The group was at capacity yesterday. Everyone was lovely, but the intensity of emotions was breathtaking. And triggering. Everyone at different stages of recovery. Some angry and shouting. Some sad and sobbing. Some had been let down by their families or by the justice system. Most lived in fear. All struggled to get their lives back. People spoke sentences that could have come from my mouth. In part I wanted to cry in relief, in part I wanted to hide in the depths of my mind and not feel anything. So many topics were covered, childbirth, family, partners, anger, depression. It was both liberating and overwhelming. I felt less alone than I have in years. But to see my heartache and isolation mirrored when I try to avoid it was so confronting.
I left feeling raw, exposed, vulnerable, small, child like. Unable to speak. Incredibly drained.
At home I crawled into bed and slept for a few hours.
I couldn’t tell my husband what had really been talked about. I felt afraid to talk out loud. My head still felt confused, I was so sad. We watched some television then went back to bed.
The night was incredibly cruel. The wind was strong and my nightmares were the worst they’d been in a long time. Violent, graphic. I woke in panic attacks. Terrified. Body memories, disoriented. Over and over. At one point I went to the bathroom to try to find a tool to cut myself with. I haven’t self harmed since we went back to England so over a year ago. I need to feel the cut, see blood. Feel a release. I wanted to cut the pain away. The shame. My husband knows my tendency to cut when I’m struggling with the past so it’s difficult to find sharp things easily. I debated going downstairs to the kitchen to use a knife, but the children’s bedrooms are downstairs and the thought of them waking and catching me was beyond comprehension – that’s not to say I’ve shown such consideration to my family in the past.
The night was torture. If someone had offered me death there and then I would have taken it. I was so tired, but my mind and body were being tortured over and over.
This morning I didn’t want to move. I’ve cried like I haven’t cried for a long time. I struggled to get the kids ready. To hide my pain. The panic has threatened to rise. I feel alone, lost, afraid of the world.
I don’t know what to do.