Losing It

So, I think I’m losing it. Not in a ‘go into a room and forget why you’re there’ type of thing, or ‘purse in the fridge’ way, it’s a bit more serious than that. It’s a re-evaluate and prioritise your shite type of thing…

You see, for many years I’ve experienced the above. It’s the social norm. I hear people at work often murmuring it, along with mutterings of talking to oneself – we all do it. It means we’re not perfect. Our minds are sometimes preoccupied, illness can dull the senses and they can struggle with little aspects. For example: earlier this year I had a nasty chest infection which resulted in me having to double check spellings of basic words – weird eh? But, I knew why it was occurring, it was a result of the fight my body was incurring through the nasty bug. My brain was overworking in just enabling me to stand up!!No, the thing that makes me feel on the steady decline is much worse. This week I forgot how to cook potatoes (please feel free to laugh).

Now, the less culinary of you might think this is quite natural. But not for me. I’m a cooker. It’s in t’blood. I can knock up a banquet ‘en masse’ in less than an hour, with only strobe lighting (think strip club) and a two ring electric Belling to aide and assist. (Last Christmas. No kitchen. New house. Family needing feeding). Potatoes are something I can do in my sleep. But scarily Him had to broach the question of why I was trying to steam my potatoes?

However, it hasn’t stopped there. I seem to be losing recollection of things that happen. I forget what I’m talking about half way through s sentence. Most alarmingly, I can’t always understand an instruction. Now, I could blame the above on sleep deprivation and being a busy lady, however, here’s the thing, I think it’s my body’s way of telling me it’s time to stop. Stress, anxiety and paranoia…

Now, stopping doesn’t mean living, because that would be stupid! I’m a spring chicken with loads of plans and an exciting life to yet lead. No, what I’ve got to stop doing is carrying this constant burden of worry and anxiety around like Marley’s ghost and his chains. Work seems to be a constant millstone around my neck and quite frankly that is unacceptable.

Firstly, the guilt I forever feel as a working parent needs to stop. My beauts have a good life. Love is always in abundance and fun a necessity. So what if I forget 50p for this, or I’m not even a feature at the school gates (at parents evening many had no idea who I was)? I’m a good mum. I’m here every night, they have food, they’re clean, cuddles are a must, I rarely leave them and am always on hand ‘maid style’ any time – day or night. Apart from…work days, nights I have to spend working, times I’m exhausted and Him has to do it all (my God, what would I do without Him?). And yes, I know it’s not really good enough. To be ‘that parent’ which is heralded as ‘worlds wirst’ with ‘poor neglected children’, I’m am to be frowned upon for my shoddiness but if my only crime is one of overworking to provide a wonderful life for them, if I was in charge, I’d absolve me of my sins.

Then it’s the pressure of trying to hold it all together. Sometimes it feels like I’m trying to fix an old holey water pipe with sticking plasters. Trying to placate everyone to keep the harmony. First world issues that seem so important to us but in the grand scheme of things…

It has to be noted that I never wanted to grow up; I wanted to be that free spirit, back packing around the world with a baby strapped to my back. Following the Inca trail or trekking the foothills of the Himalayas (I’ll still get there) This sentiment of escapism makes me always feel like running away and hiding. Knowing I can’t just up sticks and leave all my loved ones behind, I hide. And that’s what I think my brain is doing – it’s telling me all this has to stop by reminding me how fragile I am.  It’s hiding crucial information to make me stop and think.

Hiding/running, it’s the paranoia within me that seems to feed this feeling, if I feel out of control, out of my depth, if I feel excluded…I’m so worried about what people think of me, I’ve extracted myself from most social situations. I find it all incredibly embarrassing. It’s something which is leading me into a solitary life – like one of those reclusive writers who I always thought so cool! But what am I achieving? Being a hermit and hiding just feeds the monster and ‘the fear’. Growing like the gremlins in the dark cupboard. Like I said before, stress, anxiety and paranoia. Those three words sum me up completely. Each one a label on my Marleyesque chains. Lugging the heavy bleeders around day and night being an encumbrance. Sound familiar?

Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol to make a point. He wanted people to think about the imprint they made then left in life. Our souls burdened by choices in and beyond our control. We all have silent battles we are fighting, crushing us at times and dragging us down into the depths of despair. I see my present ‘dementia’ as a sign. It’s my body’s way of telling me, like Marley did to Scrooge, about what’s important. I need to find that euphoric zest that always got me through in the past. I need to cut through the quagmire of self loathing and begin to love myself again. I need to stop worrying about the haters and I need to channel my inner sunshine. I need to understand and feel like I’m worth it,  Marley’s sole mourner turned out to be the best friend he could ever wish for.  He gave him a gift to absolve him of ‘the fear’.  Many of us seem to need our own Marley.

So, with Christmas dinner for twelve to cook, I better get my shite together quick and fast! Otherwise the Lord himself only knows how I’ll cook the sprouts…



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