Understanding me Today
I bet you don't if you aren't inclined. But if you are a
fellow sufferer you will. Today started off good, as good goes. Then I started
doing my ironing and that's when the mood descended. I don't usually feel
suicidal when I do the ironing. I usually combine it with listening to some
music. But Mister was in bed so I didn't want to make a noise. I can't just
listen to music even with headphones on - I have to sing. And i am no soprano. I
thought about the three texts I sent to each of my children last night and I
thought about the fact that not one of them replied- not one. Not a sausage.
Then the mist descended and the tears flowed and flowed and I became consumed
with thoughts of death and rejection yet again. All three of them going about
their happy little lives- not a thought for me. Too busy to even send one text.
I sit here day after day after day. I can't deal with it anymore. I have cried
buckets and buckets today and I don't feel better. Now I am sat in the garden
writing through the tears what I intend to be my last blog. I am thinking about
the 120 sleeping tablets and bottle of whiskey I have tucked away ready to deal
with the time. I read a story this week of how two brothers killed themselves
by inhaling helium but I would probably just die of laughing from a squeaking
voice. Although I don't know if it is better to die happy than sad. And I don't
know where to get that much helium at short notice- or even long notice. I
would put me head in the oven except its an electric fan oven and all that
would happen is that I would end up with a frizzy hair do and singed eyebrows.
And no-one wants to die looking like that.
I have spent the last hour sat in the sun, soaking up some
vitamin D. I have watched insects and spiders and flies busying about their
business and little birds gathering straw for their nests in my eaves. A pigeon
sat on my roof waiting for the birds to feed from the feeder because he knows
they will leave enough bits of seed in a minute for him to feed from the
ground. I have watched the great tit weave in and out of the pear trees
opposite so that he can escape the evil clutches of the blackbird. All of them
oblivious to my pain. Just like 30years again when I was nesting and raising my
young I was oblivious to the pains in the outside world. The sun on my back
transported me back to happier days. Memories of a little dot of a girl in a
beautiful little white cotton frock and a bow in her hair playing in the grass in
her garden whilst her mother chased around trying to capture her photograph. Then
sunny days running around in her paternal grandparents garden soaking up the
scent of her grandmothers rose garden and catching the odd waft of the apple
pie baking in the oven, and listening to the pigeons cooing next door from
their loft. She loved them days so much. Sitting on the grass in the sun in a
school field with friends making daisy chains. A bit bigger a girl running
round on the common with her parents and siblings whilst flying a kite and a
teenager running round with her brother and his friends playing football. Or
laying in a bikini in the hottest summer of '76 whilst hoping to catch the eye of friendly
lad or two or three even. Then there she was again- on her mothers lawn again,
only this time in a wedding dress and her mother was still running round trying
to capture photographs. Then my mind
moved on to summer days with this little girl all grown up with her own little
boys and little girl. A little boy in a little knitted white top and blue
shorts riding on his trike. Pedalling as fast as his little legs could go,
shouting 'look at me, I am doing a wheelie mum', as he veered to one side. She
could barely keep up with him and by the time he was knocking on his grandmothers
door she was exhausted. She would wait for the familiar voice of his
grandmother to say 'now who is that knocking at my door I wonder' and his
little voice would reply ' its only me, the little boy who lives down the
lane'. She would call back 'and what do you want?' to which he would answer 'a
boiled egg and some soldiers please'. The door would open, the words had worked
their magic. After his boiled egg and soldiers were all consumed and Postman
Pat had been watched and sung along too they would all go into the garden for
some sunshine and he would run around and play in the grass and his mum and his
grandmother would chase around trying to capture his photograph. The memories
go on and on and on. Days at the beach, days in the countryside, days in the
gardens of grandparents. Sunny days. Bright and beautiful sunny days filled
with laughter and fun. Those days are gone. Sure that little girl is now a
grandmother. But she isn't allowed to have fun with her children and her
grandchildren anymore. She is denied sunny days in the garden with them or at
the beach. She is tired and in physical pain and emotional turmoil. She has a good
husband who loves and cares for her and they have nice days out. But she knows
she is missing out on the joy and the laughter of having a family. What is the
point in laying on a hospital table being cut in half and dying in the process
to give birth? What is the point in being a good mother and protector? What is
the point in loving them with every fibre of your being? What is the point in
bringing them up to be loving and loyal? What is the point in anything when you
have to live a long painful life without them in it? She will tell you that she
can see no point. Today she wants the pain to stop. And she is the only one who can stop the pain. Tonight
she will send them all a text. Not an ordinary - 'this mamma sending love text'
- but a scheduled text that will arrive at 7am in the morning when her husband
comes home to find her lifeless soul. They will all know together. Her text
will be a final farewell and the last of her love. And the sun shan't shine for
her ever again.
