I had a total meltdown this morning. I woke up perfectly normally, wrote my chatty Weekly Roundup blog post, took Bertie out on my scooter as the dog walker doesn’t work weekends, and was poddling along when a car drew up next to me. I live in a tourist area and vehicles often stop to ask for directions so I wasn’t expecting this conversation:
“That wasn’t very hygienic!”
I was taken aback and then realized the head poking through the car window was a lady out of my village.
“Er, excuse me?”
“Your dog just peed up the egg box!”
The farmers put their boxes of eggs in large plastic containers by the side of the road and you put money in a tin box if you take any.
“Did he?! Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t see or else I would have stopped him.”
“Don’t deny it. I just saw him with my own eyes! And you can see the pee all over the box!”
“I’m not denying it. I just didn’t see him. I’m really sorry and wouldn’t have let him do it if I’d seen him.”
“I get my eggs from that box. It’s disgusting to let a dog pee up it!”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was doing it.”
“It’s really unhygienic!”
“I apologise. I’ll go and get some cleaning stuff and wipe it off.”
“Lots of people get their eggs from that box, how d’yer think they’d feel if they knew your dog had peed up it?”
“I’m really sorry, I’ll clean it up.”
And she drove off without another word.
Now I know Bert peeing up the egg box wasn’t right, but there are ways of speaking to people and this wasn’t the way. It really shook me up.
Bertie is a tiny dog. This incident took place a mile from my house and I know that Bert’s pee runs out only a few hundred yards up the village. I’m not doubting he cocked his leg, but I was doubtful anything actually came out of his willy. However, I turned my scooter round and went to the farm in question, knocked on the door and explained what had happened, apologising profusely and offering to clean up the pee. The farmer couldn’t have been nicer and said his own dog pees up there, that’s what dogs do. And it’s a plastic box so nothing inside would be affected by anything on the outside of the box. However, to reassure me he went and inspected the box and said it was bone dry and I was worrying unnecessarily.
So on our way home I knocked on the door of the lady’s house who had shouted at me, explained what I’d done to rectify the situation and reassured her Bertie hadn’t peed on the box. I was rewarded by her massive black Labrador shooting out of the house and attacking Bert.
As you know, I’m not a big cryer. It’s pointless when you live on your own. There is no-one to wipe away your tears, no-one to hug you better and no-one to reassure you everything is going to be alright. In my world, crying solves absolutely nothing. However, after this morning’s incident I had a total meltdown. I couldn’t stop myself. I barely got through the back door when all the anguish, stress, anger, pressure, anxiety and sheer exhaustion of the past few months overwhelmed me and I plopped down in a big heap on my hall floor, still wearing my waterproofs, anorak and wellies, and simply sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed.
I’m fed up of being lonely. I’m fed up of having no-one to talk to. I’m fed up of being skint. I’m fed up of having to be strong, all the time. I’m fed up of never being touched let alone hugged. I’m fed up of having no help, of having to do every single little thing on my own no matter how ill or exhausted I am. I’m fed up of being anxious. I’m fed up of caring for my parents when I have 3 brothers who do absolutely fuck all. I’m fed up of pretending to the world that I’m not sick. I’m fed up of being sick. I’m fed up of being in pain. I’m fed up of being exhausted. I’m fed up of the boredom which makes up a large part of my day. I’m fed up of Doctors who don’t give a crap. I’m fed up of receiving no care. I’m so tired of the fight of my existence.
I don’t want to go out for lunch tomorrow with my parents. My Dad talks shite and I have to treat him like a 5 year old, making sure he’s seated, doesn’t wander off, order a drink for him, take him through the menu and order his food for him, tuck his napkin in his shirt because he spills everything down his front, try and include him in the conversation even though he can barely follow anything that’s being said. I don’t want to listen to my drunk Mum, slurring her words, repeating every she’s already told me 5 times and expecting me to act like it’s the first time I’ve heard it, not being able to follow the conversation, either finding everything funny or finding everything irritating and snapping at me and Dad, having to order her meal for her cos she’s not capable and knowing all the while that every single word I say she won’t remember by that evening, and we’ll go over every conversation again on Monday. It’s exhausting and stressful and absolutely no fucking fun whatsoever. And I have to sit there pretending like I’m having a nice time. I can’t do it.
So I rang my Mum and told her I’m not going with them for lunch tomorrow.
“Do you want me to be honest Mum?”
“Because I can’t cope with your drinking at the moment. I don’t want to cope with it. You’re not my Mum when you’re drunk. You’re putting incredible pressure on me and I’m struggling to cope with it on top of everything else.” All said very calmly and without blame.
“What if I promise not to drink tomorrow? Will you come then?”
“I don’t know Mum. I think I just need a break from being around the situation.”
“I promise I won’t drink tomorrow. Please say you’ll come. I really want you to.” And so starts the emotional blackmail.
I said I’d think about it and let her know.
I now have a headache and still feel weepy. The meltdown came out of nowhere but just shows the strain I’m under and all the stuff I bury so that I can keep functioning. I’m sure I’m not alone in that. Thanks for listening x