When it all comes crashing down

So it turns out that the social services referral wasn’t a consequence of the crisis team visit.

Someone from school has reported us.

We met with the SENCO eight weeks ago to request an ed psych referral for Tom, who we believe has dyspraxia. While we were listing the symptoms we mentioned the fact that his self-esteem is suffering as a result of being ‘different’ and that he’d been hurting himself when upset by banging his head against the wall.

Someone has reported us because of that.

School policies haven’t been followed. I’ve looked it up. They should have informed us that they were making the referral. Not only did they not do that, but the referral was made anonymously so I don’t even know who it was. It could have been the SENCO. It could have been the designated safeguarding officer. It could have been anyone who saw the paperwork, from class teachers to admin assistants.

I feel like complete crap tonight. I thought school was on our side. Not any more.

They think my son is at risk.

They think that to the extent that they made the referral anonymously and without informing me, in direct contravention of their child protection policies.

Worst of all, I think my friends are on their side.

I tried to talk earlier and was told I don’t know the full story. How’s that for a damning indictment? That my very best friend is siding with the school rather than me…

How do I face the world again after this? Knowing that everyone thinks I’m an unfit mother to my children?

There is one solution that seems obvious. I’m struggling to put that out of my mind just now.

 

It lives on

Today I had a letter in the post. From the safeguarding team at children’s services.

It said they’d been trying to make contact with me following ‘a recent incident’ and that I should phone them back to discuss it.

The incident, I presume, is my referral to the crisis team back in May.

I hate the way this system works.

I know they have an obligation to protect my children but it upsets me so much.

I hate the fact that the system penalises you for trying to get help.

I turned up to that psych appointment with Lindsey holding my hand, needing and wanting and asking for help.

I felt completely broken but I did ‘the right thing.’ I didn’t hurt myself or try to kill myself; I went to the appointment and I listened to the doctor’s recommendations and I agreed to do what he suggested.

And the consequence of ‘doing the right thing’ is yet another social services case opened against me.

It makes me never want to ask for help again, to hide the bad times, to try to deal with them on my own – even though that has gone horribly badly in the past.

I also hate the way it takes them months to get around to pursuing the referral.

It always happens.

I suppose I should be thankful for the delay; clearly, it means we’re not a high priority for them.

But the letter or phone call always comes out of the blue, when I’ve forgotten about the possibility of it happening, and it knocks me for six.

Anyway. I’ve done what I was told. Despite the fact that I really, really just wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening, I phoned them back. The person I needed to speak to wasn’t there, so on it drags into another day.

If it’s anything like the past referrals, it’ll just involve speaking to someone on the phone and reassuring them that I’m okay, the kids are okay. They might speak to school and the doctor as well, but then they’ll close the case.

But there’s that unshakeable fear that this time, it’ll be different. They’ll want to do a home visit. They’ll see or hear or find something that convinces them that I’m not fit to mother my children.

A messy house. Medications that aren’t kept under lock and key because I trust my kids. Too many bottles in the recycling box.

I can’t lose my children. I really can’t. I’m in a better place than I was but there are still days when everything feels too much, and on those days, they’re the only thing that keep me functioning.

So I wait. I wait for the phone call and I wait for someone to examine my life and pass judgement on it – all because of an illness that’s out of my control, all because I asked for help and accepted what I was offered.

I hate the whole system.

But most of all, I hate the way that depression has tainted all of our lives.

Will it be forever?

It’s really feeling like it.

 

On the edge

I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.

I’m just stressed and too busy. I’m not unwell.

I need to keep telling myself this.

But I’m not entirely sure it’s true.

Over the past week I’ve felt low.

Not uncontrollably so, but tearful and vulnerable and just a bit pathetic.

Some of it is work (why can I never say no to extra?).

Some of it is Sunday school, which always terrifies me.

Some of it is Hotshots: I’m so worried that my crafts won’t work out, that they’ll take too long or not long enough or look rubbish.

Some of it is Australia, and being hugely out of my comfort zone for the best part of a month.

I flipped out about wedding clothes the other night and the urge to hurt myself – although I resisted it – was strong.

I’m praying like mad but the thought of the next six weeks is just too much.

I’ll say it: I’m scared. Seriously scared.

I’m going to mess up Sunday school.

Mess up Hotshots.

Mess up Australia.

Mess up the wedding.

I’m having nightmares about it already.

I shouldn’t be there. I’m too messy and unpredictable.

I had a small hope that I could get the psych to give me some Diazepam next week, but now I find out that it’s a banned substance in Singapore.

This is all too much.

 

 

Why do I do it?

