Thursday 1st October 2026
Said by a neighbour four years ago:
‘So, what do you do?’
‘Oh, I’m a Stay at Home Mum!’
*Cue awkwardness from the other person*
‘Oh, well that’s nice for you. You know, it’s good if that’s something you CAN do’.
*Cue Oscar-deserving performance smile from me*
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Said by another mum on the school run six months ago:
‘So back to work then when C starts school next year, yeah?’
‘Maybe. Ideally, I would like some time for myself first. I’m still contemplating the work thing’.
‘Oh, well, you know, there are (cue patronising facial expression) some REALLY good jobs at minimum wage these days.
*I need a few seconds to process what has just been said to me*
‘Mmmm.. yeah, there is’ (is all I can say because, truthfully, I wasn’t expecting such judgement).
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I thought I got a lot of judgment for being a Stay at Home Mum, but it seems that my thoughts about my next steps in life are equally as outrageous and provoking. I had my eldest in 2018. I had been an EFL teacher for about 12 years by that point. Firstly, it wasn’t a career I chose for myself. Many of you won’t believe me when I say this, but my dad forced me into it. You didn’t know my dad, and even if you did, he had you fooled. He would have charmed your socks off to the high hills. But behind closed doors, my dad was a bit of a tyrant (at times). He was incredibly controlling of his children. We generally weren’t allowed out – on our own or with friends as children. As a 16/17 year old girl, I couldn’t go out in the evenings. I wasn’t allowed to choose my own career path. I initially wanted to be a dancer. I loved dancing so much (and I wasn’t too bad at it, either). It simply wasn’t good enough for my dad. He wanted his children in high power jobs earning insane amounts of money. He dragged me all around Germany, from business to business, through many logic and placement tests (not great for someone with undiagnosed Dyscalculia). Interview to interview to interview. I was always made to feel ashamed because as a German national, I couldn’t speak the language perfectly (grammatically). I was very fluent, had excellent understanding, but it wasn’t always perfect and no one really wanted to give me a chance. So, my dad gave up trying to get me into a ‘Bankkauffrau’ role and focused instead on getting me an apprenticeship at a hotel (they really work you hard in those things in Germany). He eventually got me into one hotel and convinced them to let me pay board from my wages and later complained I wasn’t getting paid enough so he made me leave. He then sent me 2 – 3 hours away to the Black Forest where there was a 5 star luxury hotel. I got a trial for an apprenticeship. I was let go after a few months because they simply didn’t want me, but they gave the excuse that I must be struggling because my German was apparently so poor (in this time, I dealt with horrendous bullying by my manager who would scream in my face for simply putting the wrong food on a plate – in front of the other staff and the children we cared for). When they let me go, my dad blamed me until the day he died. I went back home to a newly rented apartment in the town I was born in (Heidelberg), broke up with my then boyfriend who I had been with for two years, stupidly got with a widow on the other side of the world who had 3 young children, and got engaged to him (much to my dad’s absolute horror). I eventually, at 19, got my life back on track, dumped my fiancé, and made plans to move back to Bournemouth to study so that I actually stood a chance at a decent career. I got there, enrolled at the college, and got into a Travel and Tourism course. You would think this would have been enough for my dad, but it wasn’t. He forced me to quit the course before it had even begun and demanded I train as a CELTA qualified teacher, because in his words… ‘If Sally’s daughter can do it…’ . I had to redo my Maths GCSE because well, unsupported Dyscalculia made sure I got an E for GCSE Maths. I took an Access to High Education course, studied English lit, Social History and redid my Maths GCSE and got a C. This then enabled me to get onto the CELTA course run by the same college. It was frightening, but exhilarating at the same time. Being a teacher had never been a part of my plan. Nor was going to Uni. Some of you reading this might be thinking, ‘Why didn’t you just say “No”?’. You didn’t know my dad, though. Or maybe you did. Either way, you didn’t say ‘No’ to my dad. At least his children were never allowed to. Once I jokingly said it to him when I was 7 or 8 about him reaching into a bowl of cookies we were sharing, and he smacked my ear so hard it bled. Just an example. As a teen and later an adult, he very much used me as cheap labour for his business. Forced me to stay in to do his work for him at a fraction of what he would pay someone who would do it from his office. If I protested and said I had plans, he would just scream and shout at me. He forced my brother, who had been living with me here in the UK at the time, who had just finished his own Access course and got into Oxford Brookes Uni, to quit his course and made him fly to the other side of the world (Malaysia), dumped him at a uni there and enrolled him on a course he felt was more appropriate (my brother wanted to do Japanese Studies, my dad put him into Business Administration).
