Firstly, the blessing is that I’m loved. I have SO MANY amazing, caring, sweet, incredible friends, an extraordinary husband and a Mom who loves me so very much. She drives me nuts, but she’s my Mom. I’m so thankful for at least ONE parent in my life. I will forever miss my Dad being around.
My default in life…is to lie. It’s a protection measure I’ve learnt and implemented in my life since I was 8 years old. LIE because then the problem will be stalled and give you time to figure out an exit.
So when people ask me “Janet – how are you?” since coming home from hospital, I lie “Yeah, doing okay” I answer. As I lie, peices of my heart crumble like an old volcano and those dry, broken peices drop into an ocean of sadness, grief, guilt and shame.
“Oh that’s brilliant!” people will answer “That 3 weeks of hospital rest must have been just what you needed” and they’ll smile. And I’ll smile back and give my patented thumbs-up.
But I actually could have used a few more months of rest.
That’s what I wish I could say but I don’t.
The truth is so much harder to say because of the burden and discomfort it places on others. This is a weight I’ve got to carry on my own. It’s a heavy rock and I’m used to it. It even has my hand prints on it from carrying it for over 20 years.
The truth is? I’m more suicidal than ever. I really, really do want to die and I’d like for that to happen as soon as possible, to be honest.
I wasn’t in hospital “for a little rest”, I was in hospital because I tried unsuccessfully to drown myself at Scarborough Beach in October and was definitely wanting to try again in December. I was going to get heavier rocks for my pockets this time and hoped I’d go straight down. I think the primal urge to survive kicks in so I would need bricks this time. Things heavy enough to win over my urge to kick for the surface.
When my thoughts start turning into actual, concrete (haha “concrete”) suicide plans, then it’s definitely time for a hospital stay. An intervention, if you will.
But here’s the thing:
That 3 weeks as an inpatient was nowhere near long enough.
I wasn’t in hospital because I was ‘tired’ or ‘a little burnt out’, I was in hospital because the last 12-24 months have been ABSOLUTE FUCKING (Sorry Jesus) HELL for me and I can’t keep going.
I literally CANNOT KEEP GOING.
I’ve been systematically bullied and torn down. I’ve been STALKED by a huge African black man – who touched me. I’ve been abused. I’ve been chewed up, spat out, dragged up by my hair until I was standing just so life could send people along to punch me deep in the guts. Everything I thought I knew was ripped away from me when:
My husband – the love of my life – called me a Murderer for sending his parents back to Wales before the Covid borders closed the first time the pandemic hit our world 2 years go. When Alun did that (he was very drunk and unfortunately for me, he can’t remember it and tries to gaslight me by saying “No I definitely did not say that”) but he did. I was SOBER and I was LISTENING INTENTLY as I always do when the love of my life speaks, so to be accused of something so evil and heinous – that’s not something I can easily come back from. When Alun pointed at me and told me it would be SOLELY MY FAULT if his parents died in Wales…that broke me. It didn’t just break my heart – it tore through my entire body, ripping my organs to peices. The day after Alun accused me, I tried to overdose in the bathtub with a Matso’s ginger beer in one hand and an empty bottle of strong anti-depressants in the other.
Unfortunately it was a failed attempt and I’m still here.
I HATE THAT I’M STILL HERE, guys. I HATE IT WITH EVERY FIBRE OF MY BEING.
The day AFTER I was supposed to die, I WENT TO WORK AND GOT FIRED.
I was still swaying from the effect of the overdose when my boss told me to “get the f*ck out”, I was so unwell from all the tablets I’d inhaled. It was raining that day and I walked home getting soaked by the sky and the tears streaming down my face.
I got fired because I had refunded a wedding couple’s deposit when the Bride was diagnosed with Cancer and obviously had to change her wedding plans, by the way. That’s the type of boss I was working for.
I got home after being fired, pills lining my stomach, and I cleaned the house. I did the laundry. I smiled across the dinner table at Alun and his parents before they flew out for Wales in the next few days.
“Yes, had a long day – I’ll be sending my CV out for a new job” “all okay though” “pass the gravy, please” “Thanks guys” “Oh I’ll get you some water, you sit tight”
All Lies!!! Why do I lie?!! Why is it so easy???
I kept going from that day – I got another job within 2 days and off I went.
I got bullied mercilessly in that job. I suffered it for 3 months of my contract. I saw my contract out to it’s fullness and went to another job. More bullying. I went to another job. Same outcome. With every slur and stab in the back, more and more of my spirit was fading.
