Posts Tagged ‘anger’

I’m going to CUT you. Serious.

April 9, 2012

Catching you up: I forced TMD to tell her dad this is our space, and we especially need time to settle. So no unexpected elongating of visits. No staying all day on Tuesdays. He was gracious and agreed.

He just arrived for this week. First words out of his mouth?

‘I fully take on board what you said last week, but my partner is working in this town on Wednesday, so we really need to stay over on Tuesday night.’

I am breathing slow to try to contain my rage.

I’m throwing all his motherfucking shit away this week. I promise you that.

Fuck fuck. Bastard. Arrogant. No shame.

After you had a talking to the week before, would you immediately fucking presume to lengthen your stay the next time you came? No, of course you wouldn’t. Because you are considerate and realise there are other people than you that matter.

Fuck. There are some slight hitches in the flat sale. TMD has suggested we move back there. Fuck.

It’s nice being so close to her mum. And there is so much for a home educating family in this area. Our friend Gnome lives very near.  I don’t want to move.

I tell you, I am thinking really cruel and horrible things. I am trying not to beat myself up for just how bad these thoughts are, because I’m human and I have every right to be angry.

And on the personal growth side of things, I took a step in the direction of standing up to him.

‘It would be nice to have advance notice.’ Ah, so much more polite than what I wanted to say.

It’s all so awkward because this IS his house. We have taken over bills and expenses, but we have not bought the place from him. And I think he’s trying very hard to remind us who is king of the castle.

You guys, I need support. I’m going to crack in a million pieces (like a smashed garden gnome, perhaps?) and only hope some of the shrapnel goes in his direction.


October 12, 2010

I wake up this morning, the first one up. My stomach is rolling and clenched. I tip toe to the toilet, getting quietly ass-sick. No doubt this is partially due to the 7/8 of a medium pizza I ate entirely by myself last night (which is no doubt due to my feeling like a terrible person after yesterday), but mostly it’s the picture of my sweet, innocent son floating in front of my face that makes me feel so sick, so guilty.

There is no way to say it nicely. Yesterday, while changing his nappy, I smacked him. On his bare bum. Hard enough to leave a red mark.

Committing these words to paper/blog makes me feel a deep shame, but not as deep as the shame I feel because I smacked my child. On bare bum. I have never done this, and so help me god, I will NEVER do it again. I have made a lot of bad decisions. I have lost control and screamed at my children on a few occasions – yesterday I held Snort by his arms and yelled that he was a bad boy. I have smacked tiny hands away from cords or electrical outlets or from ripping each other’s hair out.

I was raised to think it’s okay and normal to be hit. This apparently turned me into the sort of adult that, when really angry, apparently resolves to wanting to hit her own children.

It. Has. To. Stop.

The gift I can try to give my own children is to not learn the things I learned as a child. I don’t want them to feel shamed, or dirty, or like an animal.

I don’t want to be my father. You know, the fun parent, the awesome parent – the scary parent. You never know when he’ll go from being your best buddy to tormenting you, to hitting you, to screaming and shaming you. I am not him. I will not be him.

Please, let me not be my father.

So I sit here, eyes filled with tears. Guilt and shame in my heart, my two beautiful babies loving me anyway.


So: this is me. I am not always the fun parent, the relaxed parent, the loving parent. Sometimes, only sometimes, I am the monster I fear.

The last line counts.

January 2, 2009

Had a bad experience at the doctor’s. The piece of shit teenage doctor clearly knew next-to-nothing about pregnancy, and NOTHING about IVF.

Me: Hiya, I’m just over six weeks pregnant from IVF, and this is my first baby.

Him: Was this pregnancy planned?

Him: About how far along are you?

Him: Is this your first child?

What the fuck, right? He also miscalculated my due date by 2 weeks, even when I explained to him how to figure things out via IVF. But he really made me doubt myself, so I didn’t challenge him as much as I could have.

He also said I need to pick the hospital I want to give birth in now, so he can refer me. He said I won’t see a midwife until 12 weeks. Another hearty round of ‘what the fuck’ can be inserted here, as I really should see a midwife before 12 weeks. He also refused to write me a prescription for progesterone without a letter from our private clinic. Yeah, like I’m just in this for the free progesterone and the great side effects.

Stupid fucker.

All this culminated with me crying afterwards in public. AWESOME.

Things have calmed down slightly and I’m feeling more in control. Hoping to go visit a hospital maternity ward tomorrow (what the fuck, again, I’m only six weeks pregnant! And I don’t think they have water birth there! I don’t know if I want a water birth, but I don’t want options cut out from under me!). Cross your fingers the tour is running even though it’s new year.

That fucking doctor tried to refer me to our closest hospital, which no longer has a maternity ward. AWESOME TIMES TWO.

Feeling more sane now, but still pissed off. The Plan: call our good, expensive clinic tomorrow (while wishing we were rich and could afford private antenatal care) and ask for a letter re: progesterone. Also ask them for some confirmation re: due dates. If theirs match with mine, ask them to pop that information into the letter. Call the hospital in the morning to see if the tour is on and if there is room, and then hopefully take a nice drive up the road and wander around to watch women screaming while babies fly out of their pee-pees.

Maybe do some bra shopping on the way back.

Apparently pregnant women are supposed to wear non-underwire bras. I don’t know what size I am anymore. I do know that after trying on five bras I got Angry White Albino Nipple on the left side, and the pain was pretty fucking intense.


TMD is a miracle in my life.

Dare I say it, but I’m pretty calm for a crazy person in her luteal phase.

June 2, 2008

Alright. Tenuous internet connection established, after 60 minutes on the phone. I have never been so assertive in all my life. I sounded like one of those passengers on the airline reality tv shows – weary like I’d been travelling for 24 hours straight, and then forced to live in the airport.

Fuck-a-nut. The ‘customer operative in my area’ will be here within 30 minutes. I really hope it’s not the high as a kite boy who installed everything. The smell of skunk (that’s drugs, my country friends) was so powerful I found myself giggling and craving M&Ms.

I hate being what TMD calls the ‘project manager’ on this sort of shit. I really, really do.

Still, in other news, Marmite had her first steps in the great out of doors yesterday. Born free, etc etc.