Why I Hate My Birthday 

I hate my birthday. It’s taken me a lot of years to realise this. It has always felt crap and then a few years ago I realised: hey I actually really fucking hate my birthday.

Realising that helped.

Unfortunately husband hasn’t got the memo. In fact he thinks I love a big fuss on my birthday, that I like to drag it out over several days, that presents and surprises are important to me. Yes, of course I’ve told him but he says that I’m wrong and that if he didn’t make a fuss I’d be unhappy. Ummm….

So here we have the classic dialectic. In some ways he’s right. Birthdays are supposed to be special days and therefore yes, I would like some acknowledgement. However, it’d be really in keeping with the spirit of the day if said fuss was something I could actually enjoy. I mean, if I was listened to, rather than having BIRTHDAY!!!!! thrust upon me then that’d be great.

A few years ago I started being quite specific with what presents I’d like from the husband. I did this because it really hurt my feelings that he would choose stuff that wasn’t me at all. How can my best friend, the person to whom I am closest to in the whole world get it/me so wrong?! Even now he always buys me Ferrero Rocher chocolates because that is his Mum’s favourite. I like Ferrero Rocher – don’t get me wrong – but it’s not what I want, not what I’d choose and, after 14 years, you’d think he’d have noticed that but you’d be wrong. Anyway I let the chocolate thing go. Chocolate is chocolate so it doesn’t really matter. Husband agonises saying that I need to have surprises as presents. Nope. Again I’ve told him that this just simply isn’t true but again, apparently I’m wrong. 

Whilst we’re on chocolate this is often what sparks the Birthday Argument. The Boy has real issues with jealousy so he will go on and on all day about how he doesn’t have any chocolate. If I share it out (after all I’m desperate to get rid of it) then he will loudly, repetitively and really rather specifically check that my sharing is equal. He will go on and on about how I could divide up the remaining chocolate fairly. He will ask when I’m going to eat it. He will talk about how much he wants chocolate (and how unfair it is that he doesn’t have any), he will want to discuss the healthiness of it. I’m short he will go and on relentlessly. Some years I snap at him. Sometimes I leave the room and cry. It always ends up with the husband shouting at the boy over chocolate I didn’t even want. DON’T  YOU KNOW IT’S MUM’S BIRTHDAY?!

Mum doesn’t want a birthday. Mum wants to be dead. If I had never been born then all of this stress wouldn’t be happening. I was never supposed to be born. My core belief right there – my birth was an accident, a blip in the Universe. By being born I brought chaos, stress and a badness into the world that was never supposed to be. My existence is all wrong. Why the fuck I’d want to celebrate that I don’t know.

Anyway, my parents usually send a gift. This is also unrecognisable as chosen for me. Of course it is because they don’t see me. To them I’m not even a real person, I’m more of an idea. I hate unwrapping their gift. If they have wrapped it at home then it comes with their smells. The smells that make me want to vomit. Happy fucking birthday? What a joke. More often than not now they’ll just randomly purchase something online and send it. This has the added bonus of not having their smell. However it will come without any note. I mean why add a Happy Birthday message that would be a lie right? We all know that day ruined everything but society demands these niceties. 

My parents used to forget my birthday sometimes.

