TW: contains detailed reference to self-harm.
I fear this post is going to portray me as a hideous person. However, its important that I write it because I can’t escape the truth so you, as my reader, should know this about me too: yesterday, I discovered yet something else that sets me apart from the average person. I HATE Fridays.
I don’t dislike this particular day of the week because I do anything/go anywhere especially anxiety-provoking. Indeed, I normally get to spend some time with my cousin and the boys which makes it a notably better day than, say, a Wednesday. But a Friday is the day that precedes the weekend, the day on which a Saturday and Sunday hang heavily over my head, like a pregnant raincloud fit to burst. It is the day that anxiety over the busy, noisy weekend starts to grow, like a cancer, in the pit of my stomach.
Saturday, a day of housework and should we/shouldn’t we discussions between my Mum and I. Should we go for a walk? Should we visit my Grandparents? Should we play Scrabble? I love my Mum so much it hurts, but this illness has made it so that I don’t know how to be around her. We’re never at ease the way she is with my Sister, we don’t carry on, laugh and joke as they do. I’ve just sat with her and eaten lunch, but there always seems to be a elephant in the room, something unsaid…
“I had to go to A&E yesterday, Mum. I have four stitches in my wrist due to self-inflicted mutilation during which something took over my body, so that, for a short time, I was unafraid of the blood that literally poured into the wash-hand basin. This feeling that enshrouded my body briefly kept me from caring about whether I lived or died. But I do want to live, Mum. I want to be here with you, so guess what I did? Last night, I swept my room for ‘dangerous’ objects and disposed of them. Are you proud of me for that? Are you, Mum?”
And then Sunday, when the cavalry arrive. A day of peeling potatoes, preparing vegetables, setting the table. A day of noise and big serving bowls of food being passed around. A day when we argue over who will wash-up, make the coffee. A day I can no longer cope well with, so I eat alone in my bedroom.
So that is why I don’t like Fridays…I just realised that I inadvertently answered a question asked long 36 years ago (yes, I was sad enough to Google that!) by The Boomtown Rats…kind of…anyway. I’m pretty sure this all makes me intrinsically bad. Why else would I find it easier to be alone in a big, empty house than around the people who love me? Why else would I endorse the phrase ‘Thank F**k it’s Monday’?