I went to the family planning clinic today. I wanted the Depo injection. I’ve had before between births and aside from one time it’s always been good at holding back periods. My menstrual cycle can be a huge trigger for me. Despite having four children, the blood and the available sanitary options provoke nightmares. The pain and loss of control can make nightmares worse.
My gynaecologist care is done separate to my GP. I like it that way. I can rely on nurses and discretion. Which is a huge contrast and surprising since after my rape case it was a family planning clinic that lost my notes and has been slow to respond both to the police and my lawyer for my subsequent treatment – following the rape.
But there is some comfort in its ethos, the lack of judgement and its usual especially nowadays awareness of my plight.
I had been called by the kindy prior to my appointment that my son had blisters around his mouth – they suspected hand and mouth disease. I was doubtful. They tend to dramatise on the slightest symptoms – but I dutifully picked up my full of beans boy and I took him with me.
I knew that if I didnt make this appointment – I never would. Fear and the unknown would envelope me. Form bubbles of panic in my gullet, squeeze oxygen from my lungs. A place to avoid. A place that might represent memories. The child in me, not seeing a clinic in NZ but a clinic in the UK, being talked at. A world unknown to me. Diseases unheard of. Pain encompassing my entire body. Fear so great it freezes me. Tears wanting to form, the world help I learned to choke on, and still do.
But I went with my boy. He sat on my lap while I answered standard, innocuous questions. I breathed in his hair, kissed his soft scalp. He help keep me present.
The injection itself painless. The conveyor belt shifted, we left as others walked in. I consciously ignored the waiting room. Terrified to see the heartbroken, desperate, confused, lonely girl waiting there.
So this evening I celebrate my ability to a, prevent an ongoing traumatic event for me – for not especially while I’m overseas. And the ability to forge forward. Without support, just my boy sat on my lap. Calm and watching.
A close call between past and present.
This evening I sat in the spa pool for hours. My husband had taken my son to the GP appointment confirmation of his virus, of which I received some shitty texts because my son had poo in his nappy. In both our sleep I’d missed it.
Other than that we haven’t spoken. There is no need. Why would there be? So he can ridicule what I say? Point out my failings? Now we’re on territory that points to me being a bad mother.
I’m over it.
I sat In the spa for ages. Enjoying the warmth. The jets massaging my back. A cold glass of NZ Marlborough Savignon Blanc.
What made me think this was fixable?
I have faced a fear, I have managed myself. I no longer expect support, I no longer expect any acknowledgement.
My journey is mine alone. There are no comforting arms, no familiarity anymore.
I am alone. And I must deal.