Groundhog Day...

I've been trying to write a new paragraph for five long days and I still can't. I've set myself a goal to do this- to write this story at the rate of one thousand polished words a day. I know that might not sound like much to you- but to me it is, and it'll take me a good six months. I've got nothing much else to do anyway. I haven't had a job for many years now, not since my eldest son was still an embryo, so the writing of this story may as well become a part of my perpetual Groundhog Day. That can be the name of this story, while I think about it.

Over the years, as I've slowly become more isolated and introverted, I've noticed that every new day, is becoming exactly the same day as it was yesterday, as it shall be today. And that gets very fucking boring, very fucking quickly, let me tell you. I can pretty much tell you what's going to happen tomorrow and I'm not even psychic- at least I don't think I am- but this is what Tuesday, and every other day, has been like, give a few details, for what seems like- what has been- forever.

At ten past six, six or so hours after almost going to sleep, my almost Hubby will wiggle my foot and 'wake' me up. I say 'wake' because I have actually been awake for as long as he has been awake, as I am a light sleeper and he is very noisy. He comes in three or four times to get his socks and shoes, then his workpants, and then to give our son his bottle. He stirs his coffee loudly three times and taps the spoon twice against the edge of the mug. He shakes the whole bed while he ties his shoelaces.

Two and a half people share this bed most nights, so we are all grumpy from lack of sleep and twisted spines, and it's still dark and cold and no one wants to get out of bed yet. But I do, almost always non-complainingly, pulling on a jumper as I go past the cupboard that holds my sad box of clothes. I go into the kitchen, light a cigarette and have a drink of water while I sit on the bench smoking. He gets our little son ready- it is his trip after all- and I carry his lunch bag out, and we go up to the car.

I wipe down the misty windows with the sleeve of my jumper while they get into the car, then we drive off, me carefully navigating the slippery roads on bald tyres. We drive eight kilometers, hopefully getting all the green lights, drop Hubby off with kiss at work, light another smoke and drive home to the cold house. I am a housewife. I am married to the goddamn house. I rarely leave it. There's nowhere else to go, no one to do anything with and no money to do it with anyway. If I didn't have to drive everybody around all day I wouldn't leave the house voluntarily anymore at all. Except maybe to go to the pub. Or a party...

The trouble is, though, that I am socially inept. I am awkward in public. I do dumb things when I do go out and I don't know when to go home, especially after I've been drinking, which can turn me a little bit nasty- but I'll get to Hubby's and mine relationship later. I'm home all day with my three year old for company. It's not that he's bad company, either; I just won't have the energy to take him to the park today, like yesterday, like tomorrow. I know. I hear you wordlessly screaming at me to just do it- if you give a shit that is- just get up and go to the bloody park- but until it gets that easy I can't. If it were that simple I would. When I can face what's outside the door I will. Maybe.

Maybe, if I'm true to my word, I'll write this story again tomorrow and get my thousand polished words written. But maybe I'll sleep half the morning away, and I'll wake up to a mess on the floor or a poo in the potty. I'll probably get both. It's pretty lucky for me actually, that my little Son can entertain himself and doesn't have to rely on me for fun. He loves pushing all his little cars down the drain pipe and dragging everything he owns into the living room. He happily watches the same movie back to back while I snooze on and off. He likes playing his one string guitar while singing along with the Wiggles. I worry sometimes that I won't hear him choking on a piece of Lego while I'm dozing on the lounge in the daytime- but that only happens to other people's kids, right? I'm sometimes slack at getting his meals to him on time, too, or else he just helps himself to the junk food that I snack on when I am bored. Sometime's, everything's just too much bother.

It's easier to sleep the day away than to live it. I feel like a shitful mother most of the time. Lately, their father accuses me of being as much. I don't mean to be. I don't like being the un-fun one. But I can't play games with them sixteen hours a day either. I don't like going to the park everyday and I'm not one of those mother's who bakes cakes and things with her children. But at least I am still here. Even when I am shitty I stay, and I do all the things that everybody needs me to do for them. Eventually.

I don't think I ask for much. At least my name and the pub aren't synonomous like His are. I don't even know why I am so tired all the fucking time- it's not like I even do anything really; just the washing up and the laundry, and picking everyone up from school and work or the pub. Then I cook the evening meal- growling at anyone who dares enter the kitchen- and serve it to them with glasses of strong red cordial with three ice cubes each. The meals are much of a muchness. Meat and three vegetables, or meat with chips and salad; or a roast perhaps, or even Mexican or Italian when we are feeling a little creative. Sometimes I'll put mine in the fridge to get cold for later. I really love cold lasagna and cold roast potatoes- they have a different flavour after they've cooled down.

We don't speak much around the table anymore, either; it's like we haven't got anything real to say to each other anymore so instead we plead with the little one to sit down and stop chasing the cat and to eat more vegetables. The big one slinks off, after, to his room or to use the computer, and Me and my better half begin the daily ritual of arguing about which television show to watch for the next hour before he falls asleep. He hates the kinds of shows I like- game shows, reality shows and soap opera are an ideal way of zoning out, for me anyway- and the US documentary hype type shows that he likes don't interest me in the slightest. He'll talk my shows down, rubbishing the actors, the storylines and the viewers who watch them- Me- until I turn up the volume to block out his criticisms, which are light hearted only about half of the time. You see at my house I own the remote. It makes the most sense; after all I watch the most television. This is the one hour of time each day that he gives me his company- and it's usually spent bickering over the box.