Well, they had a lot on didn’t they? Oh, they deny that this happened but I was sure. Utterly, utterly convinced and I found a photo as evidence. Me, aged 9, wearing pyjamas because it is bedtime. I am posing in front of a defrosted Victoria sponge with 9 candles. Back in the 80s it was harder to get cakes so when they realised they had forgotten to sort one out they went to Asda, stressed the fuck out, bought this frozen thing and then had to wait until bedtime for it to defrost. I absolutely remember this happening. They deny it. The photo confirms it. It’s no wonder I’m fucking mental.
Quite often over the years my dad gets the date wrong. Easily done I suppose. Who remembers the day the first child, their only daughter, was born. Easily done. How selfish I am to want to occupy some brain space. I remember one year he went on holiday with the boys (my 3 brothers). I stayed at home with home. She was drunk and cruel the whole time. The house was dark and had its usual stink of vodka, cigs and piss (ah! There’s no place like home!). Dad rang me to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY! 2 days early as he’d gotten the date wrong again. He said there was a present hidden for me somewhere in the house but he couldn’t remember where. Gee, thanks. Anyway, Mum was so awful that I packed a bag and headed to join him on holiday in a caravan somewhere in Scotland. To this day I have no idea how I achieved this. I must have had money. There was no internet for looking up trains etc. I had to get a ferry. A fucking ferry! I mean, just how?! But I did it. At least two trains and a (fucking!) ferry and I arrived. I had escaped.

I used to ask for a chemistry set for birthdays and Christmasses. However I was never given one as my parents told me that I didn’t really want one. Ummm…ok. One chemistry degree later…god, I am so fucking sick of people telling me who I am. It’s no wonder I have no sense of self and instead was given the gift of a personality disorder. No, I really didn’t want that!

Birthday parties were a no go. Obviously. Who would I have invited anyway? Friends weren’t really my thing were they? Or certainly that was something else I was brought up believing.

Anyway, you get it. I hate my birthday.

This year to navigate the upset I’ve provisionally planned out the day. Apparently this is quite demanding? Well, I’ve only done it to try and minimise the upset and arguments and to try and take pressure off of the husband. Sigh. How is it that I’m so misunderstood? 

And there’s the food of course. I’m having a bit of a difficult time with food at the minute. I certainly don’t want to eat loads but heyyyyyy it’s your birthday so you gotta! No, no, no thank you. Please don’t make me explain. Again I’ve planned somewhere for lunch where I’ll be happy with the food (oh how demanding!).

Fortunately no one outside of close family ever remembers my birthday. I say fortunately but yes, it hurts. It’s not unknown for husband to buy a card from the kids and then forget to write it. I’ll find it, still in the cellophane and tidy it away.?I most likely won’t even get texts from the 3 brothers I raised. God, I hate my birthday.

So, I guess I do want a little fuss. I want the people that I love to show me a little bit of extra love and to help me enjoy the day, as I want. 

On the plus side it’s only 24 hours and then it’s done…until next year.

Totally Screwed

I want to vent. I want to rage.

Why the fuck am I in this situation? 

I tried to buy my husband a Fathers Day card from the kids and ended up completely triggered thinking about my own Dad:

Dad you’re my hero”

“Best dad in the world”

And my favourite, “Dad without you I’d be screwed” (obviously with picture of father and offspring screw haha). Yeah that one really got under my skin because yes, Dad, without you I was screwed. Left to deal with the venomous malicious unpredictable entity called Mum. And look! Over 2 decades later I’m still screwed, totally fucking screwed. So screwed I’m nuts. It is with cruel irony that right now my own husband is away in Manchester overnight, one of the places my Dad used to go when he was away on ‘overnighters’. 

So here I am triggered by cards and triggered by the stupid PTSD of being left alone to care for ‘the children’ – sorry, obviously I mean my siblings as I was a child too. How silly of me to forget. How silly of everyone to forget.

I’m not a child now though. I’m an adult and a mother and it is absolutely my responsibility to care for my children. I can’t describe the loathing I feel for myself that I struggle to do this most basic thing. I dropped my daughter off at nursery this afternoon and when I arrived home I opened the front door, threw my keys down, glanced at the staircase in front of me and thought ‘right, now go and hang yourself’. It was as solid and unremarkable an idea as say ‘right, let’s put a washing on’. Clearly I have not hung myself nor do I intend to but it’s difficult managing with such urges. 

