Scared of the Wind

It’s 05:20 in the morning and I’m wide awake and downstairs

Everyone else is sound asleep. Well, apart from jack the cat who’s decided to have a race around the house while I creep trying not to wake people.

I woke up because I’m coughing. I stayed awake because I can hear the wind and the rain beating against the house and it’s scaring me.

I usually like wind. Especially that of the ferocious kind. It usually represents excitement, cosiness while we’re bundled up inside, blowy hair while on a walk and giggles being drowned out by the howling gales. Being pushed along by an unseen hand and the promise of a cup of tea to warm up when we get back home. I love mother nature in all her forms, particularly the powerful stuff because it reminds me how insignificant we all are and how she’s very much in charge. Ironically it usually makes me feel more empowered.

Not today. Not this week. It feels like it’s pounding on my front door trying to remind me of all my failings of this week. It’s like an omen shaking the house telling me that I can’t do this, why have I taken on such an enormous task like that of being a mother. What was I thinking. I’ve been horrifically ill this week. I’ve “only” had a cold but it’s meant no energy which, in turn, has meant we haven’t been out and I feel like a dreadful mother. I’ve been snappy, impatient, shouty and not in the least bit empathic.

Pickle has pushed my buttons this week but she’s also been very sweet at times. And that’s where the guilt comes in. The wind is beating at my house yelling “you horrible mummy” and I can’t answer back because I feel it’s true. I’ve not given her any time, I’ve put the tv on (all day!) I’ve snapped immediately on her doing anything, the poor girl hasn’t stood a chance with me this week and I’ve woken up with the wind reminding me of this fact. The fact that I’m not coping at all well and I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. The rock is wanting to get stuck back in to the way I was doing things before but having no energy. I want to get back to it enthusiastically, empathically, lovingly (genuinely not faked) and with passion and energy and confidence.

The hard place is just wanting to hide away. Hide away from everyone and everything and just say “I can’t do this, it’s too hard”. And then more guilt sets in as I think about this beautiful, charismatic, funny, adorable, feisty, fantastic, cute, clever, sparky and bright little girl who is now in our lives, forever.

And then I see a chink of light in the clouds and the wind quietens down for a few minutes and allows me to think about that. It’s not too hard at all. In fact, it’s very easy.

I’ve been so ill (physically and mentally) and so consumed in my own darkness that I’ve lost all perspective on normal. I want to do things so right that the pressure I’m applying on myself is immense and with that comes the guilt because I’m never going to get it right all the time. I am only human and I can only take being hit in the face so many times during the day so I’m bound to snap. I can only take so much screaming because I haven’t quite got food ready quick enough (in about 10 seconds to be precise) so I’m bound to shout back at some point. And I can only take so much defiance so I’m bound to get defiant back sometimes. The trouble is I only remember those moments because in my head they outweigh all the times I snuggle her and kiss her and stroke her back and laugh with her and all the lovely things we do. But they don’t. The guilt just sets in and rots them away.

Next week I am going to the GP. Next week I’m going to get some proper help. There’s nothing shameful in that, that’s life at the moment.

And this weekend we’re going out and we’re going to face the wind together, as a family.

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