Cluedo

The object of the game is to find the murderer, the weapon and the room the crime was committed. For a Bpd it’s safe to say someone else always pulls the trigger. It’s an annoying tick box that we like to have that makes everyone else the problem, it’s annoying because everyone else actually IS the problem. I could go way back and say I am in this mess because of others, I am batshit because of others, I have a fuckin hard life because of others. Not that I’m bitter. It’s safe to say the victim in cluedo was the mental health person and one of these “normal” fuckwits pulled a trigger. Now who is mental? So everyone wants to play. Let’s play.

Let’s start at the beginning of my day. An average single mum in full time therapy day. My alarm didn’t wake me up in time, six alarms didn’t wake me up in time. I had to drag two boys huffing out of their beds with a militant GO GO GO. Of course they don’t go. They watched their i pads whilst dressing, their pj’s got flung all over and they argued because one got in the way of the others screen. They sit awaiting breakfast from the half dressed stepford. Hot croissants?  Right o right up.  The older boy tells me his recent troubles at school whilst I brush my teeth insisting that I ring his school. Now. Yep yep kid, calling whilst pulling on my knickers. Mr Duck (yep he returned but I will do that blog later) offers me a lift to give me an extra ten minutes. Ten minutes to the ocd late woman is heaven. Let me wash up, pick toothpaste off from the sink, sort out a wash load and make the beds ” yes yes I know I’m fuckin late. I’m doing my best. Shoes shoes shoes.. holy shit the packed lunches!”. Finally out the door.

I have fifteen minutes to enjoy a takeaway coffee with Duck after dropping the kids off, my stomach sinking at the idea of a Monday in therapy. Maybe I won’t go. Do I have to? I get out of the car and reassure myself that one tune blasting through the headphones will make my mood more balanced. Noooo,one of the kids have had them out of my handbag and one ear is now not working. Of course! Absolutely of course! It’s at this stage I want to go home. Back to the home my boyfriend is probably lying in the bed of chilling. The home my sixteen year old is enjoying until she starts school at eleven. What I need in this moment of nine in the morning is certainly not my mates (loosely used) manhub on the phone. Half an hour. Another half hour of many days of his half hour phone calls. He is polite but certainly assertive. I’m not sure how many times I can say ” I don’t know I wasn’t in the room”  I can handle. Why does their relationship and behaviours become my responsibility?! More so why am I picking up the pieces and trying to salvage a relationship that isn’t mine and one I had no hand in ruining. Oddly I am the one punished most too. The one person who has kept me safe for ever I am not talking to. This person, I am all they have and I’m not speaking to them. Just as a sacrificial anniversary is approaching too. But let me help you. I should slap myself! Hellloooo I’M IN THERAPY in five minutes!

Therapy. Right. To anyone thinking that we sit around all day being thick let me start with I’m in a room of extremely intelligent and talented people (and me to which neither applies) Most are more qualified than the therapists, this shit does not role lightly. I have met international artists, someone high up in the Virgin brand, a neuro scientist, the daughter of the mob, a politicians daughter who was so powerful they chose to lock her into her private school to avoid hospitalisation, an international drug smuggler and a private investigatior. To name but a few. This therapy is tough at best. Amongst amazing minds it’s an intensity on top of intense. A headache is permanent. YOU CANNOT BREATH FOR SHIT! Today was horrific. I have been so angry inside for weeks that I get chest pains, I am one more incident away from a life of continuous panick attacks. I cannot blink without it feeling a ballache. Today the C Bomb was thrown about by every member. Three times I thought I would end up pulling people apart. The whole time( Because I have been there the longest) Everyone looked to me. Everyone asks me. Everyone. Worryingly even the therapists..  “you look like you have something useful to say on this matter?”. Yes. Yes I do but for the love of God my brain is about to combust. I’m here to help me. My family. My future. But of course I won’t because I will make sure all these other people are ok. Let me help you. I left aching. My whole body you see had been through some emotional and mental car crash in those therapeutic six hours. Three days a week. Two years. I really am mad.