I try and stifle all the rage that burns, bubbles and boils inside me. The pressure builds with every demand and the poison leaks out. I snap and snarl and hate myself for doing so. No. I must never hurt the children, must never ever be cruel to them. The slightest look of upset on their faces cuts me so deeply and the rage is accompanied by shame. More shame, like I need anymore of that?! 
And all I can think is how fucking useless I am. I will try to atone by doing lots of housework and being ‘good’. I feel a bit jealous of the kids, they get to go to bed and be away from me whereas I’m stuck with me. I’m so tired. And confused. And afraid; the fear of a little girl in a grown up lady’s body. 

I never managed to buy a card. 

Eating

Yesterday I picked my son up from football and another mum said “You’ve lost a lot of weight haven’t you?”. I agreed that I had. “Have you been trying to lose weight then?” she continued. Well, I’ve been watching what I eat so yes a little bit. “Right then. How much have you lost?” She asked. I’m not sure how much weight I’ve lost but I am sure the specifics are none of her business so I just smiled and said “a bit”. She wasn’t to be put off. She started trying to guess. She told me, no offense, but it must be more than a stone because you wouldn’t really notice a stone so it must be a lot and how much was it. Awk-ward. Eventually she gave up and we chatted about dogs. Much easier.

Everyone comments on my weight loss. Mostly complimentary. My mother-in-law, bless her, hasn’t acknowledged that I’ve lost any weight. No, instead she keeps giving me tips: hot water concoctions and Slimming World recipes. I’ll confess these are kind of mixed messages but she means well, I presume.

It’s frustrating as hell being on Quetiapine – a drug known to cause weight gain – and trying to lose weight. I fact I don’t think any more will come off. Nothing significant. I know I can’t eat any less really so here I am stuck, right on the bmi borderline between healthy weight and overweight. Is it so wrong to want to be a healthy weight? Why must everything in my life revolve around the word borderline?!

I’ve been exhausted all day, just mental wear and tear. The sedative effect of Quetiapine won’t be helping either. Once dinner had been sorted, and I had built my daughter a scooter I just lay flat out on the living room. I joked to my husband that I could fall asleep right there. He stood over me. He was wearing shorts so I was trying to perve up his shorts. “You need new pyjamas” he told me. I agreed. Mine were all far too big now. He told me that my bum looked tiny in the pyjama trousers I wore last night. I laughed. As if! As he continued it took me a minute to realise he was actually concerned. He told me he had concerns about my eating, he doesn’t know if I eat when he’s at work, he even used the word anorexia. I didn’t stop to tell him that it’s a physical impossibility for someone with my bmi to be anorexic as that might look like too much knowledge. I reassured him about my bmi and funnily enough he told me that he wasn’t concerned now as he’d checked me out in the jeans I had on and, apparently, my butt is big enough to dispel any concern! “Oh right so it turns out I’ve got a fat arse after all?” I laughed but I was confused again. 

Really all I want is a healthy bmi and it frightens me that people are starting to get involved in something that is actually very private to me (she says posting on the internet!) Surely I should be able to choose how, what and when to eat without feeling that this is also something I do for other people? Christ, does even my eating have to be for other people?! 

I wonder if there is any bit of me that is just for me? Now I’m exhausted so I really must sleep. 

Numb, Tired

I don’t feel real or alive. Numb on the outside. Inside I don’t know. Turmoil? Sadness? Fear? 

I’m so tired. Exhausted. Moving is a challenge but a necessary one. I want to escape into a bed fort. 

It feels like everyone can read my thoughts. Everyone can see all my private stuff on my phone. Everyone is laughing at me for being so pathetic. I know this isn’t true but I still feel it.

I considered texting Andy and asking him to try and come home a bit earlier. I wrote the text but didn’t send it. Hes supposed to be having a drink with a friend tonight and I really want him to go because I’m worried he’s depressed. He’ll also start making rules and predictions and put pressure on me so Ineed to get through.

My hands are cold and have pins n needles. I didn’t go to DBT. They rang because it’s so out of character so I told them I was tired.

I am so so tired.

