hyper-guilt, Mumsnet, and lingering lockdown adrenaline
I have given up Mumsnet (not for the first time). I don’t know why, but I find myself scrolling there on sleepless nights, or in moments of deep anxiety. For a few moments, I can lose myself in other people’s relationship breakdowns. Their coping strategies for children transitioning from state to private school. Where to find white trainers that aren’t too popular. That sort of thing.
But my distaste for Mumsnet has been growing for some time, mostly down to their obsession with trans people and gatekeeping of feminism, but also because it’s just horrendously judgy. While there are some supportive posters, there are ruthless posters, too. Like weirdly, meticulously cruel.
During one recent bout of insomnia, I found myself scrolling through Mumsnet, thumbs navigating me there by habit rather than conscious choice. Within ten minutes, I’d read one thread calling all boys with long curly hair as pretentious, misbehaving little brats, and another suggesting that all girls with my daughters’ name are destined to fail their GCSEs. And I know it’s bollocks, but it’s hurtful bollocks, especially when you’re reading it in a state of total sleep deprivation.
Despite that, the next day, I found myself on Mumsnet again, reading a thread about the impact of lockdown on children. ‘My children thrived because I actually bothered to spend time with them,’ was the opinion of several posters. And while others argued back, those original posters were enough to tip me over the edge. I can’t unread this: I now know that these women exist. These women, who presumably were not trying to study and work from home while homeschooling one child and keeping another child happy. These women, who presumably did not have to escape for long walks along the river in the freezing cold just to cry. Those women, who presumably did not feel like they were falling into a black hole. They exist, and not only do they exist, but they believe that they love their children more than I love mine.
I do know this is all childish. I mean, it’s the internet, this is just how things are. But I’ve been mulling this over ever since then. I keep thinking about me, back in January 2021, desperately trying to hold things together and failing. In that moment, if I could have given up my job, and my degree, and my prospects for the future, I would have done it. Just to be a better mother. My kids had too much screen time, because I was working, or trying to homeschool. They didn’t go out enough, because there wasn’t enough time. I felt so alone. And so guilty.
Those women don’t love their children more than I love mine. I love my children more than I thought it was possible to love anything, ever. More than anything I want them to be successful and healthy and happy, and I felt I was failing them on all counts. I told them no, again and again. No, I can’t play right now. No, we can’t do baking. No, you can’t do your schoolwork later, this is the allocated time that we have, and there’s no choice. No, no, no. I felt that I was constantly telling them that I didn’t have time for them. Communicating to them that I would rather they were somewhere else. And I went to bed in tears often, desperately wanting to be better for them but not knowing how. Losing myself in small increments along the way.
Just over a year ago we came out of the last lockdown. I’m still grappling with the guilt. Every time I say no, I feel guilty. Every time I let my kids have five more minutes of screen time, I feel guilty. Every time I’m with them and I’m absent-mindedly thinking about my job instead of being fully present with them, I feel guilty. The other night I told my daughter I had to go to an online tutorial, so Daddy would be tucking her into bed, and she felt sad about that, and rather than thinking ‘She’ll be okay, I’ll give her extra time tomorrow evening’, I burst into tears, switched my microphone off and cried for most of the tutorial (and contributed, it has to be said, bugger all to the discussion).
I know I’m overreacting, but it’s like I’ve got myself stuck into a groove. I can’t lift myself out of it. I’m overthinking everything I did back then. Could I have done better? Been more cheerful? Worked later into the night? I pick it all apart. I wonder what the long-term consequences of lockdown will be for them. And I berate myself for not being better. For not stretching myself thinner. For not trying harder.
I was running on adrenaline then. I think some of it is still lingering in my body somewhere. I don’t like to talk about this very much because it feels so self-indulgent. In 2020, and way into 2021, every complaint about Covid (unless you were a doctor or a nurse or a teacher) felt self-indulgent. People were dying, you know? People are still dying. Speaking about the psychological impact the lockdowns have had on us, as a family, feels fundamentally selfish.
The fact is I’m still on edge. While I’m trying to relax, I still feel as though everything I know about life could flip upside down overnight. I still feel as though everything I do, when it comes to work and uni, has to be crammed into the smallest amount of time possible. Sometimes, when I sit down to work while the kids are at school, my heart starts to race like it used to back then. It’s like my brain still thinks I’m working on compressed time, like my nervous system thinks there’s a small child hanging around somewhere desperately needing love and attention from me.
Probably, at some point, I will need to work this through with someone. Talk it out. I need to start meditating, going for long walks, and learning to switch my brain out of ‘frantic stress mode’. I need to bump myself up the priority list a bit more. I keep wondering how many of us are out there. People still living on that leftover adrenaline. What would happen if we all got into a room together? Maybe we could do a therapeutic group scream or something.
Anyway, I’m definitely giving up Mumsnet. And I might grow my son’s hair even longer and wilder. Just, you know, to prove a point.
