Dear poor, unfortunate person who may be about to read this unusually long and confusing confession,
There comes a point when you sit down on the sofa and cry. You cry a lot because everything inside has ultimately came to the point of eruption. Not the pretty sort, like fireworks or an orgasm. More like the ugly sort which leaves a trail of destruction. Like a volcano, but that's such a cliche and I would prefer not to use it because I hope I'm more imaginative than that. I guess though, I'm not.
You cry so much that it hurts your chest and your throat is sore and you're on the brink of going unconscious because your poor body cannot handle the emotional pain that comes with this uncontrollable urge to just let go. You haven't had a terrible life. Quite the opposite to be honest. You have everything society has led you to believe you want and you even have a some-what bright future ahead. But there is no denying it. You're dead inside.
The school walk. I look like everyone else. My hair's usually an unkempt bun sat wonky on the top of my head but I'm still a normal mum with normal kids wearing normal clothes doing a normal school pick up. Other mums say hello and I smile and say hello too and then we natter about something to do with children or housework or how it's been such a long time since we'd had a break from the domestic lifestyle we feel confirms our identity. But we laugh it off together. It's ok really. We are driven by our roles as mothers and wives. As women with responsibilities. We are women with a purpose; the idealistic upbringing of our children. The bell rings and then we collect our children from their classrooms. My child is filthy. Somehow muddy with scuffed shoes. With snot smeared across his cheek and his lunch gathered under his fingernails. My other child looks somewhat cleaner but her hair resembles a bird's nest. It's such a mess. There's a moment where I question what the other parents might be saying. Surely they can see how untidy my children are. I'm failing. I'm not a good mum. "Look at the state of you, what have you been doing today?" you say loudly enough for other parents to hear. And that's good because now they know it's not because I sent them this way. Now I'm not the one responsible. I'm still a good mum. I welcome my children more appropriately now. I tell them how happy I am to see them and they are happy too! They're so happy to be finished for the day and to see me, their mum looking normal. Not like how they might have seen me last night when they came down for a drink and I was sobbing into a pillow with mascara streaming down my cheeks. I kiss them and take their grubby hands and queue with the other families as they wait to exit the playground.
The kids are screaming and frantic and buzzing and so full of life. Other mums are talking and I hear some telling off their children and then there's the toddlers complaining for food or running off.
The cars are in some sort of traffic jam waiting for parents and children to cross the road on their way out of the school. It's so loud. So horribly loud. But I'm still smiling because everybody else is. We have our children now. Life is complete again. Life was meaningless for the 6 hours they were away from home. That's how it's suppose to feel. But for some, that just isn't so. For some, something is still missing.
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