SOMEONE HAS BROKEN INTO MY HOUSE, SHRUNK MY JEANS AND IS GASLIGHTING ME. I SUSPECT IT MIGHT BE ME. 🚨
🚨
I’VE HAD A STROKE, MY ADHD HAS GONE HYDRO-FUCKING-STATIC, AND SOME BASTARD HAS BROKEN INTO MY HOUSE! 🚨
need to report a crime.
Unfortunately, I can’t.
BECAUSE I CAN’T GET FUCKING DRESSED. 😂
Let me explain.
I’ve had a stroke, and I’m fairly certain somebody has broken into my house and systematically fucked with my entire life.
First, they’ve shrunk all my fucking jeans.
EVERY SINGLE PAIR.
Then they’ve hidden half my clothes.
WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY?
I’ve looked in cupboards, drawers, laundry baskets and places where clothes have absolutely no business being.
I’ve found things I haven’t seen since 1997, but I can’t find the fucking top I was holding thirty seconds ago.
I’m beginning to suspect the burglar is still living in the house and moving things around when I’m not looking.
But WAIT. IT GETS WORSE.
When I finally find a pair of jeans, somebody has apparently replaced the buttons with some sort of experimental military technology.
I’ve had a stroke, and I’ve only got one properly working hand.
ONE.
And I’m trying to fasten a button that appears to have been trained by the fucking SAS.
I line it up.
I try to fasten it.
THE FUCKING THING MOVES.
I TRY AGAIN.
IT FUCKING MOVES AGAIN!
WHAT IS THIS? A BUTTON OR A TINY DENIM-CLAD ESCAPE ARTIST?
I’m standing in my bedroom wrestling with my trousers, and the trousers are WINNING.
I’ve been trying to get dressed for twenty minutes, and I’ve achieved absolutely fuck all.
And then, just when I think things can’t get any worse, I find a clean top.
HOORAY!
THERE MAY BE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE FUCKING TUNNEL!
I pick it up.
I sniff it.
OH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE.
THAT SMELL.
That horrible, stale, damp washing smell.
You know the one.
The smell of clothes that haven’t dried properly and now smell like a wet badger that’s been locked in a shed with a bag of old potatoes.
I CAN’T WEAR THAT!
So I throw the bastard thing straight back into the laundry basket in utter disgust.
AND NOW I’M BACK TO SQUARE ONE.
No clean top.
No trousers I can fasten.
No idea where the rest of my clothes are.
AND STILL NO FUCKING POLICE REPORT.
But hang on a minute.
WHO SHRUNK MY JEANS?
WHO HID MY CLOTHES?
WHO REPLACED MY BUTTONS?
AND WHO THE FUCK DID THE WASHING WITHOUT DRYING IT PROPERLY?
IT’S THE SAME BASTARD!
It’s all connected!
The burglar has been living a double life!
By day, he’s a clothes-shrinking, button-replacing menace.
By night, he’s a laundry saboteur, deliberately leaving everything damp enough to develop its own ecosystem.
THIS IS ORGANISED CRIME.
ORGANISED DENIM AND LAUNDRY CRIME.
And the genius of this operation is that the victim can’t even get dressed to report it.
THE PERFECT FUCKING CRIME!
Meanwhile, I’m getting increasingly angry with myself because I can’t find anything.
I put something down.
Turn around.
GONE.
I KNOW I JUST HAD IT!
So I start looking.
And looking.
And FUCKING LOOKING.
I’m moving things around to find things I’ve misplaced while looking for other things I’ve misplaced.
I’ve now forgotten what the original thing was because I’ve found three other things I lost last week.
And then the people I live with start getting annoyed.
“Oh God, what are you looking for now?”
“What have you lost this time?”
I DON’T FUCKING KNOW, DO I?
IF I KNEW WHERE IT WAS, I WOULDN’T BE CONDUCTING A FULL-SCALE FORENSIC INVESTIGATION OF MY OWN FUCKING HOUSE!
Now I’m angry.
They’re angry.
I’m getting more flustered because they’re angry.
And the more flustered I get, the harder it is to think clearly enough to find the bastard thing.
ROUND AND ROUND WE FUCKING GO.
It’s a self-perpetuating cycle of frustration, anger and missing objects.
And then I start gaslighting myself.
Did I put it there?
Did I move it?
Did I imagine the whole fucking thing?
AM I LOSING MY MIND?
Three hours later, I find the bastard thing in the last place I’d ever think to look.
And for one glorious moment, I feel vindicated.
THERE! I KNEW I WASN’T COMPLETELY FUCKING MAD!
Except I’ve already spent three hours telling myself I’m an idiot.
THE BURGLAR DOESN’T EVEN NEED TO GASLIGHT ME. I’M DOING HIS FUCKING JOB FOR HIM.
And now I’ve had another thought.
Can you report yourself to the police for gaslighting yourself?
Because I’m beginning to suspect that another persona has broken into my house.
Someone who looks exactly like me.
Someone who knows where I keep everything.
Someone who moves my belongings when I’m not looking, shrinks my jeans, hides my clothes and leaves my washing damp.
And then disappears without a trace.
WHO THE FUCK IS THIS PERSON?
AND WHY ARE THEY LIVING MY LIFE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION?
I NEED TO REPORT THIS.
BUT I CAN’T.
BECAUSE I CAN’T FIND MY PHONE.
AND I CAN’T FIND MY GLASSES.
AND I CAN’T FIND MY FUCKING TROUSERS.
So I imagine the conversation with the police.
POLICE: What’s the nature of your complaint?
ME: I’VE BEEN BURGLED!
POLICE: What’s been stolen?
ME: I DON’T FUCKING KNOW! EVERYTHING’S BEEN MOVED!
POLICE: Do you have a suspect?
ME: YES! ME!
POLICE: YOU?
ME: WELL, SOMEONE WHO LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE ME HAS BEEN MOVING MY FUCKING BELONGINGS AND GASLIGHTING ME INTO THINKING I’M LOSING MY MIND!
POLICE: Can you describe the suspect?
ME: NO, YOU ABSOLUTE MUPPET! I’VE GOT ENOUGH TROUBLE REMEMBERING WHERE I’VE PUT MY GLASSES!
POLICE: Can you come down to the station and make a statement?
ME: I’VE JUST FUCKING TOLD YOU! I CAN’T GET DRESSED!
And that’s when it dawns on me.
I’M THE VICTIM, THE SUSPECT, THE DETECTIVE AND THE WITNESS.
I’m investigating a crime that I may or may not have committed, while gaslighting myself into thinking I’m losing my mind, wearing one sock, holding a damp T-shirt and wrestling with a pair of jeans that no longer fit.
THE BURGLAR HAS GOT AWAY WITH IT.
BECAUSE THE VICTIM CAN’T GET DRESSED.
THE DETECTIVE CAN’T FIND HER NOTEBOOK.
THE SUSPECT HAS NO ALIBI.
AND THE WITNESS HAS FORGOTTEN WHAT THE FUCK SHE WITNESSED.
😂😂😂
CASE CLOSED.
BECAUSE NOBODY CAN FIND THE FUCKING CASE FILE.
Seriously, though: this is my attempt to find some humour in the frustration of everyday life after a stroke. Sometimes the only thing you can do is laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all.