Piled Under

Between TC and work, I feel I am living almost two separate lives, one where I am learning to be vulnerable and real; one where I maintain decorum, and meet deadlines, visit schools, and support ailing students. The veil between the lives is thin as paper; I pray that no one at work sees through, sees the struggle. I take on more work to compensate, just in case. In any case, work is helpful, distracting, I can work more when I’m in this state.


But work is uncertain. Another round of recruitment has opened. TC is two days a week. I could do the job. But, if I apply, I could be rejected.  I still haven’t heard from my landlord about whether I can stay in the house; and my housemate’s solicitor doesn’t think I can get the address redacted from court, even though its publication would put me at risk (we back on to a primary school, FFS). And housemate will leave in May, but where I will live, with whom I will live, whether I will stay or move, is all unknown. I can’t face moving. And I will have a cat to care for. And no job. And the TC work is hard, and I think I’m doing it wrong anyway, and I’m scared that people don’t like me there.

I fold and sink in an overwhelming sense of stress. And I want to harm, and I want to harm, and I want to harm. How rubbish I must be to have gotten into this mess. I cocoon.

I cocoon to try to drown out the situation I am in, the voices telling me I am rubbish. But I want to harm. I go to stay with my mother for the weekend. And she loves the surprise of the visit, and she is upbeat and happy, and life seems normal, and I feel worse because of all the bad things I am saying about my past family life in TC. Maybe life was normal. I want to harm. Please God, help me to stick with my contract not to harm.

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