I went from being bullied to being jipped out of a permanent contract in a job I really liked by someone who professed to be a close friend. That nearly killed me.
I went from that painful betrayal to more temp jobs with angry people all demanding things I just couldn’t do fast enough, no matter how hard I tried.
Job to job. Job to Job. That bully for this bully. And still, I kept going.
Then my DAD DIED.
And I took ONE WEEK OFF my job at the time “to grieve”. ONE FUCKING WEEK!!! I didn’t “grieve”, by the way. I walked around the house in my pyjamas and gently touched things in the house, picking them up and putting them down – feeling like I was lost in a vast desert and didn’t know how to get home.
Then job to job again. The same hamster wheel of employment at various places. Job to Job. Job to Job. More and more bullies. More and more stress and unhappiness. More and more nights of hardly any sleep. More bottles of coke to keep me awake in the day. More anti-anxiety tablets to stop my entire body shaking during the night.
More and more pain. More hurt. More shame. More questions – like WHERE IS MY DAD? Is he is Hell right now? Is that on me? Is that MY fault?
Having my Dad taken away shook my entire faith. My entire world of belief crumbled. WHERE WERE YOU, GOD??? WHY DID YOU LET MY DAD DIE???
Multiply that grief, the shame, the uneasiness, the discomfort, the anxiety and the deep, severe depression by 1000…and you end up in a bad place.
Just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, “Natalie” stole my identity and caused me to lose a 6 month contract in a job I was actually really happy in.
I had to go to the Police. “Identity Fraud” is completely new to me and I didn’t know what to do or how to fight it, so I was in the Bayswater Police station crying hysterically and pleading for help. Praise God, Alun came with me. As “Natalie” hadn’t threatened my life, the Police couldn’t do anything about her stealing my identity. GREAT. Thanks. We’ll wait until she comes to my home and stabs me to death first, then? Gotcha.
So the next day, I was in COURT by MYSELF – terrified out of my freaking mind – pleading with a Magistrate to please grant the restraining order I wanted on “Natalie” so she’d have to legally leave me alone.
Praise God, the Magistrate said he was “sufficiently satisfied” with the pages of evidence I provided to grant the order.
I thought this was ONE TIME in my entire f*cked up year where I could exhale. I really needed that win.
But “Natalie” objected to it.
So to Court we went.
We went THREE FUCKING TIMES because her Lawyers keep asking for a “continuance”.
That was last October, November and early December.
In October – in my first hospital admission, Pest Control attended our home to remove dead rats and instead tore our ceiling apart.
ANOTHER FUCKING COURT CASE.
So I spent my week of “hospital rest” calling Lawyers, liaising with the Consumer Protection team, answering emails and managing TWO very difficult Court cases. 24/7. I didn’t sleep that whole week. Neither did Alun, bless him. We were both so stressed.
So much for some rest. I really could have used it then. We both could have.
Fast-forward to December last year (only a month ago) and my body just…quit.
My body just said NO FUCKING MORE and refused to let me take another step forward. I hadn’t slept more than a few hours a night in MONTHS and was falling completely apart.
So I quit looking for work. I quit housecleaning. I quit running around to make everyone around me happy – and I finally went back to hospital.
I went for me. My first selfish act since 2009.
And boy, did I need it.
I brought my suitcase, my favourite colouring supplies, good books…and my broken and bruised heart to room 7. When The door was closed and I was on my own…I could finally exhale.
And for 3 weeks, I rested. I sat under a tree with Cam and breathed. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to breathe, I’d been living in such shallow breaths all year. I talked easily with other patients and made friends. I happily joined in on movie nights with some of the most caring, lovely people I’ve ever met and just let go of a lot of burdens I’d been carrying. It was…amazing. I slept. I ate properly. I walked (thank you, Cam). I stretched. I rested.
Now I’m home and the wheel of absolute FUCKING INSANITY has started again.
I need to get a job ASAP to send my Mom money. It’s on me to keep my Mom housed, fed and whole. No big deal, JD. Get a job OR YOUR MOM DIES. No worries.
Mom told me yesterday that my Aunty has breast cancer. FUCKING GREAT.
Alun’s friend DIED yesterday unexpectedly.
Alun’s favourite Rugby Coach had his FUNERAL Yesterday.
So Alun was beside himself in grief and I needed to be there to help him through it all.
Father God, please…no more. Please. I can’t take any more.
This is the TRUE state of me.
I’d like some very heavy bricks and huge overcoat, please.
I can’t go on.