Loopy, Lonely and Lost

I’m being a bitch lately.

I don’t particularly like writing about it here. I’m sure anyone reading this is aware that I’m not always a nice person, but I still feel a bit uncomfortable spelling it out. But I do try to be honest, so…

I’m snappy and irritable. Cold and aggressive. I can’t control my temper, it keeps bubbling over and I’m trying to be calm, or at least divert my anger into comedy-anger (shouty but smirky, snapping followed by frustrated laughter and hoping people think I’m joking). I get angry, and then I go to my room and do very little. I’m good at doing very little, especially good lately. I lie on my bed and I watch the ceiling and I just feel tired and sad and old (I know I’m not old. I just feel it. I haven’t felt anything resembling normal for any decent amount of time since I was about 18, and I feel weirdly like I paused my life then and haven’t got round to pressing play again). I’m not crying much though, which I suppose is a good sign. I just feel very detached from everything.

My mum talks about me behind my back. Please don’t think I’m being paranoid, because I’m not. She’s smiley and sickly-sweet to my face and then when I leave the room she starts listing all the awful things about me – why does Laura always put what she wants to watch on tv? Why does Laura use the computer? Why doesn’t Laura tidy her room? Why doesn’t Laura do more around the house? She’s not working yet. Laura’s being off with me. Laura’s this, Laura’s that, I don’t like it. And then my dad or my brother will see me later on, and be all curious as to what I’ve done to upset her.

And all these things, if she mentioned them to my face, it’d be fine. We could fall out and compromise and everything would be okay. But she doesn’t mention them to my face, she just smiles and hugs me too much and says ridiculous, empty things, all the while thinking about all the things she doesn’t like to me. And it makes me more angry, because how are you supposed to respond to attacks that only happen when you’re not there?

I feel ridiculous for being bothered. I wish I could just shut up and do everything she tells me to do, but I never was any good at that. Even when I was a kid and I used to obey her to the letter – in a vague attempt to try to prove that the person she wanted me to be was fucking brain-dead – it never really lasted longer than half an hour or so.

I think about dying. Niggling little thoughts leaping into my head unbidden. Images, when I close my eyes.

I think about moving out, too, but I don’t think I’d be able to do it without causing upset. It’d be a major diplomatic event. I mean, yeah, I moved away for uni, but that was moving away with a purpose, and a purpose other than getting away from my family. In this house, moving out isn’t about growing up or independence or any of the things that it’s usually about for most people – it’s about power. Moving out is a threat. Occasionally a threat from me or my brother – “if you don’t stop being unreasonable, I’ll move out” – but mostly it’s a threat from my mum: “do as I say or fuck off. Do this or I’ll throw all your belongings out on the street. Do that or I’ll burn them. Be a better person or get out of the house and never come back”. Even if I could afford somewhere to live, which I can’t, moving out would be like declaring war.

Which leaves death as the only way out. I’m not planning anything. But it’s just a matter of measuring how long I can cope in this house against how long is left of my natural life. It’s not difficult to see that I need to do something, sooner or later.