Blimey, what a week, and it’s only Wednesday. How? Dispel the myth that people on sick leave are having a ball and out having fun. This person right here is in pjs, smelling a bit and in emotional self-destruct. There is no fun. There is no ‘having a ball’, I’d actually really like to be at work so I can ‘ignore’ (ha,. Avoid!) the current feelings.
Father barely spoke to me after my screaming row at him. He drove us home, I got in my car and drove Sister and Brother-in-law back to London. I stopped off for some milk and bits but managed to have a ‘Normal’ supper before catching up with mum, chilling with the cats and heading to bed. All good, right? Well, just as you think I am learning, developing emotional maturity ya da ya da ya da. Well, fear not, I’m still an emotional retard. I wake up on Monday and weigh out breakfast. It rapidly goes downhill though. I binge on biscuits, sweets, chocolates and then the ultimate… take away. I’ve not paid for a take away in ages but on Monday, I not only paid, I also bought one for a friend. I very literally cannot afford this yet seem to be giving out booze and food!
So, I’ve eaten my way through my difficult feelings. In fact, I’m still doing it, right now, as I type. Prawn cocktail crisps are so good. Today’s rough calorie intake… 4,000 cals. Yesterday’s, about the same. Monday’s? again, in the 4,000 region. Why? The ‘F’ word. Father. What the flying flickerty flack. ARGH! So, the cancer isn’t responding to treatment, he’s yelled at me (but seems to have forgotten about it), I’ve yelled at him (which he has miraculously remembered) and I’m the baddy. The ‘revolting’, ‘poisoned’ and ‘emotional blackmailer’ is the baddy. The (factual) absent father who didn’t provide, he’s the angel. Father is ill, it must be so blooming scary. To then get the call that it’s not responding so they are going to put a camera up your penis must be frightening and lonely. Still though, it doesn’t mean he should be allowed to scream at me. Right? Maybe I am being the bitch, maybe I should let it wash over me but… I am me, nothing washes over me. I remember things kids said to me in the playground when I was 8-years-old, I’m definitely still holding onto things he screamed at me last week. I’m also scared. What if I lose him before we manage to get through this? What if he dies and we’ve not found our equilibrium? What if he’s serious that Sister and I aren’t part of his funeral plans? What if he does leave the family cottage to Step-Sister N (more on this later) and I never get the chance to have one last visit? I couldn’t give a shit about the financials, it’s the emotions that are up that mountain that I am scared to lose.
I don’t know how to make this better so hitting self-destruct is the next best thing. My insurance haven’t gotten back to me so, instead of processing this in a therapy session, I’ve got to wait until next week and, even then, it’ll be my penultimate session so what’s the point in opening up and unpacking this when there is no way it’ll be solved in 120 minutes. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit! Sitting in the dark, eating and crying, I feel like I am back at square 1 and in February. I feel like I’m starting to shut the world out and decline back into the black pit I was in. The black pit I was only just making strides to get out of.
I’ve been re-playing the conversations in Wales. Father managed to talk about Step-Sister N and her wonderful husband ALL THE DAMN TIME. Seriously. It wasn’t just me that was being sensitive. Sister got really frustrated and even Brother-in-law saw it. Step-sister N this, Step-sister N that, oh, how wonderful Step-sister N is! I know, I’m on jealous, bitter daughter. It’s true though, Father wasn’t interested in hearing about Sister’s wedding, how her job was and what her and Brother-in-law are planning. Father let’s Step-sister N use the cottage in Wales pretty much as she wants. He’s letting them have it for Christmas. He puts their plans ahead of Sister and mine. Even Sister thinks Father is planning to give them the cottage. I know, I know, it’s his, he can give it to who he wants. But… my grandparents bought it. There are memories, pictures and mementos up there that are part of my family. I want the pictures of Grandpa as a young man, I want the side table Grandpa made, I want the pictures of sister and I as a kid playing with Aunty, Granny and Grandpa. I want to drag my future children up there whether they like it or not, just like Sister and I were (and yes, I plan to make them eat sand filled sandwiches on the beach, whilst it’s raining, just like we were made to!).
How to move forward? That’s what I’ve got to do. What do I need from Father? What kind of daughter do I want to be? I don’t know. I really don’t know the answer to these questions. On a practical front, I’ve got to stop binging, get back to the gym and start working on my self-confidence. Easy to type, harder to do. I have to get back to work. This can’t carry on. I need to be building up, not knocking things down. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll try…
I really am tired