BPD vs PTSD

Really I just want to rant; to throw a toddler tantrum.

About what?

WHAT?!?!

This!

STUPID MENTAL ILLNESS!

I honestly don’t know which particular illness I’m most pissed at. Is it the trying to thread a needle, with my eyes closed whilst riding a rollercoaster fun of my borderline personality disorder? Because that is FUN. Tra-la-la-la going about my day WHOA! I’m super scared! Ok, ok, let’s roll with this, we can do this…tra-la-la-la I FUCKING HATE EVERYTHING. Int-er-est-ing, bit of crazy rage going on there…suck it down, cook the dinner and then? Well your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps I’ll become deliriously happy (oh wow life is wonderful!) or maybe I’ll be filled with love, or perhaps it’ll be self-disgust. Who the fuck knows? Not me, not anybody. But, you see, life must go on, responsilities must be met and there just isn’t time for a self-indulgent emotional jacuzzi. 

And it’s exhausting.

So, so tiring in a way, that I really believe, others won’t get unless they feel it too. And it’s frightening being catapulted into extremes. I become scared. I limit what I do in case it happens. I hide away. Please don’t talk to me. I can’t promise I’ll always be able to contain it so it’s best that everyone stays away.

Hell yeah, the BPD is awesome. And by awesome I mean an absolute bastard. I dislike having a personality disorder very much.

But…

…I also find myself completely fucked over by the PTSD at the same time. I mean the nasty thugs of BPD and PTSD often go around together so my experience isn’t unique here. Let me tell you, trying to control those unpredictable extreme emotional shifts is made a shitload more difficult by being constantly treated to images of the past. Oooh nightmare! Again? Yes a-fucking-gain. And I can expect one the next night, and the next, and the next… hurrah! Then of course there are the images/memories/flashbacks. How about seeing my mum sneering at me in my mind. Just pops in, uninvited. Like tonight at Body Balance class. Or there’s the sensations – someone breathing on my neck, she’s wrapping her hands round my neck oh god oh god oh god. Meanwhile, outside of my brain (in the real world), as alluded to earlier, life-goes-on. Concurrently. So perhaps I’ll be paying at a checkout or getting my daughter dressed whilst trying to stifle the fear of the prickling on my neck. I’ll be honest, it is spectacularly unhelpful to have PTSD.

The worst bit of the PTSD, for me, is the time travelling though. I can just about manage all the other crap but the time travelling is the final sucker punch that delivers the knockout. The emotions that were shut off all those years ago fire my brain up. My brain tells me that I am 14; that my children are my siblings; that I am alone and it’s too much for a young person. Too much. But it’s all lies, I’m not 14, and these lies are more powerful than any words. They play me like a cruel puppeteer ‘hey puppet, play the part of being 14!’. I fight back against it of course, I have insight at least. I do know that I’m actually a mother in my 30s but I can’t cut those puppeteer strings. I’d describe it as a game but there’s no fun in it. No, it’s rather like some cryptic challenge: behave as a 30 something responsible mother whilst also, uncontrollably, behaving as a 14 year old. 

Yes. I hate that.

So I couldn’t say which symptoms or diagnosis pisses me off the most really. It’s all crap, all of it. 

Fortunately though I look fine. Invisible illness. I wish I could show people a sneaky peek – this is what it’s like! There might be a better chance of understanding. Oh well, a girl can dream. And, on that, it’s time I went to bed for another nightmare. Toodle-oo.

Morning has broken

Good morning!

I want to be dead.

Same old, same old.

Got to be a good parent this morning though so activity scheduling it is.

How to stay present? How to stay as a mum? I’ll have to use all my skills. By the time I drop her at nursery this afternoon I’ll be exhausted. I’m tired already and there’s 5 hours ahead. Then I’ve got a one-to-one with Monica. Night-mare.

I already feel like a failure. Because I am.

But I’ll try and we’ll get by.

