*This is a long, honest post and may contain triggers. For this I apologise.*
I woke myself screaming. I have miscarried, I could feel the blood all over me, my legs, the bedclothes. My voice echoed around the room, although I don't know if I made any audible sound. I was shaking too much, I can hardly move. I daren't actually look at the mess, I can feel it and that was enough. After what seemed hours, I finally have the strength to lift the duvet and manoeuvre myself out of the bed. I stagger to the bathroom to clean myself up. I am crying as I rinse the blood from my hands, body. The blood is there, I aren't imagining it, but I am awake, standing in my own bathroom, this is no longer a dream, it is reality.
Fortunately for me, a distorted one, but a reality all the same. It took some tears, and time, to calm myself down. I should have written the day off there and then. Gone back to my clean bed and slept the day away. But I knew that wouldn't happen. Besides, I had an engineer coming to do the safety inspection before 10:00. And he'd made a show of letting my landlord know I had not been returning his call(s). It was one and I was in the hospital, so no reception. By the time I got home, I'd had the call from my landlord to say it was imperative I make the appointment.
I
have spent the night with my mind whirring, buzzing, not
able to switch off. I couldn't fall asleep, she (as always) an elusive
mistress, mixed in with waking when I finally catch her. Dreams so real that they leave you physically shaking, tearful, rattled.
Knowing that you woke just before that horrible thing happened, the one
that would tip you over the edge. All within 20 minutes since you last
looked at the clock.
Pregnancy
dreams are a normal phenomenon, or so I'm told. Apparently one of the
most common is to dream of having a litter of puppies or leaving your
child behind. I don't need Freud to figure what was going on with my
dreams. They were so real. This is the second time I have had that
particular dream.
At 10:02 I posted the following on Twitter:
You know them days where you have nothing? No patience, no empathy, no tolerance...?
Something's going to give today. No sure what yet!
As I said I knew it was going to be a BAD day. I got a reply off a lovely lady, who has patience beyond belief. I sent her a couple of messages basically saying I didn't trust myself not to shout, rant, abuse people today. And I really didn't, so I stayed away from Twitter. Even when I have been at my lowest, I have often turned to Twitter for the interaction, the distraction. Sometimes found in the supportive messages of people who understand, sometimes by just talking shite. Again, no need for Freud.
By 12:00 I was manically cleaning. I detest cleaning, I don't find it therapeutic, distracting, I just find it dull. I can also assure you this wasn't 'nesting'. I had stripped the kitchen to within an inch of its gloss and lino. The living room was in the process of being sanitised too, furniture moved, dado's polished, everything moved, tidied, cleansed.
I rang the engineer to ask where he was. 'Be there in 10' was his casual response. I was livid. I felt like he was tattling on me to my landlord, but didn't even have the courtesy to call and say he would be over two f*cking hours late. I hate people that are late and just ignore the fact. Regardless of whether I am a customer it's just good bloody manners.
He arrived, did his checks, answered my one question in a style that made me feel chastised, and left. Not checking the problem I had asked him to. Oh well.
I got back to cleaning, once I was satisfied that nothing else could be done downstairs, oh apart from finish of the jobs I had started in the kitchen, the oven, the hob, the cupboards, but it didn't cross my mind to do that. I had already moved on.
The dogs are taking the brunt of my frustration. Barking incessantly, taunting me to try and stop them. Tears and frustration build up.
I started to hoover the steps, I have 13. I use the end of the hose to dig into the pile, get the muck, dust, whatever out. It takes my around ninety minutes to clean the steps, and not even to an acceptable standard. I know I have to get some carpet cleaner for that. I have moved to the top of the stairs, the bit that in a bigger house would be called a landing. In this house, it's about 4 foot square. After going over the first foot or so, and the edges, I put the flat normal nozzle back on. I am getting fed up, I really just want to leave it, but force myself to continue, knowing if I don't it will be a while before it is done.
