the mind fuck strikes…again…


Sometimes, I get too cocky for my own good. I convince myself that I am this invincible force to be reckoned with, and nothing or nobody is going to fuck me over. I have moments where I zealously live my life according to my own rules, on my own terms, and charge like a raging bull, towards what I feel is rightfully mine – success and happiness. I reach out and grab hold of it, like how my girl reaches out to a piece of chocolate, and throw a humongous tantrum if anyone tries to intervene. That’s how life has been for me of late. Don’t mess with me.   Stay outta my way. Proceed with CAUTION because this bitch is on a mission!

And then, the dark forces in my mind come out to play. It never fails to shake me back to reality, and it seems to do it effortlessly, too. I have haters, whom do not know that they have been categorized as haters, but I know better. They will try, subtly, to bring me down a notch, but most times they fail. I have issues with the world being in the fucked up state that it is in, and even that is merely just a fly to be shooed off my shoulder. Even horror movies don’t scare me much.

But my mind is something else, man.  Nothing in this world scares the living be-jesus outta me, more than my own mind does.  It seems to operate on a two-way system.  Either I’m all the way UP there.  Or I’m all the way DOWN there.  There is no in between.

So, here I am again, lying in bed, hyperventilating, in the throes of a panic attack, trying to find the point in it all. Dez, who is dodging work, is all in my face and snapping at me to get over myself. He has never understood my crazy moods in the whole fifteen years he has known me, so I am not even going to go there with the ‘you just don’t get it’ buzz now. Then he mentions something about getting up and feeding baby, and I bark unceremoniously, that it’s not hard to make a Weetbix, and does he need me to hold his hand while he does it? I fling a book at his head when he tells me that I’m a drama queen. He responds by slamming the door shut with an almighty bang.

And now I am sitting here, wallowing in the trenches of my own guilt.

Not a good start to a Monday. My gratitude routine has flown out the window for the day. I feel that old philosophy ‘fuck the world, and everyone in it’ trying to work its way into the deep recesses of my mind. Considering I have (over) committed to a shitload of things this week and beyond, this mind fuck is the last thing I need right now. Cancer fundraiser on Saturday to help pull off, but all I want to do is run off to a secluded beach and hide from civilization. A band to audition for as a drummer, something I’ve dreamed of doing most of my life, yet just thinking about the noise is giving me mass headache. I have work do’s, and birthdays and celebrations galore coming up, but I want to rip my 2015 calendar off the wall, and set it alight. Because I cannot fathom doing anything right now. I cannot fathom seeing anyone. I just cant do it.

I just need to be.

A good couple of hours later, there’s a little tapping on the door. I don’t answer, just stare at it blankly, too wrapped up in my own self-absorbed thoughts to even a muster a ‘what.’ The door opens a crack and I glimpse my girls puppy-looking eyes, peeking in at me forlornly. I wipe away my idiotic tears, and force myself to stretch my arms out to her, and she comes charging in, wrapping me in a hug with those chubby arms of hers. She places her palms on my cheeks, and peers closely into my face. “You alright, my mum?” And my heart bleeds. I feel like total and utter shit.  In the back of my mind is a voice saying ‘what did you ever do to deserve a highly-strung mother like me?’ and attempts to shut that voice up is failing miserably.

Still, I manage to nod and smile brightly, ‘You wanna go to the park my darling?’  She jumps up and down, then proceeds to sprint out of the room to tell daddy,  while I try, with all my might, heart and soul to get myself together.

I trudge out of the room. Staring at the ground and shuffling my feet, I manage to get out a gruff ‘sorry, mubs.’ Dez just nods, says ‘its allgood mubs,’ and that’s that.  He’s so accustomed to it, that it probably holds little relevance for him anymore.  And I totally understand. We pile into our Ford Boss and venture out, and the incident is forgotten. For me its still there, even as me and dad run a muck around the park with our daughter, looking for all the world like we is a happy family. But there’s always tomorrow. That’s what I keep telling myself. The mind fuck never lasts.  And there’s always tomorrow.