Why do I get sucked back into thinking about the worst times at the depths of my illness when I’m feeling so much better?

It wouldn’t be so bad if it was a positive, if I was reflecting on the past and noticing how far I am from that place now, but it’s not.

It just makes me feel awful.

I wish I knew why I do it, and how to stop myself, because it’s completely counterproductive.

I’m doing okay, I really am. I’m keeping afloat, I’m having good times with family and friends, I’m becoming more accepting of the physical and mental scars. I’m on top of work, I’m talking to different people in the playground.

Yes, I’m a bit stressed with my workload and everything that needs doing at church at the moment, and I’m still feeling very anxious about Australia – now just over three weeks away – but I’m okay.

So why the rumination? Why torture myself with memories of hospital and social services and crisis team visits and the utter, devastating hopelessness of that time?

It drags me back down. It reminds me of how lost and frightened I was. And I start to feel lost and frightened again. Wellness seems so fragile at times, so breakable.

I need to stop it. I’m not very well physically at the moment – just a sore throat and generally feeling run down – and I know that doesn’t do my mood any good, so digging over the past when I’m in this state of mind is a dangerous thing to do.

I need to stop reading through the messages and cards people sent me when I was at my worst and bring my thoughts back to now. I need to get an early night tonight and try to sleep off this horrible bug.

Above all, I need to keep thanking God that he got me through it and trust in him to keep me going whatever happens now and in the future.

Just another hour or so and I can go to bed. And when I wake up tomorrow it’ll be a new day, a day when hopefully I can concentrate on the present again.

Sports day

Some days, still, are harder than others.

Today was one of them. School sports day. I felt horribly anxious about it last night, and for good reason (well, for good reason in my messed up mind, at least).

I don’t fit in at school. I didn’t when I was a child and I don’t now.

I’m not one of the popular mums.

I’m not one of the trendy mums.

I don’t find it easy to make small talk with people.

And I don’t have many friends.

It’s hard to be part of a big social occasion like that and feel so alone.

I thank the Lord for my gorgeous little girl, who was more than happy for me to follow her around and sit with her at lunchtime; without her, I’d have been completely on my own.

The scars don’t help. I don’t know how much other people notice, but I feel that they do. They instantly mark me out as different, messed up, someone they wouldn’t want to associate with.

Someone whose child they wouldn’t want theirs to play with.

I’m giving myself a bit of credit tonight, because I was there. I was there, and I lasted all day.

Okay, I hid behind my camera and avoided talking to people, but I was there for my kids.

But it really took it out of me.

Tonight, I’m exhausted. It was a busy day anyway, and a hot day, and I’m a bit under the weather. But I’m mostly exhausted from the effort of being there and holding it together and trying to act normal when I found it really, really hard.

It was worth it to see my children. To see Katie’s huge smile, and to watch her playing with her friends at lunchtime – such a lovely bunch of girls who get on so well. To see my unsporty Tom actually win TWO of his events, and looking so grown up.

And not so long ago, I wouldn’t have been able to do it. Today I could, even though it was hard, and even though I now feel completely wiped out.

But it’s still a reminder that I’m recovering, but not totally recovered.

Maybe I won’t ever be. But every step is a step in the right direction.

I know that. I need to remember it.

Damaged

That’s how I feel. That’s how I guess I’m always going to feel.

Physically damaged, but emotionally too.

I am okay. I really am. If I were to take the depression questionnaire today, I don’t think I’d qualify for a diagnosis.

But I still feel like I have depression.

It’s changed me and I think it will always be a part of me.

It’s the part of me that, if I have a day where I feel a little bit low, a little bit anxious, a little bit out of sorts, is always going to fear the worst.

I feel like that today.

There are reasons. Time of the month. Family visit tomorrow for the first time since most of them knew the full details about the extent of my illness. Anxiety about Australia, which is no longer a distant mirage that I can forget about, but next month.

But my brain, despite knowing the reasons, starts to catastrophise. What if, what if, what if?

I start to feel alone, scared, out of my depth.

I have to sit on my hands to stop myself messaging people in a panic.

I need to get these feelings in perspective so they don’t become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I also need to accept that maybe I’m never going to be stable. That the normal lows of normal life are always going to feel bigger and scarier to me.

Tonight, though, I need to breathe.

I need to give my anxieties over to the Lord, who doesn’t promise me an easy ride in this life, but promises riches and glories that I can’t even imagine in the next.

I need to tell myself that I will wake up and feel better, even if it’s not tomorrow, or the next day, or the next.

I need to make peace with the changed and damaged me, because that’s the me I have to live with.