After I awoke from my incredibly long slumber that would have put sleeping beauty to shame I wandered out to the living area of my home. The first room I saw was the office area that id spent hours a week ago transforming into a cute little bedroom for my daughter with her broken arm to ensure she had plenty of peace and rest. It was, as the habit was becoming a complete mess. Not only that she had clearly rifled through the cupboard that I’d clearly said was out of bounds and found my expensive camera out of its box, thrown on the floor amongst yoghurt pots and spilt drinks. Also my old Sony Vaio, that while I don’t use it anymore, it was open, also amongst drinks, banana skins, next to her bed on the floor, unavoidable to be walked on. In a short time, a space that my husband and I had kept clean and clear of clutter for work and important calls, it looked like a junkie den.
My younger daughter had taken great delight in trying on all my sons clothes, so his room was littered with clothes everywhere. Including half eaten apples where presumably they stopped to snack. My eldest daughter was strewn across her unmade bed, playing on her laptop. Laundry bin empty meaning it was another case of me having to find the smelly items. A half eaten bowl of cereal next to her bed.
Angrily I gathered all the items, not trusting myself to speak to any of the kids. Then I went to the bedroom and did something unusual for me.
I sobbed. I sobbed and sobbed until I could hardly breathe. No one would hear me above the noise of iPads and Netflix so I just let it go.
A mixture of despair, guilt over my own long sleep, anger at my sloth like children – who can live like that? Misery, stress, just everything.
My husband walked in and looked horrified at my state, immediately assuming I’d heard news or something.
In between sobs I told him, I can’t take anymore. I spend my whole life cleaning after the kids. I cared for my daughter while she was in pain, I would have had her with me all the time if I could, I made everything as easy and as nice as I could have for her. I’ve spent hours making their rooms special, I buy things for their rooms, but I have no respect. I’m failing as a mother. I’m failing at everything. I’m not strong enough for any of this.
He gently suggested that perhaps of recent I’d not been strict enough with them. Which is true. But I told him, how can I? I’m hardly here mentally? I have slept all weekend, that’s not what a mother does. I snap easily, I’m stressed, I can’t do normal things with them because of my own fears and I embarrass them when I get so over protective. How can I be more hard on them when I’m clearly only half the mother I should be.
When I calmed down I made the logical solution to move my daughter back out of the office and back in with her sister. I told her she’d broken her promise to look after the room and didn’t seem to be getting any extra rest anyway.
Last night I had this horrific sensation of being half awake. I thought I could hear a man whistling. We don’t live particularly close to anyone but if the wind blows a certain way the odd voice can be carried. But last night the whistling seemed taunting and it was getting closer. Then he said something and I heard him say my name. I was paralysed in fear. I tried to reach out to my husband or call his name but I couldn’t move or talk. I thought he was going to come through the ranch slider, take me and my husband would sleep through it. He kept getting closer, then I heard him say, you won’t get away from me as though he were by the door. I fought with my body and mind to wake enough to move to do something. Eventually my hand reached my husband, he moved but didn’t wake. Perhaps it was the annoyance that pushed me enough to say his name and I told him someone had said my name.
He got up and walked the perimeter of the house, checked the locks. The usual routine when I have a nightmare. Although I’m sure he doesn’t expect to see anything, it makes me feel better. Although admittedly on this occasion he was greeted by our very angry cat that had been locked out and he was just about shouting his cat call.
When he got back to bed he listened tiredly to me trying to rationalise the different noises of what it might have been. I took a diazapam but I never really slept too well after that. I kept the light on and awoke at every little noise.
This morning I’ve been busy moving furniture around again, and going through wardrobes to find old laundry and organise things to take to charity. It’s kept my mind pleasantly occupied.
I guess I have to keep taking each day as it comes. I’m really treading water here. Maybe I’ve already lost the plot.