Today is my 32nd birthday. I hate celebrating it, I’m a complete misery.
Historically my birthday is never very good luck for anyone; in the past people have got ill, died, dumped, sacked, and all sorts.
It also seems to trigger my depression and make me feel a little bit shit.
Hubbo had an awful nights’ sleep which in turns means I wake constantly and we both got very little sleep.
I love my husband dearly but he unfortunately fits the gender stereotype of suffering illness loudly. Especially self-inflicted illness from too much beer or man flu.
The mancub gave me a lovely birthday present by saying “Happy Birthday Mummy” for the first time.
It was one of those emotional moments that I will treasure forever.
He said it, smiled, and proceeded to projectile vomit all over himself, the carpet and the box of Toot-Toot track.
I decided to enjoy a peaceful birthday poo and retire to bed for an hour, my joints and muscles are bad today so not moving for an hour seemed like a good idea.
But my mind is in overdrive. I don’t think the Fluoxetine is working. I’m not feeling myself at all.
I had a lovely card from the hubbo, but I find myself overthinking it and questioning whether he loves me.
My son accidently scratched another child yesterday and I’ve been upset about it ever since.
My head tells me my family dislike me and I can do no right. To my friends I’m boring and I can’t seem to be myself; instead I’ve just clammed up.
It’s all in my head, I know it is. But I can’t seem to shake it off.
I’m considering a trip to the GP this week to discuss how I feel, maybe I need to change medication again or an increase in dosage, who knows.
The strange thing is I feel quite content and happy on the outside but inside I’m numb and a little sad.
The weight thing is a huge problem again and I’m obsessing big time. My mummy friends threw me a little birthday shindig yesterday and as the room filled with people I could feel my panic levels increasing. I can’t even explain it – my head just kept repeating the same things over and over again. And then I worry that people can notice that I am acting strange.
“I’m fat. So fat. Everyone thinks you are fat. You fat pig eating that biscuit, you can’t help yourself. Why would anyone want to know you, you are fat and boring. Don’t bother speaking, no one wants to hear what you have to say. “
It’s like mental self harm, every single day. My mystery illness is getting worse but I can’t face the hospital appointments for fear they will say they can’t help me until I lose weight.
Even doctors and healthcare professionals just think I eat too much and not the mental and emotional struggles I experience daily.
Anyways, I’ve decided to find some counselling privately. I can’t afford it, but I have to do something.
As always, I will keep you posted and welcome any suggestions or comments.
I feel a day-long chocolate and Prosecco binge coming on. Lush.