Another Crisis Survived 

Another crisis survived. It’s a victory but a quiet one. No one cares. They’d have cared, presumably, if I hadn’t managed the crisis. Although when I say cared I mean be angry at me for being selfish etc. 

But I did manage yet another crisis. I’ve had a lot of these crises over the last few weeks. Each time I get through it, without professional help, without much of a fuss and, I suppose, that may invite judgement:- these can’t be real crises if I’m managing them on my own. Hmmmm. I disagree. When I can’t leave my house for fear of buying pills to overdose, can’t care for my children, just can’t manage much at all other than crying, or being vacant, or sleeping? When I have a constant narrative to harm myself or to be dead? When I find my hands moving to my own throat to choke myself? I think that counts but I guess it doesn’t because I am managing it.

I was very depressed yesterday. I went to DBT group and that was quite good actually. We started Interpersonal Effectiveness and I think I need this more than I had realised. I enjoyed the session because I felt like I was learning. I enjoy learning. If something interests me then I just want to soak it up. Pretty much as soon as I got home the emotions became intense. Although I was alone I felt harassed. I had so much to do, too much to do. Every time I tried to tick something off the list it created another job. I was totally overwhelmed.

By evening it was too much. The emotion was overwhelming. Be dead, be dead, be dead. Urges. So I started thinking about my crisis plan and recognised that it was pretty pointless. The crisis team can’t do anything so no point ringing them. My husband can’t help, he gets emotional and overreacts and makes it worse. I looked at the NHS Suicide section on their website. It suggested emailing the Samaritans. I could do that! So I did, I emailed jo@samaritans.org I knew that they couldn’t do anything but listen but, to be honest, that in itself was hugely helpful. It’s funny how many professionals I speak to but rarely feel listened to; they have their specific questions. Everything is lead by want they want from the appointment. 

After the Samaritans I chose self-soothing. I had a little Graze box treat and a hot chocolate, took my quetiapine, made a hot water bottle and retreated to bed. I put lavender on my pillow, cuddled up to my blanket and bunny. Then I took 3 cocodamol for good measure and downloaded an audiobook (The Humans by Matt Haig). With my headphones in I drifted into the safety of unconsciousness. It’s the next best thing. 

My night was full of vivid dreams of the past. Some of it was reliving abuse and some of it was comforting. The important thing was how I woke up and I woke up ok. Ok. Tired, mentally bruised and battered, but ok. Another crisis survived. It’s a quiet victory and no one will celebrate it, not even me. For me the feeling is relief. I know that this is temporary. I expect that I’ll hit crisis point again in the next few days so I’ll try and make plans now with the aim of avoiding crisis. I get scared. How many times will I successfully negotiate these urges? I’m so used to this; to having to survive. I do get resentful about it, about having to fight so hard for something that I’m not sure I want. Having to fight for something that other people want (my survival) on my own.

Still, survival brings options, death doesn’t. So quietly I’ll just go about it. Invisible. 

Diagnosis, or not

Today was the feedback from my son’s autism assessment. It’s been a two year process. The conclusion: no diagnosis of autism. We had already had a letter explaining how that decision had been reached but today we met the (very competent) clinical psychologist to discuss the findings. 

It’s a strange thing really. I didn’t care one way or the other – I just wanted to know. My gut had always told me that there was something different about my boy; about his need for routine, his obsessions, his sensory issues. I never really had anyone to mull this stuff over with. My husband seemed to just shrug it all off. Sometimes I’d mention something on the odd occasion I’d see another parent and they’d tell me that theirs was just the same…but, no, when they described their child it just didn’t sound quite the same.