I get home with the children in tow,the dinner is made from scratch, whilst taking a twenty minute support call from one very distraught co member. I also have the extra mouth of my man’s best friend. This doesn’t bother me much as it’s nice to know less goes in the bin, I make healthy dinners for the dog mostly. I clear up,not the average clean up, the ocd clean up. I have a seven year old in and out of the house in tears amongst my ironing, I sit and we talk through emotions and I cuddle him before forcing him to dance with me to make him smile and feel safe again. I have the eldest boy being his usual hormonal, somewhere on the spectrum, self. This requires delicate handling…do not flare up this child!  Let’s make cakes. I hate this job but it’s all I can think to deter the youngest one from going back out which potentially could make him sad again. Ohhh hold on.. Another support call. I can’t not take this as this member is currently suicidal. Twenty minutes later we finish the cakes. Ocd clean attempt two.  I bath them in military fashion. Making sure my hands do not come into contact with their naked bodies. Prevention is better than cure so these babies have to know their body’s are theirs and no one touches. The teen walks in, dinner let’s heat up dinner. Dishes. The pre teen boy suddenly recalls he was out at dinner time. More dishes. When I ask them to wash them up I get rolled eyes and a firm “why should I?”I can’t take much more. Clean attempt threw. I sit down on the sofa for the first time to just breath and reply to the douzens of friends asking how I’m doing, when I’m free, can they can they and can theys. It’s nice they care but right in this second I don’t even know what I could say to make anyone understand. In this second(It’s been three)the dog jumps up and sits on my stomach. I’m done. I find solitude in my room in the dark, 3,2,1 dog. I give up. I squak now at the kids for bedtime to be told I’m hated, they argue up the stairs, they talk to me suddenly about some real grit in their life’s, how can one ignore this?  Finally. Finally. They sleep. How much more to do? A missed call again from a member. As I sit and begin to think about how I will die, my phone rings. Ohhhhhhhh she never makes calls, she must be really struggling..What’s twenty minutes? Let’s do this. My little bit of comfort was served in the form of marmite on toast and tea by the Duck.  It may not be much to most but this to me is the world. So much so that when someone does something for me I well up inside and don’t know what to do with it.

So you see. It would seem everyone has a motive. A similar motive. What can I do for you?  They will see me struggle and hear me tired and still not think it’s enough. Everyone thinks their the same. I wish. I wish I was the same. Because along with this is the internal war I fight and the cycles going off in my head. I’m certain one day my body will just think fuck this and drop dead mid cooking and I imagine the only thing missed will be the dinner they wouldn’t eat anyway. I’m going to die doing. Not even for myself. The question is what will be the weapon. Someone shifting responsibility? Someone asking me if I can do one thing? Someone having a bad day? The truth is to me every one is a killer. I wish I could do less or think less or be less responsible but I can’t as it stands. Instead I will kill myself either in a life of doing or choosing enough is enough.

I asked the few I could to babysit tomorrow and no one can. No one will. I can’t remember having a moment at night without doing something or being there so solidly for someone. Or the last time me and Duck went anywhere together with no children to worry about. I think about seven weeks ago. I wanted a drive to grab coffee because my childhood brain knows that in a car I get half an hour escape and air, it becomes safety  safety safety safely safely. But I couldnt and can’t. I could truly cry. It’s true that the only thing worse than being lonely is being surrounded by people and being alone. That’s me. It’s isolating being this mad and this responsible and the only person to raise my children. The only one that cares for my children like i do. The only one who trys to make sure they never end up in therapy. The one who hides their mental health at all times at any cost and pretends to go to work. It’s now half eleven at night and I lie in bed next to a man asleep from his day of nothing. I love him and I should not feel urked but I do. Now I can hear the dog stair running,this means she has probably urinated on the floor. I will deal with that when late in the morning.I don’t want to sleep because then I have to wake. If the night terrors allow sleep. I don’t want to stay awake because then it will feel worse or I will smoke too much.

So maybe spare a thought for everyone you ask of. Put on. Expect from. Even those who present like naturals struggle and until you ask how they are you will never know. If you intend to ask then maybe be prepared to help. Your politeness is just something we add to the ” you wasted my breath” list.

 

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