On being a bitch to live with

I think I’ve done fairly well at being reasonable since the weekend. I have shouted at the children only as much as I normally would (less, probably, as I’ve been tucked up in bed for much of the time); I’ve only behaved childishly once (phone call to my mum and I am going to apologise).

It’s a huge relief not to feel as angry as I did a week or so ago (though I’m not stupid enough to think I won’t feel the same way again over the coming months). It’s a very long time since I have experienced such an overwhelming surge of destructive energy, the desire to smash and hurt (fortunately not literally).

I’m sure I was a nightmare to live with for a good few days: periods of shouting and stomping around the house screaming about the utter unfairness of it all alternating with hours of deep depression when I refused to speak to anyone, or at least to say anything reasonable or positive. All completely understandable (and I daresay normal) responses, but horrible all the same. I’ve been there before and I don’t like it. I don’t want to be that wretched, unhinged woman.

I feel isolated too. It’s like being on the opposite side of the road to everyone else and not being able to cross back. My experience is suddenly different to all of theirs, and nothing will ever be the same again. I’ve been there before too and I hate it.

I just want things to be normal – I don’t want to have to deal with breast cancer and pregnancy at the same time, to have to contemplate awful decisions, to think about my own mortality. I just want to get on with my life.

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