My triggers seem to be child based and stress led. I wonder how true this is for others?

I can have a great day and then one small thing will happen, one meltdown (okay that’s not small), or one argument. One episode of something unpleasant and boom! I’m down and I’m out and I’m desperate.

Is it because I have no reserves in the tank? Is it because of this illness I have and that’s just the way things are now? Why does it only take the smallest thing to be wrong to knock everything out of sync? 

On good days I cope. I manage not to go completely down and out and I don’t have to force myself to bathe or clean my teeth or eat. Or I can concentrate on NOT eating and not hurting and I can be busy and productive and for want of a better word, happy. Not grumpy or irritable or angry or upset or wanting to die. Just being, busy, smiling, doing.

On bad days I can’t cope. I can just about stay alive. I’ve noticed myself detaching more and more and I just go through the motions. I do what needs to be done but its robotic. When the girls are screaming at me or my son is screaming at everyone and they’re all telling me how much they hate me, our family, our life, how I’m stupid and an idiot and I’m fat and I’m useless and fuck me and fuck the world and fuck off – who needs an inner dialogue when your kids say it all for you – when I’m hearing all this and I’m holding the door shut so she can’t attack me or throw things at me or scream right in my ear… I’m not there.

I’m inside my head, that dusty attic space I call mine. The corner where I like to hide and sit, next to to the little window that doesn’t open, staring at the puddle of sunshine on the floor, dust motes dancing in the air. I’m there, I’m not here. And there is a highly preferable place to be. 

I sometimes I wish I could go there for real. It’s quiet there. I’m not needed. I don’t have to be everything to everyone, I don’t have to be anything to anyone. I can just sit. And be warm. And be alone. And safe.