Several lengthy questionnaires (and over a year) later we had our first appointment with the psychologist. We discussed the issues with our boy and had reams of examples to give. Honestly it was one of the most uplifting conversations I have ever had. As my husband and I openly described behaviours and an intensity that wears us down so completely the psychologist appeared to understand where no one else ever had. Our son is intelligent, polite, follows rules etc. No one could ever imagine how exhausting managing my boy’s ‘quirks’ could be. We felt like failures. Here were we with this fantastic son and yet, somehow, we were just collapsing with his intensity. So, you can appreciate, having someone recognise and validate what we were saying was a huge relief – maybe we’re not crap parents after all?

The next appointment was our son meeting with the psychologist and an assessor on his own. I fell asleep in the waiting room. He was brought back out to me after 40 mins. I assumed that given the speedy turnaround that they had quickly arrived at the conclusion that he was not autistic and we were, as we feared, just crap parents.

In the next meeting the psychologist fed back to us and I couldn’t believe what she said: our son scored as highly autistic on 2 out of 3 of the measures. I was shocked. They had observed so much in such a short space of time. Entirely selfishly I was so relieved, my god, it’s not just me and my mental illness, two actual trained professionals saw it too! I’ve always been so scared that all of this is just in my head that to have it confirmed, after 10 years, was just…I can’t even describe it.

However,

Ah yes, there was a but. He hadn’t scored as autistic at all on the 3rd measure. For autism diagnosis the person must score on all three measures – a triad of impairments. Also the report from his school completely contradicted what we had reported. Ok, so next steps were to send a trainee psychologist in to observe my son in school and then take the complete body of evidence to a cross functional panel to decide. Ok, cool with that.

Well, you know what they decided, no diagnosis. So we discussed it. Honestly I didn’t mind whether he was diagnosed as on the spectrum or not, I just wanted certainty. Being told he was a borderline case was my worst fear. He does show difficulties, strongly in fact, in 2/3 areas but, but, but this is not ASC. It was the rituals thing that he doesn’t do so I said that he does this yawn/lip smack thing and looked at my husband. No he hadn’t seen that. Ummm…ok…just me…

Somehow I then started getting emotional. I told them about my BPD and cPTSD diagnoses. This changed things. They knew already about my mental health problems but when I confirmed that I had those specific diagnoses, officially then questions were asked about how I was coping and was I being supported adequately by the adult mental health. I threw myself on the sword babbling away about my own concerns about projecting my own difficulties on to my son. I was awful, however I tried to reassure the psychologist that I felt my parenting was ok. I looked to my husband for confirmation. None came. Talk about leaving me hanging. The psychologist reassured me that there had been no concerns about my fitness as a mother and that the adult mental health team had not been in touch with any concerns. That helped. Would have been nice to hear something reassuring from my husband.

Anyway, suddenly the mood lightened. We all agreed with bright smiles that everything was fine and my son was discharged from the child and adolescent mental health (CAMH) team.

And that was that.

Two years. Hundreds of questions. Half an answer. 

Doesn’t matter though does it? Let’s be honest, with a BPD mother me like he’s up against it. 

How do you ‘life’?

It’s like I can’t help but do it wrong.

I had a bad night last night – disturbs husband who is exhausted. Guilt.

I stay in bed this morning (husband insists). Guilt.

I then end up with my daughter unexpectedly so we watch Aladdin but I do nothing. Guilt.

When husband gets home I go back to bed. Daughter follows me. Guilt.

Husband takes daughter to do supermarket shop. I stay in bed. Guilt.

I force myself up. Get washed, brush teeth, put on clothes. I even put on make up because I really want to try. Pathetic.

I go downstairs to join husband and daughter. Daughter is continually attached to me. Everything is mummy. Husband apologises and says he’ll take her out. I must be a monster. I haven’t complained or anything but he feels the need to take her away. Shame.

He moans about everything he has to do. Shame and a little bit of anger actually because the house is an absolute tip and it’ll be my job to sort it all and I’ll do a lot in the week to keep things ticking over. 

I buy some stuff we need for the house. I’ve spent a lot of time researching to get the best deal. I’ve waited to purchase for a few days from fear of being impulsive. I show husband. He isn’t bothered. Pathetic.

