Tag Archives: depression


I am not a tidy person. There, I said it. I’m not. I have things. Lots of things. Things I’m emotionally attached to, things I can’t live without.

Things I think I can make money with but will never leave the house.

This is my reality.

I live in a house which is covered in kids crap. I’m fine with that.  I really am.

Funnily enough, the toys are the only things which have homes. Every toy (until tomorrow!) can be put in a drawer or box or pile and peace can be restored.

It’s all the other crap.

The clothes, the towels, the bedding, the tatt. It is everywhere.

I was hoping to get a new wardrobe. A wardrobe of beauty. One which can hide most of my sins.

Then we got skint.

So now we have half our clothes in the loft, some in crates in our room, most in the laundry –

The tumble drier eeked out its death throes this morning, leaving the house smelling like burning rubber, my ears slightly sore and a large load of washing which I will struggle to dry.

I’m disgusted by the accumulation of shit. I’m grossed out by the Cheerios everywhere.

I know there are hairy spiders lurking under piles of crud.

There’s a three foot mountain of stuff by the cot.

I’m so desperately depressed about it.

It all feels a bit much.


I’m hurting

Today I’m going to interrupt the theme and darken the mood because today, quite frankly, I feel like shit.  Awful stinky curry shit. Kebab shit.

Once again, for those of you who do not like negativity or feel you may be triggered by someone whinging, please look away now.



Yes you. The only one left reading.  Get a cuppa and then lend me your eyes and some sympathy while I feel sorry for myself.

I’m hurting because I’m exhausted.

I’m hurting because of the injustice I have been served in a pathetic situation which is not even my fucking problem.

I’m hurting because I’m reminded every time one of my kids misbehaves and I tell them off how close I am to having Social Services on my case FOR A CRIME I DID NOT COMMIT!

I’m hurting because my organisation has failed and the house is once again looking like we have been burgled.

I’m hurting because once again work gave me renewed hope and havent even bothered to inform me I haven’t been successful so I am left in limbo.

I’m hurting because my coccyx injury is twinging and it makes me feel sick.

I’m hurting because I pretty much constantly feel sick anyway.

I’m hurting because playgroup didn’t hold the door open for me so I had to struggle out with L clinging to one hand and a car seat, bookbag and artwork in the other.

I’m hurting because every driving error is my fault.

I’m hurting because an idiotic man swore at me as he almost ran over my kids (we were walking back to the car in the carpark and he was going forwards!!)

I’m hurting because the fucking roadworks are a headache and chore every single day.

I’m hurting because every car journey has a screaming sound track.  Every night has the same tune. Someone change the record already.

I’m hurting because she starfished in the carseat in the carpark and I screamed.  I’m fully waiting a telling off.

I’m hurting because even though they are both asleep I know I won’t be able to sleep.

I’m hurting because I can’t do more.

I’m hurting because I want to be likeable and pleasant and positive but I mostly feel anti-social, bitchy, and negative.

I’m just hurting.

Crappy Christmas

It’s not even Christmas day yet and things have gone down the shitter.

There are family things going on so the normal Xmas eve gathering is cancelled.

The Toddler actually wants to fight about everything. 

O is teething.

OH and I have already spent too long in each others’ company and are bitching at each other. He’s been home one day.

OH bought me an EEE pad and I don’t like it.  Not ungratefully. I’m just disappointed by it so far and will probably stick to one finger typing on my phone.  Sigh.

It’s definitely me.

Ideas and dreams

This morning, after Os 5am feed, I went back to sleep.  I know – lazy right?  I could have started some washing or done the washing up or cleaned out shithole of a bedroom in that time.

Alas, I didn’t.  I drifted back into the safe haven of dreams.

I quite like it there.  It is yielding some good results, probably as a side-effect of the mess my head is during the day.

At night I have ideas.  I find storylines buried deep in my mind.  I’m allowed to be magical and beautiful and ride around on a unicorn. Or whatever.  

Yesterday I asked for help. Not with stories or fantasies but with life.  I reached breaking point with the sick anxiety.  I went to the Drs.  I told him tearfully about my shitty week.

