The only way is up

Or at least, one would hope the only way is up. I guess there’s always the chance I could skulk along the bottom of this pit of woe forever. Sideways, like a crab. Yes. I feel like a crab at the moment. Snappy and irritable and beady-eyed, and with a tendency to sulk back into my shell at the slightest of slights. (Why are crabs so very cross with the world, I wonder?)

I have no room in my head for anything other than breathing and making sure The Boy doesn’t go out with beans in his hair right now. People have been calling me and emailing me and inviting me to do things. Returning calls and replying feels like an impossible task. My Dad’s best friend has invited me to lunch on Sunday. It was nice of her, but her email ended with ‘and would you mind rewriting the attached introductory letter to our business? I know you’re good with words…’ And it made me cry.

Accepting that people asking me to write stuff for them is a verrrrry touchy subject right now (I still haven’t finished The Pirate’s bastard website), why did she do that? Why did she offer something nice but make it conditional? And dear God, why did my one single, solitary, poxy talent in life have to be something that people can take from me as if it has no value? Yes. I don’t feel valued.

The Pirate said he would take me away this weekend to thank me for writing his Bastard Website. (This is now its new name.) And then he cancelled, after I’d arranged a kennel for the dog and had my nails painted and got all excited, because he’s too busy. And that is the value of my words. They are not worth creating space in his life for, yet fuck me I’ve had to create space for them. Hours and hours of bloody space. (The Neverending Website might be a better name for it. Certainly jollier. If it had an 80s theme tune, maybe I’d feel less homicidal when I’m writing it.)

The above paragraph is unfair. The Pirate has no time to take me away because he’s trying desperately hard to launch a new business. He also has no money to take me away. I haven’t quite disappeared up my own arse so far that I can’t see that. But I just want to feel important to him. I am being so crabby with him at the moment. My little eye stalks venture out of my shell and I tentatively sidle up to him and open myself up a bit, and he (in my fucked up head) rejects me and I either snap at him or disappear back into my shell, swearing never to come out again, ever ever ever.

I don’t know what’s worse, the crabby snapping or the hiding. At least I don’t smell of fish. (Do I?)

Ooh! Had another pep talk from my Mum. This one was awesome.  I’ve not got it half as bad as she did when she was depressed, and she shook herself out of it. I’m just being dramatic.

Argh! Mum, when you were depressed you had a husband (my step-dad) who loved you dearly, your Mum and sister who loved you dearly in the same village, a lovely house and no need to work. Without wishing to belittle your feelings and accepting that even beautiful millionaires with carefree lives get depressed, I have no supportive partner, no supportive family or friends nearby, a son to raise on my own, a more-than-full-time job and a dead Dad. So fuck off. Just fuck off. Depression Top Trumps! Yeah. Fuck off.

That might have been a better title for this blog entry. It’s what I want to say to everyone and everything, other than The Boy. Fuck off stupid clients with your stupid demands. Fuck off stupid Pirate with your stupid demands. Fuck off stupid pretend friends with your stupid demands. Just – fuck off stupid life with your stupid demands.


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