The Day of Reckoning

It's late. 

By which I mean it's 9.27pm, and I am a single mother of three children, so I'm absolutely flayed with exhaustion by this time of day. 

Today, especially, has been a day of reckoning with what is, what was and what will come to be. So there's also wine, and a pack of fake wotsits too. A girl's got needs. 

I'm blogging again, because, why the fuck not. I've decided that the last time life was quite this much of a shit-show blogging brought me a whole lot of joy and a little bit of self-awareness too, so I'm going to start over. The Bear Hunt is my little home on the internet where I get to just be myself, plus... 

I still can't get over it, I still can't go under it, all this fuckery is shit I've just got to get through. So The Bear Hunt remains my personal metaphor for life as a single Mum. 

And shit is getting REAL again. 

Today I applied for an IVA. I may or may not be able to get it, because despite being buried in debt repayments I cannot meet month after month, I'm actually successfully 'servicing the debt' (paying off the interest) and I only have two maxed out credit cards, not three, and I've not defaulted on my rent yet, so on paper I look like I'm managing. 

Only I'm not. Really badly not. 

2020 has been a fucker of a year. It opened with a doubly broken arm (wrist and elbow), moved swiftly into a forced eviction, followed hot on the heels by the death of my oldest friend of stage 4 cancer. Six days after her funeral I contracted Covid-19 and embarked upon a life changing period of illness, in isolation. Emotionally, I'm not sure I've actually recovered yet, 9 months down the line. 

I self-isolated with my three boys for 42 days straight, managing my own Covid symptoms, secondary infections in my chest, ears, urine tract. Ultimately developing neuropathic pain in my entire thoracic area (chest and back, ribs and neck) which remains to this day. 

My youngest, then two, suffered Covid, then croup, was given oral steroids, a blue inhaler to try and settle him down, but four months down the line went on to develop full juvenile asthma.  

My older boys didn't get so sick, but my 10yo still suffered post viral fatigue for a few months. We all suffered horribly with cabin fever. I cried, shouted, swore and stomped about some days. Others I took them on bucolic walks to play and climb trees, attempted to home educate and cooked soups from scratch. They were amazingly helpful, learned to cook, wash up and supervise their toddler brother sometimes. They also drew on the walls, hollered at the neighbours out the windows and climbed the tree and played in our garden, butt naked screamingly fun water fights, lazy lego afternoons. And a LOT of screen time. Obviously.  

Our lockdown wasn't as bad as some people had it, but I'm not going to lie, this year has been a kick in the teeth on lots of levels. I've never felt as lonely as I have this year. Nor have I felt as loved, looked after and appreciated in a strange way. 

So I count my blessings. I've got three beautiful boys, they are so loving, kind and generous. But they are obviously also total shits at times, because: children. 

Our reality today is that none of my kids see their Dads more than a couple of nights a fortnight and the odd holiday week, so more than 80% of the time (and often more) we are little gang of four. Muddling on, messing up, making up, making do, making it through. 

I remind myself to go gently on myself. They are raising me as a Mum just as much as I am raising them. 

Tonight I needed the glass of wine, and the rubbish wotsits, and a place to make a space for my own heavy thoughts. Because I still have days where I feel like I've really fucked up, and it's a lonely place to be. 

In reality, I know I haven't actually fucked anything up. If anything, I've picked up the pieces of a bloody ridiculous year (and insanely tough decade) and made something pretty ok out of it all. But tonight I just need to name my reality and see it written down. 

I've got chronic fatigue, occipital and intercostal neuralgia, as a result of post-covid syndrome. I can no longer manage to hold down the two jobs I've been working for the past two years, so I can't continue to pay all my bills and work towards paying off my debt too. The debt is the result of trying to hang on to a failing relationship with my youngest kiddos Dad, who made (and still makes) fuck all financial contribution. It's nursery fees, it's birthday presents. It's debt from my business, which I've not been able to focus on properly in the past couple of years really, because: babies, and Covid. 

And grief. 

I'm fucking tired. Like, so, so fucking tired. 

So, today was the reckoning. 

The debt plan is applied for. 

My resignation letter for the second job is penned (pending debt relief being approved) 

I'm pulling my three year old out of the nursery I can't afford, to put him into pre-school instead 9-3. 

I'm letting it all fall down. 

I'm trying to trust that I'll be able to get back up again, once I just let myself let the weight of it all go. 

Because honestly, this is finally, far too heavy for me to carry all the time.