When I told my GP that I’d deliberately hurt myself yesterday she stopped talking.
Much as I don’t like making phone calls I’m glad that I wasn’t sat in front of her otherwise I would have had to have seen the look on her face when I told her.
It was hard enough admitting what I’d done to the Northern One and he already had some idea of what was going on after finding the bloody wipes and dressings in the kitchen bin.
I don’t know what made me do it.
And yet I do.
I was supposed to be having a shower but really I’d locked myself in the bathroom because I just couldn’t take it anymore.
It being everything.
I couldn’t cope with being mum, wife, friend or daughter.
I couldn’t even cope with being me.
I hear Squidge start crying upstairs, telling us that he’d woken up from his nap but instead of going to him I sat frozen until I heard the Northern One get up and go upstairs.
The relief I felt when Squidge stopped crying was quickly overtaken by intense guilt.
What sort of mum was I that I couldn’t go to my baby when he cried?
It was then that I decided that I deserved to be punished; that I had no right to let myself off lightly when Squidge needed me and I was to self-absorbed to go and be his mum like I was supposed to.
I had failed him and so I needed to accept the consequences.
I found one of the Northern One’s used razor blades and held it to my leg; gently at first and then increasing the pressure until the edge of the blade left red lines on my skin.
I turned the blade until just the corner was digging in and then I started to cut.
Just a few millimeters at a time then stopping to watch the track left behind turn red and the blood bead before starting again.
I watched my hand move and the blood well as though I were a spectator, even though it was my hand and my blood and my pain.
I was both accused and judge.
Criminal and executioner.
Giving out a sentence of pain that I felt I deserved and then inflicting it upon myself.
I pulled the blade through my skin with a perverse sense of almost triumph; I might not be able to cope with my brains interpretation of everyday life, I might not be able to be a good wife and mum but at least I was strong enough to punish myself when I deserved it.
I carried on cutting, tracing livid curved lines upon my skin until I felt that the sentence fit the crime.
Then I realised that it was almost certain that the Northern One would discover what I’d done and this wasn’t something for him to see; this was my own private court where I meted out the punishment that i knew I deserved but that he refused to acknowledge.
I managed to get out of the bathroom without him seeing that I was bleeding and got myself cleaned up while he went to the loo. The baby wipes I used to clean up the blood made my leg bleed faster and so I ended up frantically trying to stem the bleeding and dry my leg off so that the plasters would stick.
I was just putting the blood-stained wipes and the plaster wrappers in the bin when he came into the kitchen to see if I was ok.
I managed to keep it from him overnight but the next morning he found out.
I was so ashamed of what I’d done.
I didn’t want him to see how weak and pathetic I was but I desperately needed someone to look after me and tell me that things would get better, my leg would heal and no one else apart from us would every see it.
At the same time I wanted to run back into the bathroom and add to the damage that was already there.
I keep looking at the cuts.
The first one is about ten centimeters long and the second is about 4 centimeters.
They’re bright red and sore to the touch, especially when I turn over in bed.
I can’t believe what a mess I’ve made of my leg.
I can’t understand why I didn’t carry on.
The Diazepam seems to have suppressed the urge for the moment but even if it hadn’t there’s no way on earth that I would hurt myself when it was just me and Squidge in the house, no matter whether he was asleep or how badly I felt I deserved it.
I can’t guarantee that Squidge will not be affected by my depression and a few people have very helpfully stated that he will grow up damaged and hating me as a result. I will do my utmost to shield him from the worst and explain the rest as best I can but I sure as hell will not let affect the way I look after him.
No matter how bad I feel and how strong the urge to harm myself it will never stop Squidge from being clean and dressed and fed. There will be days when I am not as fun as usual and some days when I’m not very fun at all but he will still have kisses and cuddles, I will still tell him I love him and pick him up when he cries.
I will never stop asking for help and I will do anything and everything to be a good mummy to him even though there are days where I’m internally begging and screaming to just be left alone.
When my GP asked yesterday if I had thought about killing myself I said no and meant it.
I may not be the best mum and as much as I may sometimes feel like the worst mum there’s ever been logic tells me that this simply can’t be true.
So if I’m not the worst mummy in the world then it’s probably best for Squidge for me to stick around, even on the days that I really don’t want to.