The Great X-Box Scandal of 2008

Well, folks - If you are tired of hearing about my bad days, swiftly proceed to the next blog on your reading list. I told myself I wouldn't write about this (probably the main reason I haven't written for a few days), but this blog is for me at the end of the day and I need to get this all out.

This week has left me feeling like one of the children in the Lemony Snicket stories, afraid to settle into happiness for fear of something lurking in the shadows. I have really been fighting to stay positive. I keep myself busy and focus on all the good I have in my life. Believe me, I do know how good I have it. I really do. I am trying to remind myself of that every day. That said, I spent all night last night in tears, and today is shaping up to be of a similar standard.

My journey back to the land of the miserable began early last week, when my mother-in-law reminded me again how ungrateful I am. Usually this is her husband's job, but apparently I had really offended her this time and she just couldn't contain it. My offence - I bought my husband an X-Box360 for his birthday.

Apparently me spending £170 (total bargain, for those of you who are unaware of its normal £230 price tag) is a slap in the face and evidence of my lack of gratitude for the endless sacrifices they are making on my behalf. I tried to explain that this was a one-off. It was meant to be a special treat after two years of tight budgeting which has included agreeing to set £20 spending limits on all presents, not having a honeymoon, not going on vacation in five years and avoiding trips home because they cost too much. I tried to say how I knew that things would be even tighter once we moved into the new house, and so I wanted to be able to give him this one gift (which he has wanted for two years) since he never buys himself anything or does anything even remotely financially indulgent or irresponsible. I tried to point out that we have no credit card debt and used some of the profits from our last house to pay off our wedding and car loans so that the only debt we now have is from a mortgage and tuition fees. I wanted her to understand that I was trying to find a way to sufficently tell Max "thank you" for how wonderful a husband he has been lately and how I couldn't make it without him.

Not good enough. Ungrateful and irresponsible. And I don't even do anything around the house to every one's lives easier after all they do for us. Don't I realise that someday I am going to have to be able to run my own home so I may as well learn how to do these things? I won't go on, although I could, because my mother-in-law is a wonderful woman who really has done a lot for me and I feel bad portraying her in her not-best light. In isolation, this would be the kind of thing you just shrug off and hope will blow over. But my defenses are down, I am barely dragging myself out of bed some mornings and I burst in to tears spontaneously at least once every other day. It is partly sleep deprivation and stress, partly a lack of personal space and the indefinite nature of my living situation, partly grief over the Dark Day that I try so hard not think about. I told mother-in-law I was sorry she felt the way she did and that I would try to do better. Then I told Max I was moving out.

I know, I know. It seems like an overreaction. But I needed it. I need to wake up each morning without the awareness that my every action is going to be scrutinised and perhaps held against me at a later date. If I don't, the "I'm sorry"s and "I'll try to do better"s will start turning into "I never wanted you to do any of this anyway, you are just control freaks who won't let your son and I make our own decisions in life"s and "Why do you expect me to conform to every thing about your family/life/culture without showing any respect or acceptance for mine?"s or even "shove your help and my gratitude up your arse"s. I don't want that. Max wants to say something, to tell his parents how much they are hurting me and that he won't stand for it, but I keep begging him not to. I know full well that it will end in an un-holy argument, leaving us with no support system and him stuck in the middle of his family and his wife. So I told Max's family that my friend Suz's husband was starting the night shift (true) and she didn't like staying on her own (also true) so I was going to spend the week with her. The week has been tense, everyone knowing I was leaving and no one talking about it. I've spent the majority of it in my room - but I made sure to clean the house before I left.

Which leads me to Drama - phase II.
My suitcases are all in Max's parents' garage full of summer clothes, so I needed a bag to pack my crap into. That's when my mother's package arrived. She sent it before the Dark Day. A box full of books about pregnancy and babies, including a 7 year memory book. I knew it was coming. Mom had tried to stop it but Amazon had already put it in the post. I resolved to put the package directly into the garage and leave it there until I needed it, but it arrived in a large white sack which seemed the perfect thing for storing all of my belongings in during the move. I figured it wouldn't hurt to take the box out of the bag. As it happened, the bag was very useful, but the box was open. I had to look, I have always been a bit of a masochist and the curiosity got the better of me. There they were, mocking me. What to Expect when you're Expecting, The Expectant Father, Baby's First Year, and Baby's Memory Book.

I flipped through the books, remembering those brief days when I was filled with the excitement that was written all over each page. I thought about the fact that if I were still pregnant I would be getting ready for my first scan, approaching the time when you can start telling everyone the good news. I imagined being able to fill out the pages with how things were developing, what names we were thinking of, how I was coping with morning sickness. I started weeping and I couldn't stop myself, I cried so hard my stomach hurt. I hadn't realised how sad I still was. Eventually I managed to calm myself down and pack the books away, reassuring myself that I would need them again someday soon.

The problem is, that "reassurance" does little to comfort me. Although I want so much to have a family, I am absolutely petrified to get pregnant again. I am a firm believer in the powerful effects the mind has on the body, and I am so afraid of what my anxiety will do to another pregnancy. What if I am not just one of the 1 in 5 women who miscarries her first pregnancy? What if there is actually something wrong? What if I worry so much about having a miscarriage when I do get pregnant that the stress and worry causes more problems? The thought of it makes me nauseous. Not that I would tell anyone these worries. They would think I was crazy, over dramatic, not able to get over something that so many women have suffered in so much more terrible ways. Hell, I think those things about myself.

I have been working so hard to put this out of my head, move on quickly and not let myself get so sad that I get depressed. Unfortunately I have ignored the warning signs that it is happening anyway, perhaps because I am trying so hard to ignore it. I can't sleep, I'm snappy and irritable, I'm smoking again. Every time I take the folic acid tablets the doctor gave me I well up, so I've stopped taking them. I'm eating like a pig but still losing weight. I think I finally have to acknowledge that I am not quite OK yet. The biggest problem with that is having to admit it to other people.

So here is a start. People, I am not quite OK yet. I may need a little more time, and a little more help, before I feel 100% again. I do not have a stiff upper lip, I am a soft-hearted, bleary-eyed sap. I cry, feel things, and think too much. It's how I cope, it's how I need to cope. I'm off to brace the people in my life for a reality check (and to re-read Alan Carr's Easy Way to Quit Smoking).