Miserere Mei.

I never grieved.
I never did that. I was locked in my own agony for two days solid, wandering around in a sea of horror, but I never grieved properly. I was never allowed to feel bad with him so I was not allowed to grieve.
There was life sparked in me. I held it between my hips, I cradled it into life unconsciously, I breathed and fed it oxygen and love. I had a chance to do what I have always wanted to do- hear a cry and scoop my precious one into my arms, hold tight, breathe in that scent of milk and something special. I wanted that, and I couldn’t see that it had begun in me.
Instead of testing and realising, instead of counting missed pills and thinking of weeks, I cried. I was bleeding in my heart long before the real blood ever came. I was dragging my mangled self through broken glass, every one of his words revealed as a lie. My insides were bathed in acid and I wanted to scream, but shock placed its calm mask across this burning sea of torment and I was forced to smile by memories of his expectations.
Instead of growth, and joy, and calm, there was a withering and death. I remember thinking that the pain couldn’t possibly get worse, but it did. I remember thinking that I couldn’t keep losing all this blood, but I did. I wanted to scream and panic but instead I cleaned myself up, swiping bloodstains off my legs, and curled up in the corner of my room.
I was going crazy, wasn’t I? People like me didn’t have miscarriages because they didn’t deserve children.
But the symptoms fit. My laptop’s cold screen told me so. I stared.
It was pain worse than the break up at first. I went into meltdown in the corner of my room, rocking and begging something out there to please make it stop, because I couldn’t hurt any more. The pain in my heart and the pain in my womb conspired to make the agony worse than any I’d ever had. I wanted an end and nearly considered this being the end of me, but the vain hope of getting him back stopped that.
I went into shock the next day. I was still bleeding clumps of blood, stuff that had once been alive. I was so selfishly absorbed in my own pain that I couldn’t see my own child fighting for survival. I was a bad person and would have been an even more terrible mother.
I have a vivid memory of sitting on the couch in the living room and searching for signs of miscarriage on the internet. My dad was listening to something I’d never heard before- I know now it was Allegri’s Miserere Mei. I ached. I felt hot tears flow down my face.
How can I have not seen my little one inside me? How could I have not seen the first life I’d ever created? I felt almost like I’d snuffed it out myself, but I know that his abandonment and my grief played their parts. I did nothing wrong, but my little one knew they would never last in such a cruel world.
The music broke me, as it breaks me now. I can’t hear it without crying. I can’t be in the same room as it or I feel that pain again. I should have a three year old child now. I should have this little crazy bundle of joy running around with dinosaurs and my puppy and missing his old dog and wishing that he was a horse or a wolf or wanting to be in space. She might have been a little girl, watching Noggin the Nog for the thousandth time and pretending she was following them into the cave where the dragon hid, or flying kites with me, or cuddling with my sister as she read her a bedtime story. I would have told my child stories of London, where Auntie R lives. My child would have seen videos of me dancing, taught Juno new tricks, refused to eat her or his greens and lived and breathed and loved.
I have empty arms and a heart that misses what I never had and never will have again. I can’t afford to have children, suspecting as strongly as I do that I have bipolar disorder and knowing that my PTSD can send me spiralling into despair. I don’t want to put my child through watching mummy suffer and then experiencing the same thing. I don’t want to watch my child for the mania, the depression, the self harm and the pain of bullying. I know life is full of all sorts, but I don’t want my child to get the same end of the stick as I did. No more.

Even so…
My baby, oh god. I miss you. I wish I could have kissed you. I wish I could have counted my little one’s tiny fingers and toes, played hopscotch in the rain just for the hell of it, put you to bed and cuddled you. I wish it was possible to just experience that with you. Even the frustrations and sadnesses of watching you grow up… I want that right now and I will never have it.

I hurt so much right now. I am still crying and I want to know whether I will ever feel any less tormented over this. It’s as if I opened a raw wound in my heart and it’s bleeding fire into my throat and lungs.
Inside, I feel so empty. I feel empty and lost. I still want to scream, but the house is silent and everyone is sleeping.

Miserere mei.



I am really fucking struggling at the minute.

I nearly had a panic attack in a restaurant tonight. I am so wrought and wrung out that I am at flipping point, and I could feel the old, sickening paranoia crawl up my throat and make its home in my head, my chest, my hands. I had to go outside to calm down, and I cuddled my friend’s baby boy to keep it at bay. I think I’m going to have to start taking more of my meds, but apparently I have to have a medication review soon and will not get prescribed more until I go and tell the doctor I need to stay on it. So irritating, but I guess it’s to check I’m not getting worse on it.

I heard the dark passenger the other day. I heard his voice first, and I knocked it down, but the taunt that he vanished with was, “You can medicate us into silence if you want, but we will always be here for when you get off it, waiting to make your life worse again.”

I told them that whilst I was in therapy I would be fixing it so they would never speak to me again, or hurt me again. I’m so tired, though. I am  having trouble concentrating, and my dissociation is back really badly.

Thirteen year old me hates the arguments that are happening in the house at the minute. They are only small, insignificant squabbles about who put what costume where or what was supposed to be printed out when, but I feel frightened and am inclined to stay out of the way as much as I can whenever there’s one happening. My pulse races and I’m terrified that I will somehow be found to blame.

