Years ago I had a nightmare I've never forgotten. It's been like chewing gum on the sole, and it went like this...
I walked into the laundry room, and looked right, out of the window. As I did so, the laser lights of 21 guns lit up, picked me out and shot me. The window glass shattered, I felt my mouth fill with blood and my knees weaken. I knew life was over and that these paratroopers would storm the building in moments, and that, in my crumpling state, I'd never be able to fulfill my motherly duties and get up the stairs and herd the children to safety. So, I died, on the laundry room floor and they would too, in their beds. I woke up choking. You can imagine the internal carnage.
Today I had another one. But strangely and horribly, I was awake. In short, Darling went out on a 40 minute max trip to collect Girl 12 and didn't come back for 3 hours. I imagined the worst, went outside, had a smoke, looked at the snowdrops, imagined the woman cop walking down the garden path, planned the funeral, chose the flowers and hymns. I looked at the roast chicken, bread sauce and stuffing and felt very sick and wondered why I'd cooked it, and what would happen to it next. I wondered what I'd do with the house I've never loved. I hoped Girl 12's black coat had survived the impact from the cracked out fucker that had crashed into them and taken their lives, and wondered what happened to him, and if her coat would be do for Girl 13 at the funeral, next Friday. And then I wondered if I'd missed the bit where darling had said 'I'll pick her up and take her out for lunch, see you later'. But then I remembered, he'd watched me prepare it all... so that didn't add up.
But then Darling rang and apologised. He'd had coffee with David and Natascha. And I did well not to rip his head off.
If that tells you something about how close to the edge I am, maybe it will explain a thing or two. It doesn't help me one bit.