**Diary Entry**
I’m 53, and my mum is 80. I wanted to share this because maybe someone out there feels the same. Or perhaps someone has advice. I’m not after pity—I’m just exhausted. Trapped in a life I can’t escape.
I still work, and retirement feels miles away. Mum lives with me. She’s not bedridden or helpless—far from it. She manages fine: washes herself, cooks, even pops to the shops or takes a stroll in the park. But somehow, she drains me. Like she’s plugged into my energy, sucking me dry.
By evening, I’m knackered. I slump beside her with a cuppa, listening as she recounts her day. All I want is to shut myself in my room, switch on the telly, and sink into sleep.
But no. Mum expects conversation. Not just chatter—lectures. As if I’m still a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl.
*”If you’d listened to me and married Jeremy instead of that no-good bloke of yours,”* she’ll say, over and over. *”You’d be happy now, with kids, a proper life. Not alone and useless. At least you’ve got me. Be grateful. Look after me.”*
No children. My husband… well, he left. Or more accurately, I think he just couldn’t take it. We married, moved in together. Then, a month after Mum came to live with us, he filed for divorce. Can’t blame him. To her, renting a flat when we had a perfectly good three-bedroom house was pure madness.
So here we are. Separate bedrooms, but shared kitchen, shared living room. Shared tension.
Every move I make is scrutinised. Every single one.
*”Why are you home so late?”*
*”What’s the point of buying that rubbish? Waste of money.”*
*”Why didn’t you wash my things? Change the sheets?”*
*”You forgot to feed Toby again.”*
Never a *”thank you,”* never *”well done,”* never *”you look lovely today”* or *”take a rest.”* Just complaints. From dawn till dusk. Day after day.
I can’t move out. My salary’s a joke—nowhere near enough for my own place. Even if I found a cheap bedsit, guilt would stop me. What if something happened to Mum while I was gone?
But truthfully? Sometimes I think I’ll lose my mind. Yes, it sounds awful. Yes, she’s my mother. I’m grateful for her, for my life. But some days, I just want to vanish. Even for a weekend. No criticism, no nagging, no one picking apart my every choice.
I’m tired. Lonely, despite the company. Stuck in a trap I can’t escape, body or soul.
Where’s the line between duty and self-destruction?
Do I have the right to feel this way?
I don’t know. I just know I can’t go on like this.