“Counselling or pills?” He asked.

“Pills.”  Fuck it.  I get a free massage every week, I know what things I need to do to make myself feel better, but I am absolutely shite at following my own advice. I’ve never opted for pills before. They’ve always been thrust upon me. This time is different.  This time I can’t cease to function.  This time I cannot end up with threats of hospitalisation.

So now I have a prescription for Sertraline.  A new one on me. 

Apparently it will stop my premature ejaculation.

I have yet to acquire the pills.  Just knowing they are there seems to be enough. 

I don’t want them to take away the dreams.

Total honesty

So, I’ve just come back in from my increasingly regular binge eating sessions. I’m upset so it was four biscuits, a Lindor, a chunk of cheese, some left over Quavers, a scone and a choccy Rocky bar.  Don’t worry, I’m a size 8, still breastfeeding, have a fast metabolism and will probably feel too nauseous to eat dinner.

Too honest?


I’m all for honesty and telling it like it is.  I think people should be free to express their opinions and feelings freely in their little corner of the internet.

You know why?


How can other people know how you’re feeling if you don’t tell them? How can other people know that what they’re feeling is normal?  How can you find other people who get it if they don’t know what it is?

The problem we come across a lot as mothers is that there is a stigma.  There is a stigma about saying you can’t cope or that your kids make you so angry and frustrated you can’t see straight.  We are expected to go online and sing the praises of our children who have made our day miserable being bored, while we are lonely and actually just want a virtual hug and for someone to say “yeah, they grow out of that.”

You may think I focus too much on the negatives.  If you don’t like what I write, don’t read it.  The internet is my place to vent.  It’s the little space I have away from my kids where I can express just how much I hate being kicked in the face during nappy changes.  I do love my children.  And as I’ve said before, it is only because I love them so much that they can wind me up to the point where I want to turn my own face inside out. 

The reason people don’t say these things? Judgement, accusations of not loving their kids.

These judgements are why some women suffer in silence, feeling isolated and alone.  This is why some of us are medicated zombies, lead to believe that we need to put up and shut up because we wanted the children.

Sometimes people who should know better cast these judgements instead of offering an ear and a cup of tea.

You should never be ashamed of your feelings and you should never ever feel like you can’t express them freely. You’ll be surprised at how many other voices will say “me too!”

On an off day

Yesterday I had a heart to heart with my friend.  We talked about our pasts.

Well, I talked at her about mine mostly.

I was a very messy teenager.  I selfharmed for 8 years, my head just wouldn’t sort itself out.  I was on various medications over this time, I attempted suicide at least twice.   I was never hospitalised but I was threatened with it by three medical professionals in one day.  It was hard.  I was a screw up.  I was wired all wrong.  I was just a complete mess.

I don’t really like labelling people.  I don’t like labelling kids anyway.  I had the label of “clinical depressive” for years.  It gave me an excuse to be a twat. The real excuse is that I am just a twat sometimes.  Everyone is a twat sometimes.  Sometimes we need to just get over it and move on.

Today I’ve been feeling a bit down.  Nothing more than the usual bump in the road, but a bit down none the less.  I can’t get my head around my writing.  The ideas are there but they’re stuck there.  I can’t seem to say anything worthwhile.  I can’t get anything done.

This is normal.

Tomorrow, it will all be fine.

I promise.


Something happened.  I’m not going to go into detail as I will have to go scrub myself obsessively in the shower for half an hour to wash off the shame.  Don’t worry OH, it has nothing to do with any other people.  It’s all me and my crazy head.

Anyway, the only way I have been able to move on and actually function these last few days (yes, the shame was crippling) was to wash thoroughly, scrub myself in the shower and then deactivate my account. 

Only for a bit.  I’m sure I won’t be able to stay away. I already desperately miss the community, but I just can’t right now.

Even writing this makes me feel a little sick and the crime wasn’t even that bad.

So…I’m still on facebook, email, blogging and for those of you who are WriMos – NaNoMail as deskmonkeymummy if you want me. 

The upside was I needed that feeling to write 7000 words on Friday night.  Not all bad.