor inconvenience for me means she doesn’t sleep and cries all night and accuses my dad of being an uncaring bastard (she tells him he doesn’t love me. She tells him he wouldn’t care if I died).

I cannot ever be anything less than perfectly alright (only, not too happy, because laughing and jokes are “silly” and “ridiculous”), because she’s so stressed and upset over things that are just everyday life, and any hint of me actually struggling with anything would probably break her.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make her happy. She finds stress where there is none, and it’s almost always because of me. If it was genuine problems, I could fix it. I could hide it more, minimise it more, find a way to stop it being an issue, maybe. But she seems terrified by the fact that I’m alive.

I could quit my job, I suppose (I went to that meeting, by the way. They want proof I was at uni. I don’t really know what to do, they asked for a certificate [I wrote on my CV that I hadn’t achieved the degree yet, but somehow that’s different than actually having to say it, actually having to explain]. I’ve been thinking about taking in the details of my course co-ordinator and telling them to get in touch with her, but maybe if I just avoid everything until they have no excuse but to fire me, it’d solve a lot of problems. If I didn’t have a job then I wouldn’t have to leave the house and my mum would always know where I was). Except then she’d start worrying that I was at home all the time, thinking there was something wrong because I wasn’t seeing my friends or looking for jobs or being a normal human being (except, it’s me trying to be a normal human being that makes her so worried all the time).

I know, in a detached sort of way, that this shouldn’t be my responsibility. That I’m not doing anything to make her worry, I’m not doing anything dangerous, that the problem is hers, not mine. But she doesn’t worry like this about other people. I see and hear her crying and shouting and panicking, and almost all the time, it’s my name on her lips. It’s me who makes her feel so bad. And it doesn’t matter that I don’t do it deliberately, it doesn’t matter that I’m not even sure how I do it. She’s my mother, and I hurt her.

You do what you can to help the people you love, don’t you? To stop them from hurting. I wish I knew how to make her feel better.

I feel so fucking powerless. If I knew what I had to do, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

I know it sounds so selfish, but I just don’t want it to be my fault anymore.

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Not so much, anymore.

One minute, I’m sat with my parents, watching tv, feeling pretty good.

The next thing I know, they’re asking me questions. Repeating, over and over again, asking me what grade I’m going to get, how well I’m going to do, what I’m going to do with my life.

They always say it doesn’t matter, but how can it not, if they’re always asking?

All they want is a daughter who will make them proud, and I can’t even be that.

Moments later, I’ve locked myself in the bathroom and I’m perched on the edge of the bath, crying silently, digging fingernails into flesh and furiously whispering “shut up, Laura. Stop fucking crying”.

I go upstairs and try to be calm, try to recapture some of my hope, but then my mum’s coming upstairs and saying, “why are you being like this? Why are you upset? Your eyes are all red, stop being miserable” and it makes everything indescribably worse.

I can’t feel anything without feeling guilty. When I’m here, it’s all I hear: don’t be sad, don’t be angry, don’t be annoyed, don’t be silly (‘silly’ means happy, or cheerful, or enthusastic). And every time anything forces its way through my mask to become a visible emotion, they comment on it and all I can feel is overwhelming guilt and shame because look, I’ve failed again. Letting my emotions get the better of me.

All I can think about now is dying. I don’t know why this is my automatic response, but every time I feel a little bit uncomfortable or sad or whatever, all I can think is “okay then, I’d better kill myself”, and I try not to think about it. I hold my breath and bite my lip and count to ten and tell myself in a very stern internal voice not to be so fucking stupid, but still, all those thoughts are there, and all I can think is that I have to die before graduation, because nothing is as humiliating as being surrounded by people who are successful, and knowing that you’re a failure, and having to watch you parents come to terms with that.

I can’t fucking do it.

I swear, I’m not usually this thin-skinned. I know I complain a lot, but I can take insults, and teasing and things like that better than almost anyone I know.

Last night, I wanted to watch something on tv. My dad and brother were in an awkward mood, and sat down to watch something that even they didn’t want to watch, for a whole hour, just so that I couldn’t watch what I wanted to.

That’s all. Nothing big. Nothing important. And I got angry and shouted a bit and they started reviving my old nickname, ‘Mis’ (As in ‘miserable’. Back in the old days they called me a lot of stuff like that. ‘Jumbo’ because I’m fat. ‘Clum’, as in ‘clumsy’, because I always drop things and trip over my own feet). “What’s up with you, Mis? Why are you being like that? Stop being so miserable, Mis. Stop being pathetic.

