06 May One Mum’s Malfunctioning Mind…
I’ve said it before and i’ll say it again – I hate writing blogs that are neither entertaining nor humorous.
I prefer to be that little light-hearted beacon in the stormy serious sea of motherhood that pokes fun at parenting and marriage.
The thing is though, my blog is a personal one. One that I always wanted to be able to channel myself through.
Am I an over sharer?
Perhaps – by some people’s standards.
The things I say here though, I rarely talk about it real life.
You would think that you would bump into me in real life and i’d be telling you all about that morning’s bowel movement but i’m very socially awkward away from the keyboard.
I watched Mind Over Marathon last week and it really touched a nerve with me.
Talking is important – so important.
I’m here to say I’m broken.
Not just slightly like I was a few weeks back but actually in need of repair.
Back when I was six years old I had my first panic attack.
I was in Kwik Save with my Grandad and all of a sudden I didn’t feel like I was there.
I felt detached.
Like I was watching the world through a window.
The panic was horrible.
I wanted to get back to being where I was but I couldn’t.
Nor could I explain it.
This happened many, many times throughout my adolescence, with me eventually being referred to CAHMS.
My parents were at a loss of how to help me as they had no idea why this happened.
I was missing lessons because I couldn’t face them and needed to find an escape route wherever I went.
The child psychologist I saw called it depersonalisation and derealisation and explained it’s the bodies way of removing you from an unwanted situation, by detaching you.
I hated it.
I couldn’t see an end to it.
They tried citilopram which just left me tired and with awful nightmares.
Counselling, which was emotionally draining.
I had planned to take some tablets and set the date in my mind but when the time came I couldn’t do it.
I didn’t want to die, I just wanted to feel what it was to live again.
With time, the episodes were fewer and far between and only making rare comebacks in my life.
The last time was after having Niamh, when I had PND and PTSD and it took a long time to shake.
Throughout our experience with Esme, they didn’t dare return – I was too focussed on keeping going that my mind had no room for their nonsense.
Sadly it has come back.
It saw an opening after my health finally started to improve.
There was a nice patch of happy forming that looked good for the taking and I woke up last week in a blind panic.
Afraid to take the baby to nursery.
Afraid to go to work.
Afraid to go to my school placement.
Afraid to think about my upcoming holiday.
Afraid to think about getting up in the morning.
Noise troubles me.
The TV seems too loud.
I can’t bear to be in a different room to everyone else.
I started to take Sertraline again and I’m waiting patiently for the benefit.
I’m only feeling the hazy pharmaceutical fog at the moment, interspersed by uncontrollable yawning.
When I’m able to think clearly, I know that it is anxiety and that I have a 100% success rate of getting through these times but when you’re in the dark centre of the cyclone you can’t see outside of it.
I’m working hard to cover the physical manifestations of this for the sake of the kids.
The unwashed hair, the slumped stance.
They won’t suffer because I am.
They will get to where they need to be, present and correct – clean and fed.
It’s in those quiet times when they sleep that I let myself get consumed by it.
Convinced i’m dying.
In the waking hours, I will greet you with a smile and a ‘how is your day going?’ when you come to my work place.
I will smile broadly at the teacher as I collect Niamh from school, trying to appear like I have it together.
But I will.