Sunday was exhausting. It marked the beginning of weekend contact with my son on a regular basis. Sundays were chosen so that we could go to church together, go out for a meal with my dad (as has become our custom since I came out of hospital last June) and then have some chilled time at home together before his return to the station at around 4pm. It sounded ideal, because basically I don’t have to plan or work too hard, it will just be relaxed time together. Wrong! It may have been relaxed and chilled for the guys, but for me it was stressful as ever. My anxiety seems to be at ‘potential threat’ level pretty much all of the time. I was constantly worrying what my son was eating, as his diet has been under close scrutiny since being with his foster carer. I couldn’t stop checking the time, for fear he would get back late. I felt I couldn’t relax and have a normal conversation in case I said something Children’s Services wouldn’t approve of, and lastly I had to remember not to push my sleeves up, regardless of how hot I was getting with the anxiety, because the dressing on my arm would arouse curiosity. In addition, regardless of how much I love my two guys, they are, at times, incredibly annoying! Probably, in all honesty, this is down to me being increasingly irritable at the moment, and feeling like I am holding a huge fiery ball of anger within me at the moment. I am constantly living in fear that one wrong word or action directed at me is going to spark off a massive outpouring of rage. The fact that I probably struggle to express anger the most of all the emotions, tends to make me very fearful of what I might end up doing. It could go four ways; my usual response is to cry, with optional shouting, swearing and stomping around. However at the moment I cant actually cry, so that is probably not going to happen. Secondly, my next popular option would be to damage myself, by cutting, scratching or head butting. Thirdly, I have been known to damage property (and potentially myself) by kicking or punching things, and fourthly, although fairly rarely, I have occasionally lashed out (verbally and/or physically) at someone else.

Anyway, I managed to keep the anger in check, and at least on the most part my other symptoms and anxieties too, presenting the ‘coping’ face that has been both my saviour and my nemesis in the last few months. Dad left, I waved my boy off on his train, drove home and fell apart. I was so tired I literally just crawled into bed as I was, and slept soundly for around three hours.

On waking, the low mood that had been nipping at my ankles all weekend launched its full-on attack. I was utterly floored. Every conceivable method of ending my life flooded my mind in graphic detail. I did my upmost to fight back, distracting, distracting. The urge to cut myself got more and more intense, and I found myself bargaining with the thoughts; if I cut up, will you quit telling me to kill myself? I already knew the answer though. Attempting to negotiate with an illness hell-bent on destroying you is futile. Keep distracting, it’s the only way. I contemplated ringing OOH. But, no, too risky. If the horrible one is on the other end of the phone, I will end up in a worse state, and the overwhelming urge to take myself to the top of the multi-storey may prove to powerful to resist. Distract, distract.

A number of hours playing the same mindless game on the iPad finally eased the intensity of the destructive urges. My eyes were starting to close. I headed back to bed. It was 3am.

Thankfully I fell asleep quickly and soundly. Apart from the disturbing dream, that once again seemed to last forever, I completely zonked out, only stirring briefly to turn off the alarm. When I finally awoke fully, it was past midday. Unfortunately, sleep had done nothing to improve my mood, and again I churned through the thoughts of suicide and harming myself relentlessly. Incredibly I just lay in bed, in the half-dark until 6pm, still too exhausted to actually get up. I sipped some water during those hours, and finally it was the need to pee that caused me to move.

Now up, I determined to do something positive, however small. I cleaned my teeth. Made a warm drink, and managed to eat a small amount. I even managed to hang some washing on the airer. However the moment I sat down to drink my tea, the thoughts overtook me again. I gave much consideration to which of the tablets I have available would be the most effective in overdose, but was unable to reach a conclusion. Just take them all then, better safe than sorry.

A little voice from deep inside me whispers, “No Angel, fight! Distract! You won’t always feel like this.” I manage to distract, but I argue with the positive voice. I don’t believe that things will change. I consider again handing my son over to Social Services permanently. I hate that he believes at some point he will be allowed to come home and everything will be wonderful, but actually I will still be the crap parent I was before, unable to look after him, and causing him untold psychological damage in the process. He would definitely be better off without me. I need to stop pretending that I am ok in front of him and my dad. Yes, it will worry and distress them, but better that than they suddenly hear I was found splattered on the pavement at the back of the car park when they believed I was doing ok.

Just carrying on seems an impossibility. The pain is too intense, the burden is too great. I don’t have the energy for this fight any more. My body clock is f*cked, I have no appetite, I forget to drink and take my tablets, just washing and putting on clean clothes is a mammoth effort, my home is becoming dirtier, simple tasks are near impossible and getting out the flat is a challenge. The anger I’m carrying feels all consuming. I can’t unburden it, because there is not the safe space to do so. I can’t trust anyone. I’m a laughing stock, poor pathetic naïve little Angel. No one knows how to help because she doesn’t help herself. I’m just a waste of space. And energy. And resources.

I consider picking up the phone. What’s the point? Warm bath, milky drink and bed. I know that without wasting NHS time and money. Maybe tomorrow things will seem different.

Thank you for reading.