Sunday

I'm feckin stressed. It's been a difficult few days, starting off with some petty fights and culminating with me sitting alone all night beating myself up about this and that. Just when I think I'm good, I'm on top of things, something really insignificant sees me tumble down and split my head open on the floor. It's such a cruel, bitter cycle. The lower I go, the more I loathe myself, which sinks me a little bit lower than I thought there was.

Meanwhile, my motherfucking ears are still blocked. I'm going to have to find time this week to see a doctor and hopefully get a referral to an ENT specialist. Because doctors in Brisbane are so helpful. I'm sure that'll go to plan.

At the forefront of my mind today has been the feeling of ultimate failure. I can't tolerate anything Axel does because I can't speak to him without the right side of my head slitting open and my brains falling out (it feels). This is followed by that familiar Sunday afternoon mama guilt; back to work tomorrow and I don't get to spend a single day with my son until next weekend. And I haven't done anything for him all weekend. I've sat in a pool of self pity. Something has got to give.

I could bitch and moan all night, but instead I'm going to play solitaire.