Loopy, Lonely and Lost

Posts Tagged ‘mother

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

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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.

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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.

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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.



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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