How To Make A Mess Of Things
I'd cooked crab.
It's his favourite
He was asleep, and so I made up the salad and waited for him to come back downstairs.
Only I waited and I waited, until I got tired, and so I un-made the plates and I went to head upstairs to bed.
But then he woke up and came into the kitchen, and so I remade the plate for him and put it on the table...Only I "put it down wrong" and he flew into a rage again.
It took me an hour to pick that crab, and all of 30 seconds for the plate that I'd put it on to fly across the room, where it smashed against the wall and ended up in the the washing up bowl.
And so I'm sitting here at work, and it's a week before my birthday and I'm so sad and so broken and tired and confused...because I love this man with all of my heart when he's sober, but when he's drunk he's out of control and I can't be going through all of this again...
And I'm writing this down because I need to see it for myself in black and white just how much of an arse he can be when he's had a skinful...and remind myself for hopefully what will be the last time that "love" isn't actually supposed to be like this...
I'm sat in the sunshine with an old friend.
And so I don't see that he's walking through town until he's right at my table, telling me that he's had a drink.
And those words cut through me like knives and everything changes in an instant, as the grim reaper himself takes a seat right in front of me, grinning like a cheshire cat, pointing at his scythe and mouthing the words "I've got another one..."
Once upon a time there was a lost little girl, whose world was all scary and dark. Her father had died, her mum had hit the bottle and there was no one left to take care of her, and so she would sit by herself watching cartoons, or reading her fairytales, and she would dream about the day when she would be big enough to fend for herself in the world and not have to worry about other people all the time.
But she was shy and unsure and frightened of everything, and so in order to cope, she pretended that she had wings made of steel like her cartoon hero "Batfink" and then anytime she felt scared or alone, or lost or afraid, she imagined those wings of hers wrapping themselves around her, and she wouldn't feel afraid anymore.
And she grew and she grew, and her wings made her invincible, and gave her the confidence to overcome anything that she was unsure of, and people all around her wondered what her secret was...
This is a blog about my mum.
I don't write about her very often. Our relationship is complex and mostly non-existent. Which I hate... but that's how it's always been so now I just get on with it.
As a child, living with my mum was like trying to balance a handgrenade.
On a see-saw.
With no hands.
My little brother perched on one end, me on the other, and my mum the un-exploded bomb in the middle, in all of her unpredicable, chaotic glory rolling around between us, the pin constantly working loose but never quite coming out completely.
The fear of that pin coming out caused me to live my life in a constant state of high alert and high anxiety, which now I mostly manage, but back then was horrendous.
I’m black and I’m blue, I’m feeling degraded,
My hair is a mess, my make-up is faded
I look in the mirror, despise what I see, then I look at this man who means nothing to me
I creep out the door before he awakes,
I’m tired and I’m ill…there is nothing to take
I don’t leave my number, I don’t know his name,
I’m tired and hungover and burning with shame
I creep down the backstreets, avoid being seen, and I long for a shower, or just to feel clean
There’s no-one to turn to, there’s nowhere to go,
It’s just me and my head in this shit horror show
So I head for the basement and open a can,
And I drink to get shit-faced as fast as I can
I’m all out of options, I’m running on empty, I have nothing left now, I’m just how he left me
I’m counting the days now, I’m counting the hours,
Because soon I’ll be dead and be pushing up flowers
And I’m ok with that, I’m resigned to my fate, because I’ve tried and I’ve failed to keep spinning these plates
It’s too much too deal with, it’s too much to take, and I’ll tell that to God when I’m stood at his gate
And I hope that he gets it…that he sees that I’ve tried, as I drown in the river of tears that I cried
Because I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to stay, in this horrible head funk of “Alcohol Day”
So somebody help me, or let’s get it over, I’m all out of hope, I can’t deal with life sober
So this is my story, and this is my shame,
Written here on my face and beside my real name...