I have an unshakeable sense of gloom. I’ve had it for a couple of weeks now. It’s founded in having had a poorly baby for well over a month. We’ve had one thing after another. Snot, vomit, diarrhoea, chicken pox. Trips to the GP, trips to the emergency doctor, trips to A&E.
Disturbed nights of tears, mostly mine. Days of whining and having to constantly be held. Big brother tantrums and mischief trying to steal some attention away from his poorly sister by beating her up. It works. I shout, he cries. She still cries. It’s relentless and seemingly endless. And it’s taking it’s toll.
Because in between all of these things we’ve had more hearing tests, more inconclusive results and more fear about the future.
I’ve not felt like this for a long time but it’s a familiar feeling. It’s the same one I had from the ages of about 18 to 21 when I was trying to figure out who I was by running away from everything I knew. And it’s the same feeling I had when I was pregnant with Will and was forced to question our decision by people doing the very same.
It’s a old demon.
So I know how it works. And I’ll be able to shift it. As soon as I can muster up the energy.