A new low

This evening I spent an hour and a half in Minor Injuries getting patched up from my own self-inflicted wounds. I had to leave my husband to put the kids to bed while I had, I don’t know, 50 odd steri-strips applied to hold my cuts together.

I was terrified, walking in there. So bloody scared. I feared a telling-off of the sort I get from my husband. But I didn’t get it. I got genuine compassion and care and understanding.

I know this has got to stop. I know that the point at which I need hospital treatment for my cuts is the point where I have gone too far.

Even without that, my eight-year-old son has started asking why I always wear a long-sleeved top in the swimming pool. ‘I don’t want to get sunburnt,’ I say. ‘You and Katie wear sun suits; this is mine.’ But he doesn’t buy it. I have never worn one before.

I hate this.

I hate that I am not the friend I should be.

I hate that I am not the mum I should be.

The wife I should be.

I hate the way self-doubt colours every piece of work that I do.

I hate my shoutiness. My low moods. My fake happy-because-that’s-how-I’m-meant-to-be.

I thought I had been to the bottom of the pit and climbed out.

I was wrong. I still have a huge ascent in front of me.

And as time passes, I lose faith. Am I ever going to be okay again? Will I ever be normal and light and carefree and that elusive happy?

The worst of it is that the people I really want to know, the people I really want to love me and tell me that I will get through this, are the people that I have to hide it all from.

I need to stop this decline. The nurse’s warning – ‘You were not far from an artery there’ – scared me to death. Even a rubbish mum has to be better than no mum, doesn’t it?

I just feel so lost.

Lonely

Oh, this is all so hard.

Summer holidays are lonely. Despite having constant company in the form of the children.

I am really not feeling very well in my head. I know it’s because I have too many balls in the air and am afraid of dropping them. But still.

I desperately need to sit down and talk to someone about everything that is tangled up in my mind.

But there is no one.

I have used up everyone’s time and energy. People are getting frustrated with me, I know.

And my solution to not having an outlet is to use an outlet that is not just unhealthy but damned stupid.

In two weeks I want to lie on a beach and swim in the pool with my children. Why don’t I think of that when I’m in self-destruct mode?

I don’t even have counselling to fall back on any more. That is all done. I’m supposed to be fixed now.

It feels completely overwhelming to have all this churning around inside me and not a single person who I can talk to.

Just a hug would go such a long way right now.

Summer hols and losing the plot

It’s kind of sobering when someone points out that actually, your child is not the he-devil you portray him as, but is actually suffering from an acute case of stressed-out-mother-neglect. Even more sobering when it’s true.

This is how things are at the moment.

I am insanely busy with work.

I have no childcare.

I have two children on school holidays who are incapable of being left unsupervised unless it’s in front of the TV.

I have a severe case of guilt about how much TV is being watched.

I find myself trying to fill up their days with fun stuff – cinema, river paddling, swimming, park – because I feel guilty.

Then it gets to 6pm and I feel guilty about the work I have neglected. I throw myself headlong into it, and then feel guilty about saddling Ian with bathtime/cooking/washing up when he has been working all day.

I keep ploughing on. Tom comes downstairs again and again and again. I ask him nicely to go away because I’m working. I ask him forcefully. I shout at him and throw in a swearword or two. The guilt multiplies.

Tom finally goes to bed. Not to sleep, but that is a battle I can’t be bothered to fight just now. I carry on working. I reach my limit; my eyes are tired, my brain is tired. I decide to go for a bath, or read a bit in the garden.

I feel guilty that I’m not using that time to work, or if not to work, to sort out the bombsite that is our house.

The guilt makes me do silly things that I regret as soon as I’ve done them.

Before the holidays, I felt like I was just beginning to get a hold of myself again, to accept that I am human with human limits, to cut myself a bit of slack.

Now I feel like I am getting everything so badly wrong.

Twelve years

On some days, you should just not be miserable.

Your wedding anniversary – assuming you’re still married – is one of them.

Especially when you’ve had a lovely day, on paper. A long lie-in. Getting up to find that Ian had hung out the washing without being asked. Flowers and a card. Then, after Tom’s drama exam, Hyde Park and picnic and Serpentine and takeaway and actual proper champagne.

But miserable I have been.

Tearful, edgy, snappy with the kids, snappy with Ian.

Why? I don’t know.

Tiredness.

The pressure of having to have a good day.

Emotional hangover from yesterday.

Me being me.

Twelve years of marriage and I fear for it every day, thanks to my mental state.

This is not what he signed up for, despite the sickness and health bit. I am not what I was when we got married. I know that. I know how draining and frustrating it must be to live with me.

He came over to sit with me on the sofa half an hour ago, and I snapped at him to go away. ‘Stop suffocating me. Your programme finishes and suddenly you’re all over me.’

It’s our anniversary. Of course he’s all over me. Twelve years ago, just about now, he was taking my hairpins out of my wedding ‘do one by one. There were over 50.

