I been here for years.
I haven’t written a blog post in over a year.
There are many reasons for this. The main one is that I don’t have time to write anymore. The other main one is that the internet is a very different place to the place I started blogging in 8 years ago.
The other main reason that sort of goes hand in hand with the change of the internet is that now people talk about how much of yourself, and of your children it is okay to put online. When my kids were little I wrote about the hard stuff. About the pit of my stomach, can’t get off the floor, how will I go on hard stuff. Because I needed it out of my head. I didn’t mind if people read it or not. But I couldn’t say it out loud and it needed to come out. So it came out here.
I don’t know if I want my kids to read the pit of my stomach stuff.
But it’s still in my head.
And it’s killing me.
So I’ve decided to write again. For a little while anyway.
Today I cannot cope. I thought that I couldn’t cope yesterday, and that today was better. But then like a switch it flipped and I can’t cope again.
I’ll tell you why.
Harriet has a lump behind her ear. Sadie headbutted her and she got a lump. A haematoma. Plenty of kids get bumps. Do they get haematomas? I have no idea. She was given antibiotics and it got better briefly but then it got worse again and then it popped and now it’s an open wound on the side of her head oozing puss. She’s on two more weeks of antibiotics. This is day 3 and it looks heaps better already. But my head is in the hospital. In the isolation room where we were for 5 days, almost 3 years ago. I’m on the bed holding her limbs tight so she can’t struggle as they pull metres (yep, metres) of packing bandage out of the open wound in the side of her head where they took the infected implant out. I’m pinning her down so that she takes her antibiotics. I’m holding her as she sobs because I pinned her down. I’m talking to doctors pretending to be an adult that understands. Pretending to be a Mother that has all of this under control. That’s where I am.
P.T.S.D is not a phrase I shy away from. I accept that it’s there and recognise it and treat it with respect.
But it’s fucking awful.
It is crippling.
I can see that Harriet is getting better. I can see that she will more than likely be okay. But I am still in that room.
And it’s difficult to be in this room when I am in that room. You know?
Difficult to cope with William’s stye and Sadie’s separation anxiety. Difficult to cope with Harriet not being able to hear in her gym class. Difficult to look for schools for Sadie. Difficult to allow myself to feel the huge emotions that come with her going to a different school. Difficult to be present at my own doctors appointments. Difficult to meal plan and to cook and to wipe down the table and to do laundry and hoover. Difficult to eat.
Difficult to be here.
Because I am there. In that room.
Pretending I have this all under control.