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.