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My Story Goes On

1
Last November I had a small tattoo on the inside of my left wrist.  A dainty semi-colon, which I carry with pride.  It’s a symbol that I am a warrior, a survivor of my continual battles with mental illness, a constant reminder to myself and others that my story goes on.

I’m pretty sure that I mentioned to my mum that I had it at the time, but she noticed it today and asked about it.  When I explained the meaning of it to her she cried (still unsure if she was crying because I had another tattoo or if it was because of the reason behind it).

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However when I asked her she told me she was crying because she was sad for me.

I have talked before about my most recent battle, but if I am completely honest I don’t think I really shared fully with my nearest and dearest just how dark a time it was for me.  I have definitely mentioned to those close to me that my children saved me during this time, but it’s easy to say that in passing and not share the real context of just how much they saved me.  It was probably the deepest bout of depression that I have ever experienced; I felt worthless,

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unnecessary, unwanted and insufficient.  I had days where I thought my children would be better off without me, days when I felt like I was nothing more than a huge burden to those who love me.  I was absolutely sure that I had nothing to give, and only misery and despair to bring to those around me.

When I say that my children saved me, it sounds a little flippant.  I don’t mean it to!

In amongst all of those feelings that I wasn’t good enough for them, that I would only ruin their lives because of the darkness within me, I was also

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conflicted.  I was worthless, however I also could not leave them.  Deep down inside I knew that my not being here would actually be the thing that ruined their lives; how could I let them grow up with so many questions? They would live with the belief that they were not a good enough reason for me to live, a sense of abandonment until they were old enough to understand, and maybe anger that their mother had only thought of herself…they would never understand that my actions were because I had thought of them and how I was not enough for them.  In
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the end, sat cuddling with them and reading bedtime stories I just knew that I had to fight.  There was no way that I could take their mother away from them.  

They are my world, my light, my hope and my future.

So, when I say that my children saved me, that’s what I mean.  Literally, because of them my story goes on.

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- 9 Feb 19

Last November I had a small tattoo on the inside of my left wrist.  A dainty semi-colon, which I carry with pride.  It’s a symbol that I am a warrior, a survivor of my continual battles with mental illness, a constant reminder to myself and others that my story goes on.

I’m pretty sure that I mentioned to my mum that I had it at the time, but she noticed it today and asked about it.  When I explained the meaning of it to her she cried (still unsure if she was crying because I had another tattoo or if it was because of the reason behind it). However when I asked her she told me she was crying because she was sad for me.

I have talked before about my most recent battle, but if I am completely honest I don’t think I really shared fully with my nearest and dearest just how dark a time it was for me.  I have definitely mentioned to those close to me that my children saved me during this time, but it’s easy to say that in passing and not share the real context of just how much they saved me.  It was probably the deepest bout of depression that I have ever experienced; I felt worthless, unnecessary, unwanted and insufficient.  I had days where I thought my children would be better off without me, days when I felt like I was nothing more than a huge burden to those who love me.  I was absolutely sure that I had nothing to give, and only misery and despair to bring to those around me.

When I say that my children saved me, it sounds a little flippant.  I don’t mean it to!

In amongst all of those feelings that I wasn’t good enough for them, that I would only ruin their lives because of the darkness within me, I was also conflicted.  I was worthless, however I also could not leave them.  Deep down inside I knew that my not being here would actually be the thing that ruined their lives; how could I let them grow up with so many questions? They would live with the belief that they were not a good enough reason for me to live, a sense of abandonment until they were old enough to understand, and maybe anger that their mother had only thought of herself…they would never understand that my actions were because I had thought of them and how I was not enough for them.  In the end, sat cuddling with them and reading bedtime stories I just knew that I had to fight.  There was no way that I could take their mother away from them.  

They are my world, my light, my hope and my future.

So, when I say that my children saved me, that’s what I mean.  Literally, because of them my story goes on.

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