TW: little one.

I barely have words for this.

I’ve been doing better- dissociative, absent-minded maybe, but better. And now it’s nearly July and I had my miscarriage then, and I am currently bleeding because I forgot to take a pill two days ago.

It’s bringing back memories of the horror of realising I was pregnant and pretty much immediately after that realising my marble was dead, my baby was gone. I have that hollow emptiness between my hipbones again where life should have grown. I am not cradling a three year old girl or boy in my arms, soothing my little one to sleep. I’m ragged and in pain, bleeding just like I did then.

I thought I had managed to put this aside a bit better than this, but I think that my body has not finished grieving yet. It’s still grieving for all the sorrows, crying out for all the times it was hurt and couldn’t do anything to stop it.

I hope I stop bleeding soon. I keep thinking that there’s something wrong, but what’s really wrong is that someone once put me through so much emotional pain that I lost my child.

I think I will have to ring the phone number the doctor gave me for the rape crisis centre near me. I think it’s time to find out what’s happening with my body, and to let myself continue to grieve for a dream that never happened.

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Mondays are a struggle.

Why do I find Mondays so hard?

I dislike waking up and realising that I have a whole week of pulling myself through whilst fighting my own head. Dissociation, avoidance, sadness… I have no pride in myself today and I feel stupid that I’m not handling things well today. I also feel guilty that I am still in my pyjamas and haven’t done anything yet.

I don’t like how I feel and I wish that I didn’t have to feel this way.

Some nights…

 

Some nights, despite the crippling anxiety, you manage to have fun.

Some nights, even though you fear getting to sleep, you still smile because there is a sleeping dog in your arms pretending she’s a baby.

Some nights, there’s nothing like sinking into a warm American drawl on the other end of the phone and talking about crazy shit, like exploding chestnuts and peanuts actually being related to peas and beans.

Some nights, friends drop you a line to say they miss you, or ask your advice. Maybe they even call round out of the blue, or message you to say they might be helping a friend to look after their horse and would you like a free riding lesson in that case?

Some nights, you indulge the smaller, younger parts of yourself by watching endless cute dog videos, or a favourite childhood film. You need the comfort, after all.

Some nights, despite it all, life is good. Keep fighting, everyone.

TW. Again, I never seem to escape the problem.

I’ve just had another nightmare about my ex. This time he was taunting me, trying to stop me from getting away from him, repeatedly hitting me across the back of the head with anything he could lay his hands on. I was exhausted and upset and angry and he wouldn’t let me go.

I’m supposed to go and teach today and I’m absolutely shredded. I feel exhausted and scared and upset. I hate feeling this low and this frightened.

Hard Times.

I’m so sorry I’ve been AWOL recently. This latest discovery in therapy has rocked me to the core. I am now a person abused in childhood, someone I always felt sorry for but rationalised that I never was that person. I knew what I was doing. It was my fault.

 

Now, I’m realising that it was not my fault, that I was fourteen, a child. I teach children who are fourteen. I don’t want them hurt, and I certainly wouldn’t blame them if someone cruel took advantage of them. Why have I been blaming me?

I’m so tired and fragile at the minute- the smallest thing sets me off. I cry at things that wouldn’t bother normal people. I was sent the third smear test reminder letter in a row today, and it floored me- I was so upset at its callous tone, it’s schoolteacher-style nagging, its overtone of disappointment. I’m fighting a battle with trauma here, and I’m struggling to cope. I’m not having it done- I’m sending the smear test refusal letter back to them. Yet another moment when someone else wants me to do something I’m not comfortable with and doesn’t understand how much pain they’re causing.

I pretty much cried all session with Dr K today. The very hurt fourteen year old was out and upset, and didn’t want to talk but just wanted to cry. I sat there, feeling very small and very afraid, and also very shameful and dirty. Dr K spent the whole session trying to calm me down and to stop me from feeling so horrific. The fourteen year old inside me wanted suicide,self harm, an end to her pain and an escape into the dark. Twenty five year old me wants peace and J and just to curl up on his chest and let him hold me. The only person allowed that close to me is him. I brook no trespass from doctors thinking they can swab me and expect me to be fine. I won’t be.

The doctor at my local surgery is the one who pointed out to me that I’m officially a person abused in childhood. She’s trying her best to help me. I’m terrified of the pain I end up in after sex, or even just when I’ve over-exercised, and she wants to help me find out what it is. She also wants to help me to report the abuse, and for that, I need an examination. I’m terrified of that too, but that one less so- that’s something I can choose to opt in or out of, to be able to tell them I can’t and leave or to be brave and do it. I have the control there. I’m just terrified that they’ll find that he scarred me and that I’m broken, or that maybe there’ll be nothing there and I will be told I’m making it all up. I’m not: I know what happened to me.

I became childlike again today, drawing on the paper Dr K had in her office, explaining all the pain and hurt in pictures. She believes that I’ve done some good today with them, that I’ve made progress and been able to explain what’s wrong and how she can help. I feel like we made progress there too. The drawings I did two weeks ago were just as powerful, the things I wrote from fourteen year old me. I’m so tired now, and all I want to do is curl up in bed and watch something pleasant.

If anyone has any advice for me over all this, I would love some. I don’t know how I’m going to cope with this and what it really means that I have parts of me. I dissociate, floating away, but I remember it all and I know that I’m there. Is this DID? I don’t know.

I need hugs, sleep, and a rest from everything. I’m so tired, everyone.