Would?

Blog interrupted. 

I found this blog that I don't really remember writing. It's fairly dark and grim and I never finished it. Maybe I will one day. But for now, this is where it ended... Enjoy?

I like to think I have things under control.

In my head anyway.

I like to thing I'm strong willed and independant and capable.

I don't need help.

This is what went through my mind every couple of months for the last four years or so.

I should start from the beginging. Explain what I am babbling about.

This is kind of an average subject for me, I don't like thinking about it too much and I certainly don't like admitting it.
I "suffer" (that word is lame, it makes me think of a cancer patient) from depression and anxiety.

It seems every second person does these days. It's almost trendy.

It's something that has been apparent in my life since I was an angsty teenager but actually became a problem after I had my daughter.
In hindsight it is blindingly obvious to me, but at the time it wasn't. I had full blown post natal depression. I didn't have baby blues. I wished for horrific car crashes every time I hoped in a car.

If not to abolish me, then to abolish this new little stranger who I had to take care of.

I did not find instant love with my daughter.

I didn't like her.

I didn't know her and I was in a horrible state of regret.

Every morning I woke up and thought "what have I done?"

This is a difficult subject to talk about as you can imagine.

Very few people know about this.

But I'm kind of at a point where I feel talking about it can only be a good thing. It helps me come to terms with things and it could potentially help others.

As I said, at the time I didn't know what was wrong. I just dealt with the feelings I had. Ultimately the lack of resolution led to the dissolution of the relationship I had with my daughters father.

I didn't know what was wrong so I decided it must've been my environment. I decided the only way to fix how I felt was to leave.

To this day I whole heartedly believe that had I got proper help and acknowledged what was going on, it is very likely that the relationship would not have fallen apart.

So around we go, back to the start of this entry.
I left my daughters father and I decided; no, I'm strong, I can fix this, I can do this on my own.

I don't need help.

And I didn't.

I eventually felt better, I moved on and things started looking up.

And then it happened again.

I found myself in this dark place with no understanding of what was going on, what was making me feel this way or how to make it stop.

But then I get up.

I decide this is no way to live.

And I carry on.

And I make myself better.

And then it happens again.

Over and over, round and round.

I was constantly finding myself in this horrible place where there is nothing in site, it is a black abyss and I'll be damned if I know how to get out.

Every time this happened I would start having suicidal thoughts.

Mentally calculating how many pills were in the house, what they were, and how many I would need to go to sleep forever.

My preferred method was always pills.

Once watched an episode of Nip/Tuck where a dying patient had had enough and wanted to just hurry up and end it. Her doctor friend advised her to drink milk to line the stomach, take the pills and put a plastic bag over her head and just quietly drift off to sleep.
And once in a 4th form first aid course an ambulance office told me the lethal dose of paracetamol was 60 tablets.

I only ever got as far as opening the medication box in my kitchen and assessing the pill situation.
By this point I had patched up my relationship with my daughter and decided that she was pretty spiffy.

She has, and always will be my reason to keep going. Despite internalising the complicated situation and having intense arguements

(unfinished)