What is the matter with me?

On being mad at me

Why does a low have to follow a high?

Today was mostly good, but it’s the bad bits that stick in my mind. We were at a get-together at the home of a friend with a pool. ‘We’ve had complaints about your son. He’s spitting water at the girls. Can you do something?’

It made me feel absolutely awful.

Awful that my son was the only one misbehaving in this way. Awful that I am such a bad parent that he thought it was an okay way to behave. Awful that I didn’t even notice he was being naughty and had to be summoned to tell him off.

We had to leave early because Tom has his drama exam tomorrow. I am certain they are all there discussing me now, my crap parenting, my wilful child, my arrogant swanning off while the party was in full flow.

Here’s the truth.

I am a crap parent.

My son is naughty because of me.

I didn’t leave early because of Tom’s exam, but because my husband made me because of Tom’s exam. If it were up to me, we’d have stayed another hour or two. I don’t even care enough about Tom’s exam to make sure he gets an early night without my pseudo parent watching over me.

I am mad at myself tonight, but also so so sad. I really don’t do well at this parenting lark. Neither do I do well at this friendship lark.

Given that I gave up real work to do the parenting thing, I should do it well. But I just don’t. I am not a natural housewife or a natural mother. The only thing that feels natural is writing. I have no problem putting the words I cannot say on the page. I adore the written word, the power and complexities of it. I adore mastering words, organising them in such a way that I come alive on the page, or that the person who I’m interviewing comes alive. But my way of writing doesn’t earn a living. Instead, I do the boring, the mundane, the social media, the marketing, because these things earn a living.

Failing at work. Failing at motherhood. Absolutely 100 per cent failing at wifedom.

Is there anything I can do right?

This weirdness

I’m helping at church summer club this week, and I am loving it. Singing, bouncing around, cheering on my group of Year 1s, high-fiving them, passing out sweets.

This is my fifth year of Hotshots and I have never before loved it so much.

It’s partly because I have my best two girls in my group. I have known them since they were babies and I love them almost like my own children. And having them in my group warms me to the rest of them, because I feel all happy and bouncy and welcoming.

It’s partly because it could be the last one. We are blessed, in our church, with a vicar and wife who put together an amazing package of children’s work. David writes fantastic children’s songs and packages them up for Hotshots in a really entertaining and accessible way. Clare, his wife, marshals everything so it runs smoothly. I think every single member of the Hotshots team has been told off by Clare at some point, but rightly so – Clare has it down to a tee.

I sort of don’t want to make this all about me, but this is my blog. I have OWNERSHIP *dah dah dahhhhhh* of this space. So, I will say it.

When I signed up – actually, I’m not sure I signed up; I think it was assumed, and I concurred.

When I signed up, I was having enough trouble getting myself out of bed.

When I signed up, I was trapped in a hideous depressive cycle.

When I signed up, I was really quite fond of knives and razor blades.

When I signed up – – I just can’t say it.

Now, I’m doing okay. I am loving Hotshots.I have amazing friends.

I am so content in the Lord and in my friends in the Lord.

I am so blessed.

My own stupidity

We’re in the middle of a heatwave, and I’m wearing a cardigan.

When I started cutting, I was so careful to keep it to a small area that could easily be concealed by a short-sleeved dress or top. I remember reading something online about self-harm that said that it always escalates, always goes further and deeper, and thinking, ‘No, not me, I’m in control of this.’

Ha.

Now I find myself with cuts below the elbow that I just cannot conceal without long sleeves. Fine when it’s cool and overcast. Not so much with temperatures in the high 20s.

I went out last night, an end of term drinks party for Year 3 mums. I had to choose what to wear based on what would cover my arms.

The day before, I went to a work meeting in London, at the Royal Festival Hall. A 1960s building with no air con. The other team members were wilting; ‘How can you keep your cardigan on in this heat?’ one asked.

Today, I spent the morning decorating cupcakes with my girl, her best friend and her mum. I was melting. ‘You should take your cardi off,’ said Tom.

This afternoon, we all went to the farm. It was just too hot to contemplate long sleeves. I went bare but spent the time trying to hide my scars behind my back, under my handbag, anywhere.

A friend, who knows, asked me, ‘Can you really not show your arms?’ I don’t feel I can. And right now, I am so bloody angry with myself for putting myself in this position. Myself and my family.

It’s just stupid that I’m a sweaty, sodden mess because my own mentalness means I can’t walk about in a sun-dress like everyone else.

It’s just stupid that I can’t play in the paddling pool with my kids because they will see my scars and ask questions that I don’t want them to hear the answers to.

It’s just stupid that tomorrow afternoon, I will go to a work reunion in the sun in Hyde Park and sit there frying in long sleeves.

‘Can you really not show your arms?’

Yes, I can. I did on Thursday, after my meeting, once I was away from people I know. I took my cardi off and walked bare-armed along the South Bank in the sun, alongside thousands of other Londoners, commuters, tourists. Did people look? Probably. Did I care? No. Not among strangers.