Dr K and I were talking about my marble last session. She is worried that I never grieved for him or her, my baby-that-could-have-been, and I am sure I never did properly. I know that I was suffering from the breakup with my sociopath ex, and unable to deal with that grief too, so I buried it. Now, it is all flooding back and I feel desperate for the beat of a small heart in my arms, tiny waving fists next to my cheeks, and a pain of eyes to stare back into. My arms are empty. I am alone, with a hole inside where that child should have been and a hollow dryness in my eyes where tears should be.

I would have been so mixed up about having that baby. I would have never escaped my ex- he would have used that child as leverage, he would have tried to twist and taint my baby. I would have had to fight for my rights as parent every single day. I would have watched my child grow up and have to wonder whether the eyes looking back into mine were his, housing all that warpedness, or would my child become like me?

I know logically that overall I have been spared something really horrible in that my ex would have wanted sole control of both of us, but holding my friend’s baby has made my heart and arms and womb scream out for mine. I want him or her back. I miss him or her, I miss my child.

The scream inside me is louder than words. It is the scream of the mothers of Sparta, of the Somme, of Iraq and Afghanistan. It is the scream of failed childbirth. It hoarses my throat and burns at the corners of my eyes. It sears inside me and I can’t escape when I am alone. Putting the happy face on it hides it from my mum, who I never told, and the rest of my family, but I need to scream and I can’t.


I’m stricken by anxiety right now. All I want to do is get in bed and sleep. Instead, I’m mentally climbing the walls and wishing there was some way to switch off what I’m feeling. I’m working very hard for the dance school show at the minute so I am involved in all sorts of things like thinking about lighting cues and sewing sequins and rehearsing children, so the tiredness I’m feeling is more than just meds. The problem is, I’m frightened of sleeping. I’m frightened of yet another nightmare where I’m with my ex, but I keep feeling like something is wrong, and then I realise- I’m not supposed to be with him! I’m supposed to be with J!

I’m frightened of waking up and realising I’m going to have to shut my eyes and sleep again. I hate the thought that I will probably have a nightmare each and every night, and as a result I delay sleeping and then the tiredness is even worse…

I hate this cycle. It’s easier with J in bed to hold, because I’m grounded and able to realise he will wake me if my nightmares are too bad. He is there if I start crying or if I thrash too much, to hold my hand. He isn’t here though- he would be with me now if he could, but we are thousands of miles apart and I’m frightened.

I think I will take an extra dose of my meds, and see if that helps. Right now I am running out of options and frightened that I won’t be able to sleep.


This is just so brilliant and explains why I used to feel like I never had a right to my feelings being aired. He stonewalled them out of existence! It makes sense that he did so if he literally did not want to know about them.

TW: CSI and triggers.

I’m not very clever sometimes. I love my crime drama and my cop shows, and tonight I watched CSI. In it, there was a girl who had survived a kidnapping and incarceration. She’d been raped repeatedly and had finally developed Stockholm Syndrome, and she’d finally succumbed to her conditioning and tried to imitate her original captors. I should know better than to watch an episode with so many goddamn triggers, but I was glued and on the edge of my seat. I felt like if I didn’t watch to the end, I would not be respecting anyone who had gone through anything like that.

Thing is, I am conditioned to believe that what I went through was nothing and I should still be grateful for the way he treated me. The email he once sent me said that he was sorry to break up with me and it was a shitty way to treat me after the time I had spent with him. I wanted to throw up. I was an abused rag doll, with no life and no soul. I had no freedom and no future. I was a lifeless husk, and he tried to convince me I was only truly alive with him.

These triggers are weird. I’m not able to stop watching these programmes if there are these triggers in them, and I’m beginning to think it’s a form of therapy- a healthy sort of purging, if you will. At least, that’s what I hope it is.

Why I’ve had it with NHS healthcare.

So I received a rude email about my back- two years ago, as some of my readers will know, I suffered a stress fracture to my lower spine and it has not healed properly, thanks to serious cock-ups within the NHS. The most recent in this string of events is that I was discriminated against and refused treatment because of my PTSD. I was so distressed by this that I ended up on a motorway bridge, my voices screaming at me to jump.

I am still wrangling my way through the lengthy proceedure of getting treatment again (been without since March) and am now considering legal action. If so, this post will be the last fairly detailed one as I will have to keep the details to myself, but the main focus of my post today is the reaction I got from my psychologist, Dr K.

She was horrified that I had been treated in this way by a doctor- and she was also disgusted that I was still receiving no treatment for a serious back injury. I live in pain each day. There are rare days where I wake up totally pain free, or have a whole day where nothing hurts. The worst part of having a fracture that has healed incorrectly is that if I do too much (walk a bit around town after teaching for maybe an hour) it is agony. At my worst, my right foot drags along the floor and I limp like I broke the leg.

Dr K was angry for me that I still suffer this. It’s been two fucking years. I am supposed to be able to dance professionally for twelve hours a day on my back the way it is? Fuck no. I’ve had to quit dancing professionally for two reasons- my PTSD secondly, and my fucking spinal injury firstly.

Dr K was angry that I live with this. She was upset for me that I have lost my career that I worked so hard for.

You know what?

So am I.

I am done being a doormat for all and sundry. I have had it with people bossing me around and telling me I do not matter. I have absolutely had enough of being the person who gets the shitty deal.

Time for action.