On anger and housework.

Bone weary. The house unravelling around me. A month ago I had the downstairs looking reasonably clean and tidy to the point where I wouldn’t be embarrassed if someone called in. Now I’d have to barricade the door. The relentlessness of it is wearing me down, while frustration and resentment build up that the kids ignore the chores while I nag and nag until I’m screaming. When I finally crack and yell and get either of them to at long last do the thing I’ve spent days asking them to do – take a bath! Take your clean washing upstairs! Bring your laundry down to the basket! Please fetch the dirty glasses and plates from your room! – they look at me like I’m being entirely unreasonable.

This is not how I want my life to look. Or feel.

Last weekend I had to drop everything to take a friend to hospital, about fifteen miles away. I sat with her for two hours, until they decided she needed to stay in for 24 hours. She didn’t have anything with her, so I drove back again to pack an overnight bag, making sure I washed the dishes sitting in her sink so she wouldn’t have to come home to them. I stopped off to buy a couple of drinks and snacks to make sure she didn’t go hungry if the NHS food wasn’t up to much, and because there’s not a lot of choice of drinks other than tea and coffee. Back to the hospital, keeping her company for another hour until visiting time was over and she was being taken away for an X-ray. It was about six hours all in all, and I didn’t mind any of it, I’m glad to be of use to her. “This is the closest thing I’ve had to a night out in a long time,” I told her. I wasn’t even joking.

What I minded was texting the kids at 9.15pm to let them know I was on my way home, only to be told that they hadn’t cooked enough food for me after all and I’d need to stop off and buy some dinner for myself. Thank God there was a Tesco Express close to the hospital. Getting home after 10 to discover that no one had thought to wash the dishes but had just piled up more, and that the laundry – my bed linen – was still hanging on the line in the damp evening air. Lily was still playing on the computer in the living room – despite having assured me in an argument earlier that day that she was perfectly capable of self-regulating her computer time, breaks, conduct etc.

“Lily, you’ve been playing on it for over seven hours straight.”

“No, I’ve taken some breaks, I was doing Wii Sports with Ivy.”

Taking a break from the computer to play on the Wii is not what I consider a legitimate break. It took another twenty minutes to chase her off it and into her bedroom, then I sat down with a sad-looking microwave carbonara that went against all of my dietary rules, in a living room full of computers, wires, papers and general detritus.

This is not how I want my life to look. Or feel.

I wanted to flop down on my bed, exhausted, and go straight to sleep. I had to make it first, with slightly damp sheets. I tried to convince myself the dampness would be refreshing after another hot day.

Morning, and the messy kitchen still needs to be tackled, the dishes are still waiting to be washed. A mouldy glass of water appears overnight, brought down from someone’s bedroom. It takes some doing to create mouldy water. The garden needs watering, and the weeds need pulling before they take over. Another load to put in the washing machine, and when did Ivy last change her bedding? A meal plan needs putting together, a shopping list made and presumably shopped for. There are bricks to collect from a house around the corner, before the skip is taken away tomorrow, they’ve said I can have them for my garden to make paths with. I need to cancel my car insurance and hire a handyman and fill out the forms to reclaim the travel costs from Lily’s last appointment, and sort out a new password for my bank account. I’m still feeling angsty and agitated after a week in which several strangers saw fit to have a go at me over things that really didn’t warrant it – triggering as hell after 4 years of Simon blaming me for stuff that wasn’t my fault. Half of me wants to curl up under the sheets and not get up, the other half is screaming that I should just jump in my car and drive away, escape and leave it all behind. I’m going to have to have the talk with the kids again, the same one I keep having, the one that goes I need you to help me. You live here too. You know what jobs need doing. Please do some of them without me having to constantly nag and beg for help. I really can’t do everything on my own. I am so so sick of this one-sided conversation. I’ve left a sign saying No Computer on Lily’s computer, but I can hear her playing. When I go down, she’s on the Wii instead, no chores done, no studying done, wearing the same clothes she’s had on all week and when I try to remonstrate that she shouldn’t be playing games when there’s jobs to be done, she’s utterly unrepentant.

“Get off my ass,” I hear her muttering as I leave the room. I explode at her, pent up with all the jobs I’m trying to do at once.

Do I have to die? Do I have to actually die before someone helps me?

It’s the relentlessness of being a single parent that’s grinding me down. There’s no pause button, no support, no respite. Not a single day off. Not a single night off. I need a holiday from my life, basically. A week where the stress and struggle can stop. I may as well be asking to go to the Moon. And beneath all this – the hurt. The injustice. The anger burning a hole through my chest. Because this is what Simon has done to me. I’m struggling day after day after day with no hope of respite, no hope of any improvement, while he lords it up in their big house, with parking and garage, with holidays whenever they want, with absolutely no responsibilities, no kids to make a mess or interrupt their plans, while still claiming that he is the victim in all of this. I want to scream. I want to throw rocks at his windows and plenty of other stuff that for legal reasons I should definitely not admit to in a public forum. And I despair. Will I ever be healed of this? Of him?

This is not how I want my life to look. Or feel.

I don’t want my life to be a constant reminder of the abuse that I was put through. But it’s hard, when every single day the house is still too small, and I don’t have anywhere to park, and I’m bent double under the weight of holding it all together and raising the kids single-handedly …and Simon’s got away scot-free. Without Legal Aid, there’s no way I could afford to take him back to court to get a fairer settlement, even if that was an actual legal possibility, which it probably isn’t. There should be a free tribunal, a couple of years after divorce, that you could go back to if it’s obvious that your ex lied about finances and circumstances and have any imbalances redressed. Too often divorce settlements are based on equal childcare that somehow disappears once he’s won himself a bigger house and more money than he’d have got if the judge knew the kids would end up with you full time. Sadly I’ve heard too many similar stories to mine and the injustice burns; what I went through, what so many other women have been put through, or are going through right now.

