Loopy, Lonely and Lost

Posts Tagged ‘falling out

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.

I mean, it’s just training so far, so it’s not always particularly exciting. But it’s a distraction, and something to do, and the people are nice (although I’m aware I’ve been being slightly paranoid, snapping “are you laughing at me?” more than once).

Today, we did a test. I got 21 out of 22, the best in the group.

I got embarrassed and awkward and started internally beating myself up about the one I got wrong. Couldn’t stop thinking about what a stupid mistake it had been, how careless and pathetic and useless I am.

Ninety-five and a half per cent, and all I can feel is the burning shame of failure.

I know it makes life impossible, nothing ever being enough. I don’t want to stand out. It’s just, I feel like I stand out every time I do something wrong. Like people will always be talking about me as “her who thought that LOL”. Perhaps it’s a type of perfectionism, but I’m not striving to be brilliant or successful or win praise. I strive to blend in, to hide. To not give people a chance to disapprove.

I think that maybe I’m starting to lose control. I can’t afford to, I know that – I need to be stronger, better. But I’m closer to hurting myself than I have been for quite a while.

I fell out with my mum earlier. She said some quite hurtful things (but she’s in a lot of pain lately, so I’m not allowed to get angry. Actually, scratch that. Anger’s never allowed). She was essentially calling me a selfish, two-faced, manipulative bitch, and accusing me of all sorts of things. And I could feel the rage building up inside me, and all I could think about was grabbing the pair of scissors off the table and stabbing myself, hard and deep and over and over again. I could practically see myself doing it.

It’s been a pretty long time since I’ve self-harmed, and I never did it badly or particularly regularly. But it was always a blank, disconnected kind of thing. When I think of hurting myself lately, it’s not unfeeling or detached, and it’s not carefully calculated. It’s impulsive and automatic and destructive.

I’m worried that I won’t be able to stop myself. As it is, I have to screw up my eyes and breathe very deeply and dig little crescent moons into my palms with my nails.

I need to learn more control.

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.

Sometimes, I really can’t stand my mother.

In the space of a few days, she’s gone from unbearably nice to unbearably awful. Read the rest of this entry »


Posted on: July 25, 2009

I can’t do this anymore.

I am angry and frightened and panicking and I can’t do it. That’s it. I give up. Read the rest of this entry »


Posted on: March 23, 2009

Why is it so easy to say, “Fuck off, I hate you”, with a smile and a wink (or even with a straight face – preferably, but not essentially, if people know I’m joking), but so difficult to say, “Hey, flatmate…? Please stop mentioning the fact that I have another year to go at university. It makes me really uncomfortable”?

Why am I more comfortable being openly hated and shouted at and despised, than I am with people who are perfectly pleasant but sometimes look at me a bit strangely?

Why can I justify my mother’s every action by the twin-pronged fact attack of “she’s ill” and “I love her”, but just a few hours in her presence are enough to make me start snapping and idly imagining slapping her in the face?

Why do I care so little about what people think about the music I listen to, or the tv I watch, or the profanities I use, or the friends I have, or the alcohol I drink or the money I spend  – but so much about what they think about my ridiculous facial expressions, or my clumsiness, or the fact that I’m ‘loud’? Why do I care less about offending them than I do about arousing their pity (or worse, that smug cheerfulness that people get when they’re so fucking glad that they’re not as annoying and embarrassing as me)? Read the rest of this entry »

You probably won’t find this interesting. But I need to write it. 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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