Monthly Archives: July 2013

Cliquey cliquey

I have been subjected to the horror that is the playground far too many times for my delicate nerves to take recently.

L finished preschool today. And I could not be happier.

We walked in and she immediately ran off to be with all her friends – all the girls she has invited to her birthday party (only one has responded so far).

Only my child could choose to be friends with the group of girls who have probably all known each other from birth.

So I was forced to sit with a clique.

This clique blanked me, talked over L’s head and were generally very clear about their exclusivity, which has left me feeling very raw.  Not only for myself and my accentuated “poor parenting” (I was the only parent to get up and dance and sing with L though.  I might be shy and anxious but I don’t mind making a complete dick of myself if it means L gets what she needs.  And I quite like dancing.) but also for L.

I wanted desperately to be the cool kid at school, and I could see so much of myself in her. The thing is, now I’m wondering how much of a part the other parents in my exclusion.  I’m thinking in my case not much – I’m still repeating the same cycles now I’m older – but L is so lively and confident.  The other girls wanted to sit with her and hold her hand.  She does get invited to parties.

She’s not any more sensitive than the other girls and she is certainly a bright spark. It was so hard to watch the mothers talk over her head, hold their children close, ignore her, while she tried to play with her friends.  Maybe I exaggerated it because my childhood (my own doing!) was so bitter and ended with me crying in a corner a lot.

I’m terrified she is going to get cut out of situations because of who I am which has already happened in the past.

Chalk up another parenting fail.

 

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Health Visitor

Today a health visitor came to see me after concerns were raised about my mental health at a routine appointment.

I’m sure I feel fine.

I’m exhausted as last night was a bad night for Ru and talking about certain subjects always makes me upset but is my mood that low?

She pulled out the questionnaire I know so well and I did it while she took Ru out in the sun because he was crying uncontrollably (again, thanks boy.)

Twelve. I scored twelve. So yes, I’m in the not good place, apparently. Weird thing is, I don’t really feel any different. I’ve felt pretty consistently like this for years so I’m not sure that there is anything that can be done to “fix” me.

More terrifyingly though, I disclosed my pain about not feeling like a proper parent and the torture I put myself through every time I’m out with my older children. Then followed that with the wallop of guilt I get when I’m not looking after them but not doing much else (like now).

The only way to “fix” that is to go out more with them and take time to get to know them.

Is this more pressure I need to put on myself to try and be the parent I want to be?

*Ticks yes to having ALL OF THE ANXIETY*

Worse than I thought

Last night, I had an anxiety attack. My first, real, proper, self-preserving anxiety event. And it was absolutely horrible.

As soon as I climbed into bed and closed my eyes, it started. I felt very odd, as if nothing were real. I was smelling odd things, like wood chips, and the plastic from toys I had when I was young. Nothing generated by the real world.

I was convinced the vomit was coming and wouldn’t stop, then I wouldn’t be able to feed Ru, or make it through the day.

I thought writing a full, meandering, but distant account of the events from the beginning – the very beginning – would be therapeutic. I even went as far as to think I would enjoy the process, fictionalising aspects as I saw fit.

I did enjoy bashing out two thousand words of absolute drivel, letting my brain follow its thought processes and writing it all down.

What I was actually doing, without realising, was triggering myself, over and over again until I came to bed where I lie down, the last few bars of the psytrance going round and round in my head. Then the horror came.
I detached. But not in the way I used to during my teens while I self-harmed. That was controlled. This, this was far more scary.

I felt like my brain was going on some kind of journey without me and that everything felt odd. Even the skin on my body was odd. I had waves of nausea as I panicked about feeling so strange and thought that maybe I would never feel normal again.

I’ve had broken sleep plagued by dreams of drowning.

Is this what Post Traumatic Stress Disorder does? There were no flashbacks from the birth, or the few hours before and these were the images which kept jumping into my mind which had raised the concerns of a very gentle and loving health visitor. Feeling odd after writing about finding out I was pregnant and letting my mind explore a calm and factual way of storytelling wasn’t part of the deal.

Now I just feel jumpy and exhausted and a little frightened.

I need to write this, but as I become more ingrained in the story, I’m worried I might trigger myself into oblivion.