Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
I did a runner. Not so much running, rather a slow, sad walk down the hallway. Creeping on the balls of my feet, floorboards threatening to creak below. Past the front bedroom. Past that place where my two little ones sleep. These sisters who delight and wear me down to nothing. Who make my heart ache and break and sing. Heaven help me should anything happen to them. There’s the anxiety creeping up on me again. Like an old acquaintance, familiar but unwelcome. It’s checking in, always checking in. I reach the front door. Ever so slowly I turn the handle, terrified of waking them and having to be their parent in this moment.
I’m out. The air is hot and heavy, but a cooling breeze is trying to push its way through. It’s the end of a heatwave and I’m spent. Barely surviving, my head is a jumble of dark thoughts and confusion. These girls, these little girls who now sleep so soundly in their beds have pushed me to the edge. They have no idea. The guilt weighs me down. I’m now catastrophising and it feels overwhelming. Keep walking, just keep walking. I quicken the pace and reach the corner of my street. Just keep moving. Let my legs find a steady pace, desperate for something to feel steady and grounded and in control.
I contemplate if anyone has noticed my absence. Do they know I’m on the run? Has my partner, my dear man, even noticed? Have the girls awoken, called out for their mama? Probably not. I feel invisible and start to question if I even exist. Fuck. These kind of thoughts are a bad sign. The anxiety has returned, and has been threatening to return for a little while now. The sadness. The shame.
I continue on down Lygon Street. It’s not only my thoughts clouding my head, it’s the sensory overload. The bright lights of traffic. The ding of the number eight tram. People streaming in and out of restaurants, enjoying their Friday night. I suddenly feel self-conscious and cold in my summer kaftan and pyjama pants. Another sign my marbles are slowly rolling away: I’m walking down a busy street wearing pyjama pants. Paranoia seeps in and I know I need to stop and sit and rest. I suddenly need to be invisible, an observer on the edges. There’s safety in that.
As I sit on a park bench at the corner of a busy intersection I watch the busyness and the normality of people coming and going. They walk in small groups. They laugh and share company, seemingly free of worry and responsibility. I begin to wonder if anyone else feels this sadness and despair and darkness. I know they must, but like me, find a way to mask the pain. As the temperature drops and darkness descends I know I need to return home. What other choice do I have? Keep running, literally? No, I’ve got to get my shit together.
On the walk home I try to cobble together my thoughts, the constructive ones. I should know how to figure this stuff out, I’ve been here before. I resolve to be kinder to myself, to ask for help, and get some balance back in my life. I’m telling myself all the right things, but know it’s easier said than done.
I reach home and quietly wander back in. The girls have not awoken. I feel tired and sad and foolish. I could sleep for days but know that it will be another night of broken sleep, and feeding, and an early start. I give myself permission to just lie down and rest and let the feelings wash over me. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow I will figure it out.