It’s been one whole day. One whole day without flicking my phone screen, scrolling down and looking for a number to notify me of the amount of Facebook interactions that might be awaiting my attention.
It has been made easier by the fact I have just worked a twelve hour shift where my fingers have been needed elsewhere; expertly removing six months worth of detritus that had calcified in periodic layers like the sediment of an oceanic lake. Had I not been gum gardening, my fingers may have been twitching desperately over the Login icon.
It has come to represent the ticking clock to an insomniac. The sleeping husband to a mentally unhinged
new mother. The chocolate profiterole mountain to a gastric band recipient. For me, presently, it is like a window looking out on all the fun the world is having whilst I’m stuck in my bedroom, grounded.
When I couldn’t conceive, I wanted tell to every pregnant patient that walked into my surgery to fuck right off. When I miscarried, I wanted to whole world to eat shit and die. When I had PND and mothers were telling me how great motherhood was and how much they loved it, I wanted to scratch “you’re a complete wanker” into the side of their car. I’m just not that good at being happy for people when I’m feeling utterly miserable.
It’s not really Facebook’s fault that everyone only posts the best parts about their lives and not the drudgery and despair (some people do but they get blocked almost immediately – who wants to read their boring whiny pissy pants statuses?). It’s no-one’s fault either that my spectrum child, my spesh little boy, has a universe the size of a pea and that I have to squeeze in their with him.
So I’ve switched off from the torment of family holidays, road trips, laughter and happiness because most of these people are my friends and family, all of whom I love dearly and I really don’t want to start vandalising their property just because I’m a bit bitter and twisted. I’ll just hunker down, ride out the storm and wait for my boy to feel ready to join the world again and I’ll be there with him, holding his hand, not sporting a criminal record.