How this week has felt like falling down an escalator

Or lessons in resilience when things get tough

It feels at the moment like many people I chat to tend to say things like - ‘God this week has been bad but it’s going to get better!’ in a jaunty manner. Sometimes I can actually see the tears in their eyes when they say this. They usually blame it on the wind or a cold but I see those tears.

I usually reply with something like - ‘Yeah no kidding, it can’t get worse.’ We are collectively holding out for Spring, buds on the trees, lambs being born, the biting wind leaving finally and in essence…hope.

Let me flag too of course that we here, many of us, are incredibly lucky. I always say that because otherwise people tend to call me out and I don’t need it, I know I am. I know. I am lucky but that doesn’t mean I can’t be miserable sometimes does it?

This week has felt like a large pile of crap has been deposited at my door. More accurately at my feet. An ongoing work situation which got bad, and is still unresolved. I throw a lot of myself into work and even though I have written a lot about how this is not healthy, I do it anyway, even more actually than I did before. I use work to get my sense of self worth because I often feel like I’m an okay parent but not a great parent. If parenting was a food then I’d be a beige sausage roll rather than a delicious, dynamic, colourful salad. So with work I want to be the salad. It’s wrong headed but it’s just the way things have netted out.

I haven’t given up on the parenting of course.

Many Gen X women such as myself throw ourselves at work. We then don’t understand when it fails to love us back. I think that some millennial women are the same, but are hopefully realising the error of loving something that has no feelings for you one way of another.

Anyway work was bad and is still up in the air. I didn't sleep for a couple of nights. I’m the main earner so I can’t go and start a beanie hat business or just meditate for a year. I have to earn.

At the same time my elder daughter has been shouting almost non-stop every morning (when I get up it’s around 6am and she soon follows and picks a fight). I try and tell her that it’s a rough week for me, but kids don’t care about that. They will sometimes even double down on their unpredictable behaviour, because they’re anxious because you’re anxious. So then you get guilt.

Work crisis + parenting guilt + no sleep = shit show from hell.

Earlier in the week I could feel myself disassociating from the world. I couldn’t even do the weather chat and felt like I was channeling Kate Bush in the Wuthering Heights video but a Kate Bush who was far angrier, older and less attractive.

I couldn’t actually hear what people were saying. It’s something that happens when you’re really stressed. Then I realised I was talking to myself. It was like a pep talk but it didn’t sound too peppy because there was also a lot of swearing thrown in. I cancelled all social arrangements (I am not Kylie but I have the odd drink or lunch here and there). I disappeared into ‘Housewives of Beverley Hills,’ and tried to listen to crime podcasts (they always reassure me when life is bad because they usually are all about people who’s life is far more awful). I then developed a severe back pain. Today it’s International Womb Day and the prospect of Mother’s day is looming. I feel like I hate women. Myself included. I think they are weak and pathetic. I hate the fact that they put so much of themselves into pleasing others. Into putting themselves last.

I also of course don’t believe this but am angry. And sad. And vaping.

ASV (Angry-Sad-Vaping) which is actually a thing.

I love women. Seriously. On a good day I might say that I love myself. But this week has made me feel fragile. Like someone has taken the skin off of my body and replaced it with crusty piles of leaves. Not in a good place. I don’t want flowers or breakfast in bed. I don’t need a nice face oil. I want a revolution. I want everyone to stop for a moment, look at the woman next to them and very tenderly cup their chin in their hand.

I want them to very softly say to this woman:

‘Fucking hell you’ve had a bad week. Screw the flowers. Screw the bath bombs and the scented candles. Sit over there and watch ‘Housewives’. Read this book of poetry I bought you by Mary Oliver who knew a thing or two about being a woman. Those knuckleheads out there don’t have a clue who you even are. They’re scared because they’re plebs. Rest your head on this pillow. Oh you’re sleeping. That’s the ticket. I love you.’

If my partner is reading this. This is what I want.