No, I’m not feeling sorry for myself. This is how I’m feeling today:
I am frustrated that the Boywonder’s exam results should have been better. That they could have been a lot worse is testament to our total lockdown regime. I am sad that he wasted nearly five years arsing about at school, squandering all that effort, goodwill and privilege, his undoubted talents, and risking the reputation of his family. Although probably far better than his age group nationally, his results were only average among his peers at his school, and a lot worse than his fellow scholars. I still feel shame and humiliation when I attend events at school. It is horrible when one tries to behave in a civilised way to be met only with nastiness and spite.
I am sensitive and I take things seriously. I am a housewife with no income and this skews the power balance in our family.
Random people sometimes abuse me in shops or in the street, as they did today when I was out walking the dog.
You work hard, you work long hours, you are an upstanding citizen who tries to do what is right and you pay your way, for everything. You are not a rich fat cat and you do not avoid paying tax. I am angry that people vilify you because of the industry in which you work. I am sure they would not want to walk a mile in your shoes.
There is a reason that we put things back where we find them; that we pick up what we drop; that we finish what we start. I’m sick of repeating myself and of spending at least half of my time correcting and remedying and generally mopping up other people’s mistakes.
I don’t like it when people are overbearing or controlling or assume I have nothing to say for myself or that what I say is ill-thought out and trivial. I am angry that people don’t take me seriously and some wave away my thoughts about things. Until, of course, it is too late and my judgement turns out to have been correct. Have you heard of Cassandra?
By the way, there is nothing wrong with feeling angry. It doesn’t make me a bad person.
I’m worried that this is not the end of our issues with the Boywonder, that he’s not going to settle down to hard work in the Sixth Form and get himself a decent start in life. I haven’t got the stomach for any more of this stuff. It has worn me down and is unbearable. I feel that if he is too frightened of hard work to make a commitment to doing well in his A levels, he might as well quit now and go and try and find a job. He thinks I am not serious about this. I am. Deadly serious.
I am anxious about Darling Daughter’s dizziness, ongoing for almost six months. I am tired of not being heard by doctors, who seem to assume that I am some sort of hysterical mother. I am not.
I don’t know what’s going to happen with my mother, who seems set on that long road towards compete dementia. I don’t know whether she’ll be able to stay where she is or whether we’ll have to have her move in with us in order to look after her properly. We don’t have the money to buy a bigger house with a granny flat.
I am upset at my father-in-law’s behaviour toward me. How he avoids saying more to me than is strictly necessary or sometimes speaking to me at all. I don’t know what I’ve done to precipitate this.
I am upset at my mother’s behaviour towards me.
You only scan-read my blog posts. That upsets me too. I find it quite insulting, actually.
Also I am upset at my slow but inexorable weight gain and an emotional dependence on sugar. I do exercise, quite a lot, but it’s obviously not helping much and my metabolism has slowed down again recently, it seems.
I am disappointed with my life, how it’s turned out. This is ongoing.
I am sad. About all the above. Quite a lot of the time.
Now, I know that most people can identify with the non-specific parts of these feelings. This is normal life and we all have these feelings from time to time. I am sure I shall soon be back to my usual cheeriness. But the glass is half empty much of the time, and this is how I feel today.