Oh, what a day. What an absolutely miserable, agonizing day. I thought things were going to be okay, you know? I actually thought, for once, that I could enjoy a Saturday out, that maybe, just maybe, I could escape the creeping anxieties and suffocating dread that usually come with the weekends. But no. Oh no, I should have known better. I should have known that the universe, in all its cruel ways, would conspire against me, and leave me in tatters by the end of it.
The day started off deceptively well. We went to the car boot sale. A bit of rummaging, a bit of bargaining—nothing too strenuous. I even found a few bits and pieces that made me smile, which, let’s be honest, is a rare occurrence these days. Then, we took a drive to see the oil rigs. There’s something about those giants, standing so tall and defiant against the horizon, that always makes me feel… I don’t know, small in a good way. Like my problems are just a speck in the grand scheme of things.
But then, oh then, we made the grave mistake of heading to the Adventure Caff. Why, oh why, did I think that would be a good idea? The minute we pulled into the car park, I should have known. The kids, the screaming, chaotic kids, were everywhere! It was like a nightmare unfolding in broad daylight. How does one even begin to enjoy food when all you can hear is the shrill laughter and cries of children? My nerves were already fraying, but I tried to keep it together. I really did.
Next, we went into town to get a cake for Mum. Of course, the universe wasn’t done with me yet. More kids. Why were there so many kids? Was there some kind of hidden festival that I wasn’t aware of? Every corner we turned, there they were, like tiny, shrieking demons sent to torment me. But I kept my mouth shut, biting my tongue, forcing a smile, trying not to let the growing storm inside me spill over. Just get through it, I told myself. Just get through this one last thing.
But then came the final straw—the post office. It was supposed to be a simple task. Post a letter. That’s it. But something inside me snapped. Maybe it was the noise, maybe it was the stress of trying to hold everything in all day, or maybe, just maybe, it was the unrelenting presence of my support worker, watching me like a hawk, waiting for me to slip up.
And slip up I did. I lost it. I lashed out, my words sharper than I intended, my tone far too harsh. The look on my support worker's face—disappointment mixed with that infuriating calm they always manage to keep—was like a dagger to my heart. And then came the talking to. Oh, the talking to. Like a child being scolded, I stood there, nodding, pretending to listen while my insides churned with a mixture of guilt and resentment.
Why does it always have to be this way? Why does my support worker have to be so... so unyielding, so insistent that we go out on weekends? They know what the weekends are like for me, they know how I struggle, and yet they push and push, as if they’re testing me, waiting for me to break. It’s almost as if they take some twisted pleasure in watching me squirm, in watching me try and fail to keep it together.
But I won’t let them get the best of me. Oh no, this isn’t over. Tuesday. Yes, Tuesday will be different. They think they’re so clever, so in control, but they have no idea what’s coming. I’ll make sure they regret today. I’ll plan something so perfectly executed that they won’t know what hit them. Revenge, sweet, sweet revenge is what they’ll get.
Just wait. I’m done being the one who snaps. It’s their turn now.
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