This is the first time in over a week that I’ve felt calm enough to write.
For the last few days I’ve been curled up in the corner of the sofa, shaking with panic, paralysed with fear and cringing every time Squidge cried.
I’ve spent hours in bed, hiding under the duvet and desperately trying to go back to sleep so that I can escape the reality of what is happening to me.
That I’m losing control.
The Northern One has been on the phone to work, my parents and any healthcare professionals that we thought might be able to help because the thought of actually having to talk to someone myself made me want to scream.
My glasses have been splashed with tears to the extent that I gave up cleaning them.
Before that I spent a lot of time in the garden, digging and planting whilst almost permanently plugged into the Classic FM app on my phone in an effort to distract myself and also tire myself out physically so that I could sleep.
Being in the garden meant that I didn’t have to spend a lot of time with Squidge.
My poor little boy.
He’s been so good this last week even though he’s been teething, has another cold and really doesn’t understand what is going on.
I tried to be normal for him but he doesn’t understand why I keep bursting into tears, why I barely moved from the sofa the past two days and why daddy has taken over meal times, bath time and just about everything else.
I did try.
If he came to see me I talked to him, if he bought me a toy I played with him and if he was tired I did my best to settle him so that he could have a nap.
He’s still had just as many kisses and cuddles.
I’ve still stroked his mop of baby soft hair and told him that I love him.
I tried to be normal for him but I failed.
I didn’t want him too be upset or confused but if there was any chance to escape I took it without hesitation.
Any chance to escape from being mummy.
Any opportunity to focus on myself and try and work out how to get through the rest of the day.
Any chance to be selfish.
Today’s calm is probably something to do with the not insubstantial amount of Diazepam in my system which my GP prescribed over the phone and I’m now taking three times a day on top of my regular medication.
My friend says that taking Diazepam is like being given a great big chemical hug.
When I feel into an exhausted sleep on the sofa yesterday ten minutes after taking the first little white tablet I was inclined to agree.
The Northern One helped me to stagger upstairs and tucked me into bed with some soothing music and I ended up sleeping on and off (but mostly on) for the next 15 hours. The only reason I got up this morning was because the Northern One had to go to work this morning and so I needed to be up for Squidge.
I think I’d still be asleep now if he hadn’t needed to go in.
At the moment Squidge is happily babbling away and pottering around the floor with his toys. He keeps bringing me the alphabet bricks from his baby walker so that I’ll either roll them down the sofa for him or build towers that he can knock down in manner of tiny Godzilla.
He’s also developed a fondness for chewing the laptop cable while I’m typing.
The Northern One has gone to work for the first time since Thursday although he’ll be back around lunch time.
I’ve given Squidge his breakfast, cleaned the kitchen, hung up the laundry and sorted the recycling. The churning in my stomach has settled, the tears have stopped and the house looks to be back in some sort of order.
On the surface everything seems like it’s back to normal.
But in reality it isn’t.
Although I seem calm and stable it’s more to do with the fact that my medicated brain can’t hold onto a panic-inducing thought long enough for the panic to actually take hold. My thoughts flit from one thing to another, rarely staying with one thing long enough for it to actually register in my conscious mind.
On several occasions I’ve found myself simply staring into space.
My reactions are so slow and my thoughts so fuggy that I’m not safe to drive or go to work and I’ve stumbled around the house as though I’ve not slept for days. My feet shuffle, my hands are clumsy and my voice is quiet and slow, tripping over thoughts and words.
My typing is stilted, my fingers slipping on the laptop keys and I have to keep stopping to try and remember what it is I’m trying to write.
I’ve been given the number for the community mental health crisis team and I have an appointment to see the primary care liaison service on Thursday so that they can review my medication and put any extra support in place.
The health visitor is coming today for an emergency review.
I have a hole in my back that I made with a pair of scissors and several cuts on my leg that I made with a razor blade.
I tried to hide the blood-stained wipes and dressings from the Northern One but he found out anyway.
My GP asked me if I intended to kill myself.
Two people have asked me if Squidge is safe.
I’m due my next dose of Diazepam but I can’t have it until Squidge goes down for a nap or the Northern One gets back from work. I can feel the panic starting to rise again but the price of taking the panic away is the inability to function physically and I can’t do that while I’m looking after Squidge.
How did this happen?
Where did I go wrong?
How did it get to the point where I’m willing Squidge to fall asleep so that I can medicate my thoughts away?
What is this going to do to him?
To the Northern One/
To us as a family?
What am I going to do?