Today I am angry.

I’ve no idea why.

Nothing specific has happened; no one’s upset me, work has been no more stressful than usual and Squidge has slept through the night four nights in a row.

Nothing is wrong and yet everything is.

It’s probably to do with a fan-bloody-tastic combination of PMT, struggling to sleep and the Northern One being stressed about his impending job interview and the pile of work that he’s got to do as well as everything he has to do at his current job and the course he’s taking.

He’s tired; we both are.

I’m so irritable; so on edge

I want to scream, to grit my teeth until they hurt, to punch the wall until my knuckles bleed.

I leave work with a headache, my hands itch and burn from twelve hours of washing them and my eyes are sore.

On the way home I have to resist the urge to put my foot to the floor; to see how fast I can go but at the same time I want to drive my car off the road; into a wall or another car.

The windscreen wipers make a squealing noise and don’t clean the windscreen properly and it irritates me so much that I have to turn them off, even though it’s still raining. The whole thing makes me want to punch the windscreen; to hear it shatter and revel in the wanton destruction that for some twisted reason is do attractive tonight.

There’s no one else on the road so I slam my brakes on and the car screeches to a halt. The sudden change in speed jangles my nerves and my head snaps forward satisfyingly.

I’m so angry.

I’m so tired.

There’s so much that needs doing.

The house is a mess and the health visitor is coming in the morning.

I sweep, I vacuum, I dust and polish, I do laundry and ironing and wash up. I tidy up toys after Squidge has gone to bed but the house never seems clean or tidy; the mess and the chores seem endless. I’ve tried to make the best us of space in the house; making it attractive and homely but still organised.

One of the things that really gets me down is the damp problem I’m really struggling to control. It makes me wonder why I bother. I clean, I spray and I paint but still the patches keep appearing. It’s part of the reason that the house is only half painted even though we’ve lived here for the best part of three years.

I get home and drop my bag and clothes on the floor. I turn on the shower, putting the temperature up so that the bathroom fills with steam and I can’t see myself in the mirror. I stand under the steaming, stinging water and try to relax.

It’s not working.

I get out and scrub my eyes with a towel; trying to rub the irritation and the almost overwhelming fatigue away.

All of a sudden the fight goes out of me.

I sit on the edge of the bath and call for the Northern One.

I need a hug.

He wraps his arms around me and makes a filthy joke and we both collapse into giggles. I’m torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to slap him.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I need to sleep.

I need to write.

I don’t want to but I don’t know what else to do.

So I write.

The computer is slow and I contain the urge to throw it at the wall. My hands still itch, my head still aches and my feet are freezing but I sit on the sofa and type instead of going to bed.

I’m too tired to go to bed, how ridiculous is that? Too tired to stay where I am but too tired to move anywhere else.

I’ve run out of words but still I type; the writing helping to calm me when everything else has failed. I’m not even really writing, just rambling on in an attempt to get my messy thoughts out of my head and calm my mind.


There’s just so much mess.

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