Such an emo.

I remember when bank holidays meant something.  When it was giggles and picnics in the park with friends.  I had some then.

You don’t like beaches.  You don’t like barbecues. We have no mutual friends.  We have no money.  No transport.

I sit shaking with envy as others have holidays or even breaks away.  As they meet up with friends or visit family.  At their days out.  At their normal life.

You decide when.  You decide where.  A trip to the park one day renders another day out  unnecessary.  Unless of course you get bored.  That’s the game changer.

Because you know I don’t go out without you.  I can’t.  The anxiety cripples me.  The panic is terrifying.

I’m trying to make the best of nothing. 

I know we can’t afford days out.  Yet we could still do something.  I rack my brains adding up the pennies we have.  Making plans.

You’re too tired.
You visited them already.
You don’t fancy it.
It’s Sunday buses.
You’re going to finally mow the lawn.
Or paint the room you’ve had nearly a month to do.

So we stay.  And we do nothing.  The grass doesn’t get cut.  The bedroom doesn’t get painted. 

I begged you to buy the eggs on Thursday. To get our money sooner. I told you there’d be none left.  I tell you every year.  But you’re right.  You always are. I tell you I want to shop early but of course I had an hour so you just had to have one too.

Only I was right. There was a choice of one left.  It doesn’t matter to you though.  Because one isn’t none so no problem. It mattered to me though.

It mattered to me. 

I was still wrong though.  Always am.

The cloudless sky was bright blue.  The sun was shining .  I woke up with hope. With plans.

So we stayed at home.  Again.

I was consumed with vitriol.  Literally shuddering with it.  With the disappointment.  Because you didn’t seem to care.  Because I’m sick of trying. Because nothing ever  changes.

So you sent me to bed.  Because of my vile mood. Where I cried.  For an hour.  Shuddering cries that made my brain vibrate and shake. That made my chest ache. I cried from frustration.  From disappointment.  With life. I cried from lonliness; I can’t remember the last time I physically spoke to someone I’m not related too.

And then I slept.  If I’m not awake I can’t get angry at the day.  If it’s to be wasted I’d rather not be awake.

It wasn’t the day.  It sounds petty. I know.  You didn’t understand.  You never do.  It was bigger than that.  Symbolic.

I’ve been trying. To be better. To make the most of things. 

You underestimate the effort.  It consumes me.  To want to seize the day.  To want to go out. To function.  It’s exhausting.

So today I’ll not try.  My hair remains unbrushed. I’m in my pjs. I can feel the heavy grey like a blanket, covering me.  Covering everything.  And I’ll welcome it. The numbness.  The  acceptance.  The nothingness. 

You’ll be annoyed by my apathy. Again.  But I’ll not be hoping.  Or wanting. Or planning.  So it’s easier this way. 

I’ll try.  To accept our life. To understand this is our hand that we’ve been dealt.  That it won’t change or improve.  And I’ll get on with it.

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