On Friday I went awol. Absent without leave. Away. Not here. On strike. I was out of order.
I packed Daisy off to her dad’s as normal. No one suspected a thing. I spent all evening washing and drying her school uniform, packed her school bags and filled her lunch bag. I made sure everything was sorted before I left. I wrote an explanatory text to send the ex – I wanted him to know why I was doing this and that it wasn’t a decision I’d come to lightly.
We’d had a really tough week. Daisy had a meltdown every morning and a couple after school too. I was exhausted by 9am everyday.
I didn’t want to go to bed because I dreaded waking up.
I’ve asked the ex for help before. When I was struggling with fatigue and had broke down on my bcn. He said no because he was having her for the weekend 3 weeks later. That’d have to do, he said.
So this time I didn’t ask. I just took. I needed a break longer than the normal 24hrs. I went to a friends and I slept, watched tv, read and slept some more. I only got out of bed to make a cup of tea or get some food.
Apparently I was ‘f**king out of order’. Probably, yes. But I like to think that I was necessarily out of order. I felt guilty for leaving, like I’d neglected them.
But I needed to do it. For me. Selfishly.