I tip my hat to those of you out there that openly talk about mental health, in fact, I find it admirable. I’ve never had trouble talking about how I feel, speaking out when things were tricky during early motherhood; when getting married caused ‘first-time’ anxiety. I’d write about, chat about, even had CBT about it; it’s not something to be ashamed of right?!. Most likely we’ve all had tough times, and hopefully, you’ll agree, mental health is just as important as physical health and shouldn’t be shunned. But this time, this is new, this is different, and this is, tough.
12 months ago my daughter was assaulted during school, in the worst possible way. I can’t bring myself to write it. It’s too hard. The police came, the hospital happened, all the authorities that had to know, knew, no further action could be taken, two minors were involved.
My world fell apart that day.
3 months later my daughter got hit by a car walking home from school. I pulled her back, she didn’t see the oncoming car. She was still hit. She hit the floor. She screamed. I looked at my child, I held her. I told her not to scream, to be calm, to “breathe like mummy”. I couldn’t see blood, she was sitting up. I lifted her up, as she was. I looked at the bystanders. Everyone stood and stared. I pleaded “Somebody, please, call an ambulance!” Nobody moved. I lifted her to the kerb side. I called the ambulance. The story ends well, her leg was broken and after a night on morphine, an operation, 8 weeks of a cast and wheelchair, she’s ok.
My world fell apart that day, again
So, when I saw the opportunity for the anonymous blogger series I had to join in. To get it out, write about it, let someone else hit the publish button.
I can’t tell anyone about the first thing; I don’t want the gossip.
I can’t say I’m on the waiting list for PTSD therapy.
I can’t say “please, don’t ask me those questions.”
I can’t say “hey, I’m struggling with this.”
But…I want to.
Because…the isolation…the fearfulness…is exhausting.
The flashbacks that get stuck on repeat. Hit. Hit. Hit. are exhausting.
The flashbacks playing out the ‘what if’s’ – are exhausting, and that shit didn’t even happen!
I don’t want their sympathy, I don’t want yours. I want someone to take the memory away. Someone to say, “I’ve been through this too and it will be ok”. I want it to heal.
On a side note, in case you were wondering: my child is getting the help and support she needs for this too.
Want to be involved? Email firstname.lastname@example.org
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