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.