Purging

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I am so unhappy as I type this. I can hardly see the screen through my tears.

I’ve been crying most of the day. I think it is partly because I’m tired, and partly because I’m scared, and partly because I’m bored.

You wouldn’t think two – three hours less sleep on one night would make such a difference, but I’ve been battling to get through the day. I’d hope for a relaxed evening at home once I got through the traffic and miserable weather, but that was not to be either. My weekly breakfast provisions were depleted, and then I made the colossal mistake of asking what happened to it. How dare I accuse my mother and nephew of eating my stuff?! Did I consider that I’d made a mistake? Actually, I did consider that, but I know that I didn’t, since there was enough for one work week. And now there’s not. But don’t worry, if I somehow manage to pull myself together, I will not ask about anything out loud to any one ever again. I was told that I should get my own fridge to put in my room and lock my stuff up. 

So that makes me feel just a little angry and resentful. Just because I don’t pay rent, doesn’t mean I can be taken for granted, and that I should just keep my fucking mouth shut, because you know what? I gave my mother at least R7 000 of my bonus last year – not counting the groceries I bought when we moved in – not as a loan. Money I could’ve paid on my cursed debt, or used to do the course I so desperately want to do. Beginning of this month I gave her money to pay for the water and mailbox – money I didn’t necessarily have to give, but felt compelled to out of a sense of duty. As a result I have only R36 in my bank account since last week Friday. 

There was a time I thought that feeling like I was the black sheep in our family was only my imagination, but lately I’m convinced that I was right all along. The way I see it, I don’t feature on the top two of any of my family members’ list. Both my nephew and my brother feature ahead of me when it comes to my mother, because someone has to take care of my nephew, and my brother needs extra help – he can’t drive himself and that’s not the worst of it. And since I’m living here rent-free her obligation towards me is taken care of right? And how dare I then speak up about anything? Ungrateful bitch, like my brother once said. 

Why am I scared? Because I don’t know what I want to do; or if I’m going to do anything. I should clarify. I feel like I’m dead weight at work. A small rational part of me knows I’m not; I can do things other people do with greater difficulty, but I’m not doing what I thought I was good at and when I attempt it the results are still rather disappointing. Did I lose my writing mojo? If you’re still reading this you will disagree, but in my work situation I feel like I am unable to string two decent sentences together. I don’t know if I’m just burning out sooner than other years (I usually take a decent break in April, since that is when my mental walls tend to give way, but this year… it’s not even the end of February yet). And I don’t know if I can or want to cope with this any more. It’s been four months since I last took antidepressants, on the advice and care of my psychiatrist. I suspect it might be time I start them up again, but I can’t deal with the guy right now; his jokes and demeanour just annoy me. On the other hand it will take me a while to rebuild my stash of pills; my back door, and that small rational part of me is still not convinced that that is what I want to do… 

Boredom. I’m not bored in the sense that I have nothing to do, really. I’m bored in the sense that I don’t feel challenged to do anything. At work. I’m bored because I’m not motivated to do anything – outside of work. There is the course I’d love to do, but I don’t have the money at the moment. I can’t even quite be bothered to read the book club’s book of the month, and it’s a book that’s been on my list of “to reads”. Yes, that’s a symptom of depression. But am I depressed because I can’t do all these things, or do I not want to do these things because I am depressed?

I think I am depressed, and therefore everything else. I’m depressed because I don’t mean enough to any one else to be at the top of their list of priorities. I may be more important to some than to other, but not the most important to anyone… not even myself the way I feel some times (today).

For the first time (not today, but since we’ve moved into our flat over Christmas) I feel that my mother doesn’t want me here. Or rather, I can stay as long as I shut up and do my chores. So I’m back to my old routine of retiring to my room as soon as I get home. Weekends spent here is really difficult. Everything I do is criticised; if she doesn’t come right out and tell me the food is terrible, she also doesn’t spontaneously say it’s nice. When I mention anything I’m automatically complaining and that girl with a bad attitude who left her parents’ house 10 years ago. No matter how many times I’ve told her that the girl that moved back to her parents’ house  three years later is not the same, I’m still judged the same.

I don’t want sympathy from my readers – I know there are at least two, although I don’t know if you’ve bothered to read all the way down. Aside from desperately wishing I had my own place – only me to complain about or compliment the cooking; only me to throw out stuff and not be made to feel crummy because I threw out the entire box and not just its contents; not having to declare where I am when I’m not at home, and when I don’t do it have people call around behind my back trying to find out where I am.

I should stop now. Climb in bed. With a bit of luck tomorrow will be better.

About Syllable

A frugal shopaholic called Syllable: Intelligent, skeptic, curious, naïve, passionate, moody, honest, creative, obsessive & obsessed. A dreamer, a worrier, a writer, a reader, a listener, an observer. My little site of fiction: http://www.thesinglesyllable.co.za/

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