Why You Were Taken

Journal entry 13 February 1988

Westville

In the news: –- I don’t care.

Something strange is happening to me. A twisting inside. I have everything I want, a wonderful husband, a nice home, two precious little babies, but I have this weird feeling of dread and sadness. When I wake up in the morning I don’t want to get out of bed. I’m exhausted and just want to sleep all day. When I do get up I am like a zombie. Sometimes P gets home and I’m sitting in front of the TV in my sweaty pyjamas, not even watching, not really, and the kids are screaming from their room. He gets angry with me but he tries not to show it, tries to be understanding. When he is angry like that he doesn’t talk to me. Doesn’t want to show his feelings. In this terrible stony silence he fixes the babies up, changes them, feeds them, finishes the ironing. I should care more, but there is something wrong with me.

He doesn’t understand. The days are just too long.

I’ve lost my appetite, no food seems appealing anymore. I exist on endless cups of tea. Tea sometimes makes me feel better. Not sure if it’s the actual tea or if it’s just something to look forward to: a treat, to break up the day yawning ahead of me. And biscuits, if there are. A hot mug of tea and a biscuit – like a little steaming beacon of hope. If there is a (rare) moment in the day that I have my hands free, the first thing I do, instead of doing the washing or cleaning the kitchen, is have a cup of tea.

There is no energy for anything that is not completely vital: Washing my hair seems an insurmountable task. The thought of lifting my arms for that long just seems exhausting.

P hugs me and tells me that he loves me, but that I need to ‘snap out of it’, for the babies. Doesn’t he know that if I could, I would? Does he think I WANT to be like this?

I feel like nothing matters anymore. Don’t see the point in anything. Overwhelmed.

Maybe I am being punished for breaking up P’s marriage. Devastation wreaks devastation. Only myself to blame.

Sometimes I find myself wishing that we had never had the twins. They are so dear, they truly are, and I love them with my entire being but sometimes I just resent their existence. Wish we could go back in time when it was just P and me, and we went out to concerts and dinners, and sleep and sex came so easily. Sometimes when the babies are being demanding I want to pinch them. Hard, so it leaves a mark. Or just smack them when they won’t stop crying. I picture the welt my hand would leave behind on their pale thighs. Of course I don’t ever hurt them, won’t ever. But these dark thoughts smear my soul. Make me feel so terrible. Terrible mother.

Being washed away by despair.

The flowers I planted are dead. They were violas.