Then Hubby falls asleep on the couch snoring and muttering. Eventually he gets up and takes the little one with him when he goes to big beddy and we all kiss each other good night. See; I told you that we loved each other. Then I get stoned, watch telly or use the computer. Then I get the munchies, have a binge and go to bed.

And that's my Groundhog Day- everyday.

There are a few variances- like sometimes on the weekend I'll get to sleep in all day and Mother won't ring me four times in three hours. Or sometimes the Grandparents will take the kids for the night and I can get out of the house for a while; but the only place I ever seem to want to go anymore is to the pub to get drunk. My Hubby called me an Alcohol Prostitute the other day, meaning I would do anything for alcohol. I don't know if he's right about that or not. Maybe I'd do anything for some company but I doubt I'd do everything for alcohol. At the time, when I'm drinking, I don't feel like I'm doing anything really wrong. What's so wrong with wanting to stay out and not feel like I am in a prison, to actually be talking to different people, people who aren't a part of my DNA? I'm certainly not planning on sleeping with Just Anyone if they will only buy me more alcohol to drink.

It's funny, really, because the only person I'm a slut for his Him. He's the only person that I spread for. I'm not the same person that I am when I am with him as I am when I am with other people. If that makes sense....

Why is is so wrong to feel lonely? Is it a crime to be ill? What have I actually done that is so bad? Haven't you ever craved a normal conversation? Doesn't he realise that I have no one to talk to? When you feel alone you want to be around other people-and even deadshits at the pub will do when there is no one else. Sometimes I'll have conversations with the butcher, or the mechanic, or even the chick at the service station, and they will be the only other person I will have talked to all day besides my kids. And they are great kids. But every adult needs to spend some time of the day with other adults. He has that at work and at the pub with his mates everyday.

I haven't spent any time with my supposed friends in months, partly because most of them have moved away for work; well, that's what they keep telling me on the rare occasions that we speak, but mostly it's because they can't be stuffed picking up the phone to call me. I feel a bit guilty saying this- but it hasn't even bothered me that much really. They only ring when they want to brag about something, or to whinge about someone, or when they feel guilty for avoiding me for ages. And avoid me they do- they don't pick up the phone for months, they all screen their calls, and when I leave messages for them they don't return them. You know- I thought friends were supposed to be there for you when you needed their support, and not only want to know you when they need you for something or they want something you have- like unlimited access to alcohol and pot and cigarettes. You'd be forgiven for thinking that they didn't even like me anymore, because that's the feeling I get all the time. That's how it's making me feel, at least.

When you mention all of this to them they say they still want you to call, that you're still their best friend and how much they love you, but they have just been really busy, and I think, well- busy I can understand, but I mustn't really mean that much to you if you can only be bothered to contact me once or twice a year. People move on I suppose; I know it can't be the same forever but I think I'm on the brink of having to acquire a whole new set of friends- mostly because my current ones can't be bothered in maintaining a simple friendship- and that won't be easy for me to do, given my current tendancy to want to stay at home all day by Myself. I suppose I'll eventually be one of those recluse's whose only friends live inside their computer.

It wouldn't have been so hard if they had just tried a bit harder, and it hurts that they don't give a shit but it also makes me sad. But then again, why should they want to be my friends anymore? I'm not a hell of a lot of fun to be around, in case you hadn't guessed, and keeping to myself, as I do, doesn't do a lot for my social life, either.

When one friend I had dumped me from her bridal party I thought at the time it was because I had gone and gotten myself pregnant- but I've since come to the conclusion it was because of the manic highs and depressive lows that I've been having with increasing frequency- she told me latter in a letter that I'm like watching a car crash. And I guess that gets a bit tedious after a while. I went to her wedding anyway- I was still invited at least, but somehow I made sure I didn't have a good time. I sulked and pouted and had everyone there asking me how I was. I was pretty rude actually. I couldn't help myself; I liked the attention, even though it should have been the bride's. See; I'm so self-absorbed that I believe that to be true, that I could possibly steal the bride's thunder on her wedding day- that people would be more interested in me and my problems. In actuality, I didn't steal anything from her. And at least she doesn't have to look at my ugly mug every time she looks through her wedding album.

I guess I really should get over it, and soon, seeing as it happened almost four years ago. The Psychologist Guy I was seeing a little while ago told me I liked trying to pull everyone into my 'hole' with me. I didn't disagree with him. No point really. Well, I figure I may as well try to take someone else down with me. It's mighty lonely where I am.

I don't even know why I feel this way because there's no real reason why I should be sad, but I'm the sort of person who is actually happier sitting in the middle of a crying session at a party than I am dancing at one. There is nothing to be said for being melancholy constantly except that it sometimes inspires the sublime. I pay the price every day. I haven't cracked a real smile in months and when I happen to see my attempts in the mirror it disturbs me to see how cynical and remote-looking I've become. Or maybe it's just because I'm too ashamed to smile anymore.

I didn't want to end up this way you know. It sort of just happened to me. But I don't think things can change anymore. This is forever now.