Loopy, Lonely and Lost

Posts Tagged ‘mother

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

Read the rest of this entry »

I went out with some people from work last night, had a few drinks and a bit of a laugh. It was an okay night – nothing special, but it’s nice to get out and do something, isn’t it? I wasn’t really drunk, just a bit tipsy, and I got home at a reasonable hour and went straight to bed. 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.

Every time my mum is ill, she turns into a bitch. I’m not supposed to say that, am I? If someone’s ill, you’re supposed to call them brave and inspirational. If someone’s ill and you don’t like them, people think you’re tempting fate, and that if they die, it’s your fault for pointing out their flaws. I think people think it’s unreasonable to expect a person who’s unwell to be everything you want of them. They have more pressing concerns than keeping people happy.

Maybe it’s true. But I don’t believe in fate, and this is a cycle that has shaped my entire life.

Read the rest of this entry »

I know I’m not being a particularly nice person at the moment. I mean, I don’t think my friends mind. They see me being sarcastic and cutting and brutally honest and they think it’s funny. I suppose it is, a bit.

But anyone who knows my family, even a little, will know that my mum doesn’t take well to that kind of attitude.

Read the rest of this entry »

People say that courage isn’t about not being scared, it’s about being scared but doing what you have to do anyway. I suppose that means that cowardice is being scared and doing nothing. Not necessarily that moment where you’re stuck, the shock of the first impact of whatever it is that scares you – that’s understandable. No, cowardice is being afraid for weeks, months, years, and still, still not acting.

Cowardice is a lifetime of paralysis, of frozen limbs and wishful thinking, of closing your eyes and bracing yourself for the moment when that long-forseen destruction occurs. And there’s no reprieve for cowards. Read the rest of this entry »

Posted on: February 22, 2011

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.

Another day of shit. I don’t know why it still affects me. I should have it memorised by now.

She’s ill. I think.

Lying about her temperature and making far too much noise and acting like she’s never felt worse.

I should be more sympathetic. But there must be some reason I knew what Munchausen’s was before I could spell it.

She wanted to go to the hospital. We told her she didn’t really need to go. She kept crying. We said we’d take her to the hospital. She said she no longer wanted to go.

Just an hour or two later, it’s our fault she’s ill, because we wouldn’t take her to the hospital.

And it’s bullshit, and I shouldn’t get so angry. I should be calm and point out all the ways in which everything she says and does is cruel and wrong. But I see red and I shout and I go to bed because there is never any answer.

The person I pretend to be would sort this. The Laura the world sees would make something happen.

But I’m stuck between scepticism and concern, and nothing I ever do ever makes any difference.

Sometimes, I think of killing myself. As an experiment. I don’t know if she realises anyone else exists.


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.

I know it because she screams it in my face. Read the rest of this entry »

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.


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.

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 99 other subscribers

Recent comments.


This blog has been visited

  • 82,824 times.
May 2023