suicide, my son and nightmares

If someone were to ask me how I was feeling at any precise moment of the day, I would answer automatically, fine. But the real answer would be, numb. I am in fact existing and doing and being without any emotion at all. My routine is the same and I believe my demeanour is the same. I am able to function, but I can’t express and I can’t feel. My thoughts remain flat and focussed on chores and routine.

I am distant from my husband but which one of us created that distance or maintains that distance I couldn’t say. I’m sure he’d blame me, but I feel unable to talk to him at all and in the night when the nightmares jolt me awake and the storms howl and keep me on edge, I know I disturb him but he says nothing. But perhaps he feels I don’t want him to reach out for me and perhaps he’s right.

Frankly at the moment my journey is so branched out and so far removed I feel there is no one best placed to understand my emotions than myself. 

Last night my husband went to bed before me, I could have happily slept on the couch but the kids knew I was curled up on the couch on my laptop with my glass of wine. I don’t usually drink, but I wanted the comfort of the red wine. It’s warm buzz. The kids came out a few times, so I wasn’t going to get any peace. But I’d watched this movie and in it this girl had been put in a car with the gas from the exhaust directed with a hose through the window. What a peaceful way to go I thought. Listening to music. Taking some sleeping tablets, being in the privacy and perceived sanctity of my car. Drifting to sleep and letting the world melt away. I realised I had taken that image on the screen and created it in my garage, in my own car, even going as far as considering the hose pipe and using duct tape around the exposed edges of exhaust. Lining the bottom of the garage, wondering about timings. Perhaps I’d had too much wine? I don’t feel suicidal at least I don’t allow myself those creeping thoughts. I always thought hanging seemed so crass and slashing wrists so brutal. But sleeping pills or car gassing peaceful. And although I don’t daydream about it, I realised I’d spent too much time wistfully considering it. 

But my boy means everything to me. He is perfection. And for all I feel that is wrong and damaged and shameful about me and body and soul, he came from inside me. It’s hard to get my head around. If I hadn’t kept him with me the entire time after he was born I might think he was someone else’s baby. And when I go away I know he misses me and every time I pick him up from kindy he greets me with all the love and enthusiasm in the world. If I spill something on me, he offers me his t-shirt, he will randomly kiss me, he will give me a smile that radiates through to my heart and could convince me that there is absolutely nothing wrong in this world. When my husband picks him up he comes home and seeks me out to say hello before anything else. He is my greatest gift. My angel and all that is right with the world. So while I might get carried away thinking about my permanent peaceful sleep, the reality of hurting my son, who I know, is the one little guy that loves me unconditionally and needs me as I need him, I realise I could never do that.

My nights are torturous. Last night especially bad, perhaps because of the wine or the thoughts I allowed myself to have.

Nightmares reliving my ex putting things inside of me. I was nothing but a vessel. I was looking down at myself as tears rolled down my cheeks and my body lay exposed. Brain switched off. But in my dream I was trying to see what the things were. 

Then I awoke in panic and it looked like three men at the patio door coming for me, or were they demons coming for my soul? I lay quietly staring, waiting. I refused to be afraid, if they were coming for me, let them take me. But as I woke up more and my eyes adjusted I was able to make out the familiar shapes and shadows.

Back to sleep this time I was being passed around different men, but as I tried to say no each one said, this isn’t rape, this is what you’re here for. And a part of me realised that was my reality, I was bound for eternity to be passed around like meat with no rights over my body because no one really cares.

Who can I discuss these things with? I don’t care about dream interpretation or what caused these dreams, I can figure that out, I don’t want pity or affection or for it to be acknowledged and then forgotten about an hour later and then asked, why are you in a mood? Is everything ok?

I don’t want empty philosophical conversation about it or obligatory chat – in the sense of my past,  I don’t want any of it. 

Understanding, empathy, patience – they would be nice. But no one has limitless of that. I understand that, we’re all only human.

So I will continue answering, fine. And I will continue existing. And numb works for me. Numb is all I have at the moment.

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