I’m still here

I don’t know why it happened, but last night, while I was lying in bed thinking about nothing in particular, I was suddenly hit by the thought of what it would have been like for my children if I’d succeeded in taking my life.

Ever since the first suicide attempt, I’ve felt, at best, ambivalent about still being alive. I knew my kids would miss me if I weren’t there, but I figured it would be a bit like missing chocolate or their favourite TV programme: something they might have liked, but would ultimately do just fine without.

But yesterday, I realised for the first time how wrong I was. Why? I don’t know. But in that moment, my heart broke a little over the thought of what might have been.

I fall short in many, many ways as a mum. I don’t push my children (Tom especially) hard enough at school. I don’t like playing games with them. I let them have too much screentime because it’s easier that way. I shout at them when they’re dragging their heels over getting ready for school.

But I’m still their mum, and they still need me.

If I do nothing else, I can at least cuddle them. I can hold them and make them feel loved. I can stroke their hair and rub their backs.

I can love them with every bit of my heart.

Mental illness, suicide attempts and hospital have all chipped away at my identity. Even though I’m so much better than I was, I still struggle to feel as if I have any use or purpose or value in life.

That’s been particularly heightened lately, with the ban on me helping with church work and, more recently, my work hours being cut unexpectedly and with no specific reason, leaving me to think that I’m not doing a good enough job, and they’re letting me down gently.

But last night, I knew with absolute certainty that even if I do nothing else in life, I need to be here for my children.

The mental picture I conjured up of them, lost and sad and lonely without their mummy, made me feel sick to my stomach at the thought of how close I came to making that their reality.

The guilt I feel today is tremendous. I feel so guilty that at the time, they weren’t enough for me to want to stay alive. I feel so guilty that I nearly took away the most important relationship in their lives.

Please God, they will never know this about me. They know I’ve been unwell and in hospital, but they’ve battled through the hard times with incredible resilience, and they need never know that I tried to leave them – and not just once.

At the time, I thought I was doing what was best for them: freeing them from a life spent worrying about their unstable mother.

But I know now that it wasn’t. What’s best for them is for me to stay alive for them.

I may not always be well, although I’m so thankful that I am at the moment. I may not always be up to taking them out at the weekend or even helping with their homework. But well or sick, I can still be here. I can still cuddle them and be with them and show them how they are so, so loved.

I feel so sad for my babies today, and for what I nearly did to them.

I don’t EVER want to be in that place again.