We discuss a savings account I’ve opened. I am putting any leftover money from selling my car in it. It should earn some interest. Husband jokes that it’s good I’ll be bringing some money in. It really upsets me. The money will be about £35 for the year. I feel awful about not earning. I’m doing everything I can to ease our finances. Shame. It’s easy for him to joke when he isn’t a burden. He apologises. Guilt. I’m such a horrible bitch. It was only a joke.

I tell him I’m going to look up forensic science roles. This is something I’m investigating for when I can begin working again. His words are supportive but his tone implies ridicule. Shame. I don’t react. The negative voice in my head begins to laugh nastily:

Haha you absolute fucking joke. Forensics? Good one! Ridiculous! Utterly ridiculous! (I sniff to myself, I only wanted a little encouragement). You’ve done fuck all all day. Your efforts are beyond pathetic. Just by being here you make everything worse. (But that’s not fair…you know I can’t kill myself). You should go. Leave. Or at least disappear back to bed where you can do less damage. 

Instead I ask my husband if he’s ok. I say that he sounds a little annoyed. He immediately apologises in a way that means I’ve hurt his feelings. He’s short with me and mutters to himself about just keeping quiet. Guilt. What the fuck is wrong with me? 

I’ve followed what he’s asked me to; I’ve made efforts and tried to engage with the family; I’ve really thought about everything I’ve done today to try and do it right but, somehow, I’ve done it all wrong again. I want to cry but that seems selfish after all it’s me causing the problems. I really want to leave. I have nowhere to go. I feel like I should be away from them, but, I know that’ll be wrong too.

And I’m so confused. If I try it’s wrong, if I leave it’s wrong, everything I do is wrong. I literally don’t know how much longer I can keep on being so confused, trying so hard and being so wrong. I don’t know what to do. I know this is all very hyperbolic yet it’s true. 

How did I end up being so wrong when I’ve spent my whole life trying to do right. Well that worked. Hmmm, I feel a bit better now – twisted.

Mummy is in bed

My children are in the hall outside my bedroom playing catch. My daughter’s voice is full of joy and giggles and she bounces about shouting “catch!” to her older brother. He’s excited because he’s wearing his new football boots to his game today. Hearing them happy makes me smile. I’ve already had bad thoughts this morning and hearing them is a nice antidote.

Then my husband tells them off – they shouldn’t be playing here, making all that noise. Mummy is in bed. Mummy doesn’t want you to do that does she?

Triggered.

His intention is good. He knows that I was in a bad place yesterday and he wants me to have peace. He regularly makes these assumptions about what I need though without actually asking me. I’ve told him more times than I can count that he doesn’t need to silence the children on my behalf. It makes me so sad. All I want is for them to be happy and healthy. Please don’t stop that for me. 

I was already having intrusive thoughts when I woke up (I could overdose when they’re all out and then just start walking until I fall somewhere). Now I feel worse. Everything is my fault.

Mummy doesn’t want you making all that noise.

Mummy is still in bed.

Leave Mummy alone.

My daughter is going to the football game despite her chesty cough. It is 830am, cold and damp outside and I worry about her chest. My husband decided to take her without talking to me because it’s what I need, apparently. 

Guilt. Shame. Anger. Love. Sadness. All swirling around. 

They’ve gone now and I’m alone. My family are gone. Without me. I feel so wretched. Swallowing a load of tablets wouldn’t phase me at all but I can’t do that. That doesn’t help them. Instead it’ll be the knife. Will need to go torso I think. Better weather is coming soon…short sleeves…

Oh, I didn’t take anything last night except my quetiapine. That was a positive step forward of which I’m quite proud of. I slept til 4am and then I was restless/awake and any sleep came with nightmares. Lack of sleep is a vulnerability factor they say. Lucky for me I get to stay in bed whilst my family are out together.

Lucky me indeed.