‘I’m growling,’ I snarled.
‘Oooh, like a terrier?’
‘Like a rabid terrier,’ I replied, jumping on a rowing machine and setting off down the river at the speed of a power boat.
‘Not warming up then?’
‘I’m already at boiling point.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Who’s got your goat this morning?’
‘Me. Just me. I’m angry with me.’
And I am. I am so so furious with myself I could beat myself up. Except – ho hum - I already do that perfectly well on an ongoing basis.
Is it a woman thing? Is it a mother thing? Or is it just a me thing? I’ve gone through sad and depressed and now I am just steaming furious. I am sick of being a people pleaser, of playing Mrs Nice, of being the supporting cast, of being all things to all people, of always putting myself last. I’m sick to the back teeth of being treated like dog shit; of being kicked in the face by the proverbial boot, over and over again – and just effing well taking it. Not just taking it even but lying down in the mud and pointing to my head and heart and guts and saying ‘kick there’; go on, kick a bit harder. I’m sick of it all.
Okay, that’s it. I could go on but I won’t. I shall retreat to my Growlery (shamelessly appropriated from Zoe) and shall leave you with some music... Normal service will soon be resumed but today, just for today – I’d stay well away.