But among people I know, no. No way. Especially not my children. How do I tell them that those angry scars on my arms were caused by me?

It leaves me with this whole messy situation. Beyond the heatwave, what will I do on holiday, when I want to strip off on the beach, swim with my kids? What about the next time I’m invited to a wedding? Or want to go for a massage or spa day? What about next weekend, when I’m going to a pool party with a family whose teenage girl is experiencing her friends self-harming, and is beside herself with guilt and worry about it?

I am determined, though, that tomorrow, I will have a wild swim in the Serpentine. Scars or no scars. I will wait until everyone else has gone home, if need be, but I will do it because I love the freedom of open water swimming.

But my towel will be waiting for me right at the water’s edge.

Trying to make a decision

It’s been a bad few days, a very bad few days. A few days of abject despair and loneliness and Stanley knives and reading depressing fiction just to find a bit of empathy. A few days that culminated in me going to my routine check-up with the GP yesterday, sitting with my head in my hands for 10 minutes and coming out with a new prescription. A daily 15mg of mirtazapine to add to my 40mg of fluoxetine. To try to knock me out at night as well as improve my mood.

I collected the drugs and took the first one last night without much thought. It had the desired effect; I slept for almost 10 hours straight (albeit with a few weird and very lucid dreams). This morning, I could barely wake up; I felt spaced out and dozy right through till mid-afternoon. Then that sleepiness was replaced by mad, jaw-clenching rage at everything my children did or said. Even breathing was irritating.

Is this a side effect of the medication already? It’s listed as a potential, although is apparently rare. Of course, it’s quite possible that my children are annoying and I am super-ratty. But it’s made me think.

Do I need two medications?

Are things really that bad?

Yesterday, I’d have said yes. But today, I find myself trying to think objectively about how things are at the moment, and coming to the conclusion that actually, I’m not all that bad. Not two meds bad.

Over the past few months, there have been some crashing lows, but there have also been periods when I’ve felt good, when I’ve been able to laugh, sing, produce some decent work, go out for drinks and not be a total party pooper. That wasn’t the case when I was first diagnosed. For a fair few months, I existed with no ‘good’ whatsoever.

I think maybe the lows feel more intense now because there’s something to contrast them with, those good days where I can plough through a book in three hours or churn out a feature without doubting every punctuation mark or buy myself some new shoes just because. It’s the difference between light and dark when previously, it was all dark.

When I was right at the bottom of the pit, the lows all just merged into one great, cavernous bleakness. I didn’t get the sense of a really few bad days because they were all that bad.

Now, though, there are good days in between the bad ones, and they’ve become more frequent. It feels precarious, and the slide from okay to not okay scares the hell out of me, especially when not okay lasts for more than a day or two. Hence my little meltdown yesterday. But on reflection, looking at the situation dispassionately, I am a lot better than I was. Anti-depressants have made a huge difference to my state of mind. There is no way I can say they haven’t worked, even if they haven’t worked totally – and for that reason, adding in another drug seems unnecessary and uncomfortable.

A good night’s sleep is, without doubt, a blessing, but not if the medication leaves me in a fug for the best part of the next day.

The anger I have felt today has been awful, unreasonable. It’s not something I want to live with if I can choose not to.

I don’t want to increase the risk of side effects, having been ambushed by them when I first started on anti-depressants.

I don’t like the implication of being so mental that one drug alone can’t keep me in my box.

So, I find myself needing to make a decision. Do I take the new meds or stick with what I’m on at the moment? I’m leaning towards sticking. Had yesterday’s appointment been a week ago, I’d have told the GP that everything was pretty much okay and come out with a repeat prescription for the next six months. It just so happened that it came at the end of a run of bad days, including a furious row with my husband about self-harming which is still rumbling on.

Then again, things are obviously still not great, even if I’m on an upward spiral in general. I know that hiding in the summerhouse with a Stanley knife is not the behaviour of a sane person. Nor is looking so pathetic that  I get spontaneous hugs at church.

It’s all a big dilemma and I really don’t know what to do.

 

A new form of hurt

I sit in the summerhouse.

The mosquitoes come.

I don’t bat them away.

I let them land.

I flinch as they stick their suckers into me.

I watch as their skinny bodies grow fat with my blood.

Satisfied, they unlatch and fly away, full and content.

The weal springs up on my skin.

Red hot and itchy.

A wound that is my fault but not my fault.

What do I say tomorrow, when I go to the doctor for a routine check-up, go for counselling when I was doing okay?

Not good

Oh, I so want someone to talk to.

Everyone is avoiding me.

I have cut myself again.

I initiate Facebook chats and people instantly go offline.

I understand why.

I am a drain.

I am useless.

I leach people’s energy.

But I am so scared.

So alone.

What can I do?

Would my kids be better without me?

If I drove my car into a tree, would their lives- not now, but forever – be better or worse?

I just can’t do this.