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sixymama

Mental, mardy, but a little bit marvellous..

Month

May 2017

Friday. Anger.

Friday. The smalls are supposed to go to superdads at some point this weekend. 

Of course he will decide when, the same as he has decided that 24hours once a fortnight – absolutely no more – is enough to keep a relationship going with your kids. 

The same way he has decided that dropping the two older boys who see him as their dad is a good idea. The same way he will say it’s their fault for not getting in touch with him, or the same way it’s their fault he didn’t get them anything for their birthdays or for Christmas. Because it’s never his fault. Of course it isn’t. 

So. Back to it. His mum asks me yesterday had I spoken to him. Of course not. She will text me and let me know. I’ve heard nothing by this morning, I have to message and ask her if she has.

So. He says he will have the 4 smalls from 3pm Saturday until 3pm Sunday, is that okay? 

Well, no, it’s not. It’s a bit bloody silly actually. 3 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon? Means we can’t do anything all day, and the kids will have a miserable time, packing their stuff and arguing because 1) they never want to go until they’re almost there and 2) I will insist on them cleaning their rooms beforehand. 

So, from 3pm Saturday until 3pm Sunday. Which is a great time if you don’t want to give them dinner, I suppose. However. They won’t have eaten since their breakfast (they never do when they’re there) and it’s a shit time of day all round really. So I’ve left it for now. 

I said:

Not really. Those times are a bit silly. 3pm Saturday makes for a bad day for them.

Polite, but to the point. Those are silly times and I won’t have it. I find it utterly ridiculous that in this day and age a grown man won’t stand up to see his kids. I’m sure at his end it’s all very “poor me” and “I’m so hard done to” but really. How silly.

When he was having them every week there was always an excuse. His brother was there, or the keys had been left in a pub, or there was an argument, or he couldn’t afford to feed the kids so I had to lend him money or buy him food – he never went without cigarettes though. And he never went without seeing his girlfriend. Because- and I’m not bitter although that’s how it sounds- he only wants to know his kids when he hasn’t got a girlfriend. You can literally time it. When he’s alone he wants to see them. When he’s loved up, nope. They’re last on his list of important things. 

That’s not to mention the verbal abuse. I’ve cut him off now so he can’t do it anymore. I don’t have to listen to it. I refuse to deal with him. But now he’s sneaky, and he whispers poison in the kids ears, about how life would be better with him, how mummy has to take pills to make her happy but he doesn’t, about how mummy is never happy now, about how the children should be free to do what they want, say what they want, act how they want. About how if they lived with him they would be much happier.

Except. In the 10 years we were together. He never did one single school run. He never got the children up in the morning for school, he never picked them up, he never helped them out, he never washed up, did the laundry, none of it. He never got up in the night to them, cleaned baby bottles, fed baby in the night. I could literally count it on one hand, the amount of times he did something that not a single other person would think was anything more than normal parenting. Nothing. So how could they live with him? He’s never done any of this parenting stuff before.

And 3pm? That’s because he’s too lazy to get his arse out of bed in the morning. His children aren’t important enough for him to lose a couple of hours sleep over. 

Disgusting. 

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Bed

Lost another post yesterday. Serves me right for not saving. My own fault. Again.

Doctor Who is on again. I know I obsess over it but it helps. The Doctor married River. Again.

Im crying. Alone, wishing for a star of my own. A star – to orbit, to wish on, to look up to. To love and not be alone anymore.

A star for me.

⭐️ 

Triggers, attic space, detachment.

My triggers seem to be child based and stress led. I wonder how true this is for others?

I can have a great day and then one small thing will happen, one meltdown (okay that’s not small), or one argument. One episode of something unpleasant and boom! I’m down and I’m out and I’m desperate.

Is it because I have no reserves in the tank? Is it because of this illness I have and that’s just the way things are now? Why does it only take the smallest thing to be wrong to knock everything out of sync? 

On good days I cope. I manage not to go completely down and out and I don’t have to force myself to bathe or clean my teeth or eat. Or I can concentrate on NOT eating and not hurting and I can be busy and productive and for want of a better word, happy. Not grumpy or irritable or angry or upset or wanting to die. Just being, busy, smiling, doing.

On bad days I can’t cope. I can just about stay alive. I’ve noticed myself detaching more and more and I just go through the motions. I do what needs to be done but its robotic. When the girls are screaming at me or my son is screaming at everyone and they’re all telling me how much they hate me, our family, our life, how I’m stupid and an idiot and I’m fat and I’m useless and fuck me and fuck the world and fuck off – who needs an inner dialogue when your kids say it all for you – when I’m hearing all this and I’m holding the door shut so she can’t attack me or throw things at me or scream right in my ear… I’m not there.

I’m inside my head, that dusty attic space I call mine. The corner where I like to hide and sit, next to to the little window that doesn’t open, staring at the puddle of sunshine on the floor, dust motes dancing in the air. I’m there, I’m not here. And there is a highly preferable place to be. 

I sometimes I wish I could go there for real. It’s quiet there. I’m not needed. I don’t have to be everything to everyone, I don’t have to be anything to anyone. I can just sit. And be warm. And be alone. And safe. 

Quietness

10am. The house is quiet. Doctor Who is on the tv and I’m in my bed, comfy and slow and feeling sleepy.

The school run was relatively painless, I took my oldest shopping at the new home bargains. We had a giggle. Now we’re home and not back out until time to pick up my littlest. The bank holiday weekend was so busy and productive; we got so much done. I didn’t get the chance to go down as I was so busy. I took the opportunity and ran with everything I had. Now, I can relax. For a little bit anyway.

I decided to sleep, but I’m not sleeping. I’m revelling in this peace. It’s lovely. The sun is shining, the house is peaceful and im at rest. I’m taking it one day at a time.

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