Every time I struggle to find a parking space for the night while I’m exhausted and having to carry shopping bags a quarter mile back to the house, I think of Simon with his garage and driveway. Every time the house feels cluttered and overwhelming and I despair of ever turning our too small house into a comfortable home, I think of Simon with his four bedrooms and two receptions. Every time I give up and close the holiday websites, knowing I just can’t afford to take us away during school vacations, I think of Simon, able to jet away with Astrid off-peak, whenever he wants. Every time I’m faced with Lily raging at me over school work, or being asked to take a bath, or refusing to get off her computer for a break, I think of Simon, who never has to bother with her behaviour. And so on, and so on. How do you heal when the very cornerstones of daily life are a trigger?

This might not be how I want life to look or feel, yet I have no idea of how to get from here to there. So many of us are in that same boat, trapped by financial circumstances that we have little chance of improving, certainly not when other factors are in play; children, disabilities, divorce, trauma, illness, family, lay-offs. If you have money, a solution is affordable for so many of the obstacles in life. If not, the obstacles seem insurmountable, blocking the path to earning the money that would ease the situation.

My friend texts me, she’s going to have to stay in for another 24 hours and needs me to bring more clothes. Here I am complaining about my life while a friend is fighting cancer. Another wake up call, but I’m getting angry at how it’s the good people who seem to suffer most. Prayer, Lottery ticket, a giant red button to just make things stop for a while; I don’t have the answers to how to make life better right now. I really wish I did. In the meantime; just keep breathing.

The Summer Manifesto

“What on earth is that?” my friend asked, staring at the corkboard in my kitchen. On it, a piece of paper covered with writing and drawings, proudly bearing the title Summer Manifesto.

“Oh, it’s just a list of things we’d like to do this summer,” I answered, suddenly embarrassed by her tone. Was this yet another thing that normal people didn’t do? And if so, how did they keep track of all the different activities on offer, places to go, films to watch, stuff to try out?

That was a few years ago, but the Summer Manifesto has now become a tradition for us. Everyone is encouraged to come up with ideas, on the understanding that these are suggestions, and we might not be able to do all of them- it’s critical to manage expectations when dealing with Aspergers. Suggestions range from going to a particular park to swimming in the lake, having a picnic to going on holiday. The unlikelihood of being able to afford a holiday makes our Manifesto even more important when it comes to making our summers special. It means on days when there’s nothing planned we’ve got a ready made list of suggestions. It also lets me know what the kids’ priorities are, rather than me setting up activities they’re not that interested in, and that sometimes their wishes are remarkably simple. Plus it gives me a chance to look in advance for Groupon offers for things we might not otherwise try.

I’m a firm believer that kids need downtime, so I don’t pack every hour of every day with non-stop activities. In fact it’s vital to build in Decompression Days after a big day out to prevent everyone getting overtired and overstimulated and generally hellish. The flip side of that is that it’s easy to let the school holidays slip away without really having done much. Having a manifesto means I can make sure we’ve got at least one activity or outing planned for each week, rather than realising we’re into the final few days of the holidays and need to cram it all in at the last minute. It makes it more likely that I’ll have thought about things in advance and therefore have time to invite a friend to join us. The main benefit is that by the end of the summer, we’ll have had a bundle of good experiences as a family which otherwise wouldn’t have happened. Given the nastiness of the divorce, I’m keen to pack as many positive experiences in as I can before the kids are grown in the hope of giving them at least some happy memories to look back on.

The Manifesto also lays out expectations around chores etc, making it clear that no electronic gadgets are to be used until chores have been done. When the kids were younger, the rule was they had to choose 2 out of 3 activities; something creative, something educational, or something helpful. Allowing them to make a choice made them feel more empowered, meaning it was more likely that they’d cooperate with what was basically an attempt to make sure that they didn’t spend all day every day watching TV or playing on the computer. This year, aged 13 and 15, I’m just laying down the law as to what needs doing around the house; if it doesn’t get done, the planned activity isn’t going to happen. I’d really like to encourage Lily to spend some time studying as she enters her final GCSE year – it’s unlikely that I’ll achieve this without a massive amount of conflict though.

So on Day One of the school holidays we sat down together to work on this year’s Manifesto, complete with a Pinterest inspiration board to back it up with. This year’s suggestions vary from make smoothies to have a campfire to fix up the bikes and go for a ride, all the way up to hold a festival in our garden. Allrighty then, I’ll see if I can get The Killers booked in for next Thursday, and maybe a Portaloo or two. Like I said, it’s an ideas list so everything is allowed but not everything will happen. Alongside it is a weekly planner sheet to write on the day’s activities and chores, plus any reminders about appointments etc. It’s what works for us, another example of how ADHD requires us to be more organised in a way that has other people describe us as OCD or anal or asking What on earth is that? Whatever. On the second day of the holidays we were running round shooting each other at Laser Tag, which wouldn’t have happened without the Manifesto. Next week it’s Tubing at the nearby ski centre, courtesy of Groupon. We all want to think of ourselves as spontaneous but it’s worth planning for fun; the sands of time will keep on trickling through the hourglass of our days regardless of whether or not we’ve planned for them. Let’s try and make sure that some of life sparkles on its way past.