It is pathetic, of course.

I kind of stormed off and went to bed early, tears streaming down my face. I’m about eight years old again, flying off the handle at the slightest thing, unable to control my emotions, constantly making a fool of myself. Curled up in my bed, hands pressed to eyelids, trying not to sob my fucking heart out because I know I’ll be heard and I know I’ll be seen. Planning my death in excruciating detail. I haven’t been particularly suicidal lately, but it ambushes me, it hides and lulls and jumps out and I can’t deal with it, and I can see it, and I’m crying even more because – in my mind, at least – this is the end and I’m already dying.

I don’t want to be that stupid kid again. I’m far too old to be falling out with people and going off in a mood when I don’t get things my way. Far too old to be so easily wound-up.

It doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence that, should I live to finish university, life will get any better. I’ve been home a week and I’m already obsessing over and visualising and planning my suicide. And that’s without even talking about the fact that every time my mother speaks (sometimes even when I just think about her speaking), I can see myself strangling her. I’m not violent. I’d never do it. It’s just a reaction. It’s just something that invades my mind and I’m embarrassed to even mention it.

Life isn’t going brilliantly. You might have guessed.

I haven’t done my essay.

I’m such a fucking dickhead.

But I can hardly move,  let alone write anything of any academic worth.

I might email tomorrow, ask for an extension. Try to sort my head out, work hard for the next week or so and get it done.

Or I might do nothing. Just hide in my room, ignore everything, wait for the world to come crashing down around me.

Doing something means admitting defeat. Doing nothing means accepting it.

I’d leave uni, if I thought it’d make a difference. If I thought that being here was causing this, I’d leave in an instant. And it would hurt, leaving something I always thought I’d love. And I’d feel like a disappointment, too. But if I had any reason to believe that leaving would make everything better, I’d do it. But it doesn’t matter where I am, and there is no running away.

I was looking at my calendar. Flipping through the pages. Thinking, this will never happen. I will never see these months. It is unthinkable that I should live to see the end of this year. I can’t do this, I can’t keep doing it.

My parents keep asking what I’m going to do when I finish uni. I don’t know how to tell them that I’m not going to finish. I’m not going to get my degree, I’m not going to achieve anything. I’m going to die. I have to. There’s no place for me in the world, is there?

I just keep crying. I lie down and cry and suddenly it’s hours later and I’m still crying, and nothing is better, nothing has changed.

I feel so trapped. 

I keep thinking, maybe I’ll go to counselling again. But I wouldn’t know what to say. What can you say, when it’s two years later and you’ve done nothing, and nothing’s changed? I’m supposed to be better now, I always told myself it was just a temporary thing, that there would be an ending, that this would just be a bad memory. But it’s part of me now. And I don’t want it.

I need to be a better person than this. I need to shut up and grow up and accept that this is just how life is and get used to it, and carry on, and stop my childish wishing for something that is impossible.

I’m such a failure.

So…

Posted on: October 15, 2009

This morning, it took me an hour and a half to raise the energy to get out of bed.

But get out of bed I did.

I missed one lecture, first of the term, but went to the others. In one of them, I actually felt like I really understood, like I was getting it.

Is this a measurement of achievement? Is this a sign that everything is okay? I can’t think of any other measurable indicator of how things are, so perhaps everything’s fine.

I am so exhausted. I haven’t done any reading for my lectures, I haven’t even attempted to sort out and arrange my notes like I promised myself I would. I’m not sleeping. I feel so tired but I can’t get to sleep, andwhen I finally do I’m awake again an hour, two hours later.

I’m not really thinking anymore. Everything is vague and fuzzy and difficult.

My group has to give a presentation in a seminar tomorrow. I have to go, I can’t let the group down, and going raises less questions than not going would. But I can’t think, I can’t concentrate, I can’t face speaking in front of people, but I know I have to.

I keep thinking I’ll make an appointment with the counsellor, but every time I even think about what I’d say, I either start crying or get so tired that my thoughts trail off and I lie down and stare at a wall for a while.

My name is being ticked off on registers. I’m getting up and moving and going to things. But that’s about all I can say in my favour at the moment.

Okay

Posted on: February 17, 2009

I’ve been a bit strange, these past couple of days. Spaced out, lying around a lot. Not depressed but a bit vacant, drifting in and out of bizarre dreams, not really doing anything. Read the rest of this entry »

Needing to cry has started again.

Just that feeling, a pressure behind the eyes, sometimes a little sting. Like eyes are bowls of water in danger of overflowing. Read the rest of this entry »


Hello

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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