I have been so depressed today. It is the third anniversary of the death of my father and the start of more woes than I could ever have imagined at the time.
Giving up your own life to lead the life of someone else might be OK if they were happy or grateful or even enjoying the freedom. To do it for a person who does nothing but complain seems so pointless. My mother complains every sentence about her dizziness but she isn’t in pain. I have worse arthritis than she does. Sometimes picking up her heavy shopping bags hurts my previously broken wrist and the lumpy fingers and the lumpy and painful joints on the other hand so much it makes me exclaim. All so I can lug it forty odd miles and put it painfully in her fridge where it will be too much or too little or just wrong. The day before we visit I run all day to get the shopping, the money, the plants and my outfit just so I can run all day the next day doing the fridge, the gardening, the lunch, the chat, the shopping the post, any carer concerns, the cat, the clocks and the mending of anything, painting, maintenance and pot plants all in twinset and high heels.
I now have an entire wardrobe of posh outfits to get sweaty in. What I would really like is new old shoes for pouring porcelain in, the old old ones are so saturated with clay you could probably fire them in the kiln. I just wish I had time to pour porcelain.
I am so tired of……………..well I’m so tired of everything really. Most of all I’m tired of worrying what happens when the money runs out at the end of November. At the end of this month (August) I shall have to get the financial wheels rolling again, which means more money to the financial adviser, more arrangement fees to the mortgage lender, that is if they will lend more, all of which will only happen if I can prevent my mother from becoming aggressive again, thus endangering her ability to stay in her own home which we really can’t afford. At the rate I’m going saving my own old age pension I will have enough to pay for two weeks for her at the start of December after which I’ll have to move in. What a Christmas, last year doing a day and a half made me ill for a week afterwards.
She keeps asking me to kill her, I keep explaining I can’t because I’d be locked up. I’d kill myself, which would be easier for me but that would leave the OT who is now seriously worried about his own health with the job or the S&H, currently interviewing like there’s no tomorrow just to get a job himself.
You read in the papers about people who get hold of a gun and shoot their extended family, perhaps they were people who just never had a day off in three years.
It’s a long time since my father died. It’s three years.
One thousand and ninety-five miserable days. How many more?
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JaneLaverick.had enough
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