A Rather Interesting Weekend

As the title suggests, I had a 'rather interesting' weekend. That's not a euphemism for absolutely terrible - there were some good parts in between, but I spent about 40% of the time in tears.

I suppose I should start with Saturday - the good day, up until the evening. I painted the usual smile on my face as I entered my work place. However, it was soon wiped clean off when I found out that we had to make approximately £1000 by the end of the day. Normally I'd estimate that we earn about £500-700, depending on how busy it is. So it was definitely going to be a challenge - and I didn't want to find out what would happen if we failed.

I learned some things about myself that day. I'm actually a pretty good salesperson. I can talk convincingly if and when I have to. That's not another euphemism for lying or being overly-persuasive - you can't exactly lie when it comes to selling meds; that goes against every moral I have, and I'm pretty sure most people have. Things just... seemed to go right though. That guy who came in to buy the Voltarol, of course, wanted the biggest pack size. The lady who came to buy nail polish remover, of course, would love to have some cotton wall with that thank you. It kind of amazed me. I actually started to enjoy myself by the end of the day. I never thought I'd say that; at 16 work is work, it's meant to give you aspirations to get a better-paid job where you sit at a desk sending emails all day trying to figure out what it is you do, rather than settle for shop work. It's also meant to teach you how to motivate yourself through your most probably middle-class, depressing life. You're not supposed to enjoy it. But somehow, the challenge of having to raise £1000 by the end of the day actually was. Apprentice here I come...

The 'interesting' side to the weekend began late Saturday night. Weary and having changed into the usual afterwork attire of leggings and hoodies I lay, half asleep on my bed, watching an episode of Supernaural. Suddenly out of nowhere, I heard a strange furious murmur begin outside my door. I recognised that mumur - the sharpness of the syllables just said it all. Giving Dean and Sam Winchester a wistful look, I headed over to my door, stumbling right into my step-dad and a full-scale bitch about me. Turned out I'd apparently shut my cat Lilli in the bathroom. By accident. But apparently this was a mistake that shouldn't have happened. Apparently I need to "wake the 'fuck' up if I'm going to get anywhere in life" and I need to "start giving a shit." Keep in mind that this is an argument succeeding about a million others. And a million other things that I really hate, such as him glaring at me like I'm shit on the carpet whenever I get home from college. I ended up screaming at him to 'shut up, shut up' but he wouldn't stop, but I couldn't stop screaming, so I ended up slamming the door in his face and snapping the light off. And then collapsing to the floor crying my eyes out. And nobody came to check on me all night - not my mum, no one. Which sounds self-centered, but I wasn't exactly crying quietly. I started talking to a friend from my old school about what it was like to have a father figure, because my step-dad and I have never exactly had the most wonderful relationship. I ended up crying more and falling asleep on the floor in the fetal position. I wake up at 3am plagued by nightmares so strong I'm paralysed. But just when I thought I was going to go mad, all my friends' faces began to swim in front of my vision. Not physically of course - in the dream playing in my head. As mercilessly as my stepdad's bitching. But my friends helped me. They fought away the dreams. And so I won against the torture of my own mind.

Next day I woke feeling a little more okay. I cried again recounting to one of my best friends what happened, and then I lay in bed a bit moping. After that I put on my brave face and went downstairs and tried to pretend everything was totally normal. I ate lunch. Went back upstairs. Got changed and then went straight out for a run. I ran a whole three miles, trying to push away all the awful memories, focusing on my breathing, the music I was listening to. I felt better when I got back, and dropped off dreamlessly that night.

So yeah, that was my rather interesting weekend. Exercise definitely helps me regain control over my mind - I'm going to have to do it more often, I think ^^ I'm out every night this week too, so hopefully that'll help me avoid my step-dad.
Rach