I literally have picked up the hose end of the nozzle, when the other end flipped over. Simple enough to turn back over, right? Yep. I turned it over. Within seconds it had done it again. This time did I flip it back over? Nope, I just flipped! I slammed the plastic so hard on the carpet that a bit fell off. Did this help? Hell no, now I was pissed that it had the audacity to break! I slammed the thing in to the floor with so much force there was no way it was going to survive! But it did, mocking me! I continued on with my vengeance, I swung the thing with the force of a man trying to impress a girl with the hammer game at a toy fair. Bits of plastic flying this way and that, as the thing lay there beaten. By this point I have given up trying to fight the tears back, I give in, let the wailing sobs take over. In a final act of defiance, I stomp my foot on to the power switch to stop the noise with so much force I have put my foot through the casing.
I collapse on the bed, burying my head in the pillow, I let out the tears, snot joining them in a wet stream. I have to heave myself off the bed and in to the bathroom. I need to clear my nose, to breathe... I try to calm myself, it's not happening. I take myself and tissues back to bed. I lay there crying for what feels like an eternity. Questions running around my head, not necessarily ones that need answers, or indeed have answers, questions that mean I can punish myself longer.
I can't breathe, my throat is closing. I'm gagging, choking, hyperventilating. I drag myself back to the bathroom, this time throwing up as soon as I enter. Making me cry harder, struggle to breathe more. After being violently sick several times, and cleaning up the mess, I collapse against the toilet bowl whilst being slumped back on the wall. I stayed there for about an hour, tears constantly falling, questions going unanswered. Realising that I am bitch, a worthless whore, a pitiful excuse for a human being. Not a victim, never a victim, because that meant I had no control over it, the pain, the hurt, the whatever.... It was my fault, I'd caused it, asked for it.
As I sit there, I drag my nails over the skin on my arms, I see them turn red under the pressure, flake at the force. I'm conscious I am doing it, which is new for me. The pain isn't enough, the pressure isn't enough. I want to see the skin give, the blood pour. I don't want the release, I want the pain. Physical pain has to be better than this, hurt less. I think about what I can use, my chef's knives, not as sharp as they should be, slight denting to the edges, not a clean cut. Do I want a clean cut? The extra ruggedness causing a greater wound... I think about the waiter's corkscrew, it's sharp twisted core, it makes me shudder thinking I almost killed myself with alcohol, so it seems a little apt....
Then it happened. The baby moved. My epiphany, the calling I had been waiting for, the proof my life was not going to be wasted? No! The thought that if I had miscarried I would be able to kill myself without anyone questioning it! That's right the thing I was most terrified this morning, I was thinking about happening so I had a get out clause. I mean she'd be better without me anyway. Right? I had done nothing but brought pain to those I loved, surely she was doomed? I puked. Shock? Disgust at myself.
I had spent so many years not wanting children, knowing I couldn't look after myself. I was too reckless, too selfish, too stupid. Then after getting married, we tried. In five years it never happened. I had seen marriages break up through the stress trying caused. We, or maybe just I, decided that we weren't going down that route. I told myself if it happened, fine. If it didn't, fine. I could handle it. Hell what was one more disappointment? My head is spinning, I could see myself there, pathetic, curled up over the bowl, like some drunken, drugged up waste.
I hate myself so much right now. I somehow manage to drag myself to my bed, and collapse on it. My husband comes upstairs to me, he saw the state of the hoover and me. He asked if I was ok, between sobs I told him I would be. I don't know what I wanted or needed at this point. But he did the one thing he always does when faced with this kind of situation, he tries to make me laugh. I tell him I had a fight with hoover and lost. I'm deadly serious, I have failed in a fight with an inanimate object. I hear him pick it up, trying to piece the jigsaw together, saying he thinks I won. Instinctively I laugh. I stop myself, hating myself. How dare I laugh? With the thoughts in my head, I laugh? What is wrong with me? He tells me to come down for a coffee and leaves me. I try to gather myself, my head which is in bits somewhere between the floor at the side of the toilet, my bed, and the floor in between. I end up laid on the sofa, crying, sobbing, and wailing, for several hours.
And do you know what I'm thinking? Thank f*ck I managed to stay of Twitter!