So fast forward. I did everything I was told to do. I started a career as a teacher, learned to love it, was actually really good at it and had great ideas, lesson plans (if I say so myself) and supported new teachers. But we get to 2017 and I was bored. No one told me it would be seasonal work and how hard you would have to fight to keep getting the back-to-back zero hours contracts that tie you over. I would constantly have to go to the school, remind whoever was in charge that I was still alive and still wanting work. I took all the jobs none of the permanent staff wanted (Beginner and Elementary levels, teaching children and teens, 1-1s). I could have the meatier stuff like exam prep, if someone was off sick and they needed cover. So, I also did cover work. I ended up specialising in Young Learners (6-15), but I taught all year round mostly and all ages. But by 2017, I had taught and done most of what they were prepared to give me. I had worked at two other schools in between, held a senior teacher at one but quit after a few weeks because it was so fucking awful there, and then got promoted to Assistant Director of Studies (very high up) at another, much smaller school. I also did 1-1s in my evenings. At one point I was working three different teaching jobs at the same time running from one school to another and then doing private tuition to adults and children in the evenings. I tried to put my name forward whenever there was an opportunity for something bigger, like doing the pilot training, but it was always the same, favoured staff who got those roles. Or if you were the Director’s favourite woman and sat outside having every lunch with him even though you were both married, then you also got the work. *wink wink*
I came to love the job, but not the school. However, I learnt it wasn’t just at this school (one of the biggest in my town), but it was every other school, as well. What I wanted, didn’t really exist. A permanent role, that allowed me to be creative, to support other teachers, create new materials, or they did, but they were tightly held on to by what I liked to call the ‘dinosaurs’ of the profession. The teachers who had been in that role for decades and they weren’t giving it up any time soon, nor were they prepared to share. The TEFL world, it seems, is a very greedy and judgemental one. Teachers were happy for me to cover for them, to take and use my resources, but not happy to give back. Some were incredibly controlling. You had a lead teacher who did 3 out of 5 lessons and a second teacher who shared the same class who did the 2 lessons in between. It was usually expected for the lead teacher to tell you roughly or plan what they want you to teach, but some would give you like a single exercise to do for a 90-minute lesson. And somehow, you would have to bulk that up and make something incredibly exciting with it, without encroaching on the next page because your lead teacher very much wants that one for themselves. *Eyeroll*
So, when I fell pregnant in Feb 2018, I felt it was a perfect opportunity to have a break, at least. I, of course, had to fight for maternity pay, because of the zero hours contracts. It didn’t matter that I had been working at the company for X amount of years. Another woman was pregnant at the same time as me, but she worked in reception. She got maternity pay no problem. She had also not been working at the company all that long. Initially, I decided to take a full year out and return in October 2019. But as time moved on, I thought back to my own childhood more and more and how my parents were just never around and how few memories I had of them from the time we lived in Dronfield (10 years’ worth). Then in the April, my Young Learners’ boss called me to tell me about an exciting, new position that they wanted to offer to me first. It was a permanent role (that alone was everything I wanted… sick pay.. maternity pay…mortgage). They might even pay for me to do my DELTA (equivalent to a Master’s), something I could never, ever afford myself. The only stipulation? They wanted me to start right now. In April. My daughter was born in October. She was barely six months old. I spent all day agonising over this role. In part, because the same person told me in the same call, that this role will never, ever be offered to me again, if I turn it down. Then I had this moment where I thought…’No. If it’s me they truly want, my skillset, they will wait for me until October’. I also did not appreciate being told that I would never get the offer again, if I didn’t accept it now. The thing about me is, and maybe it is a PDA thing, if you try to force me, try to push me to do something, I will very much go the other way. I used to think it was just sheer stubbornness, but I see the same trait in my PDA son now. It was a turning point in my career, where I discovered and recognised my own worth. I was a bloody awesome teacher. You could call me to cover and I could walk in with only 5 minutes until the bell and I could throw together a 90-minute lesson (and no, not a telly lesson like what we as kids would have absolutely had). I realised that if they really wanted me, me to fill the role and not just anyone, they would wait. But they didn’t. They took someone else, who could start straight away. Who herself, ended up leaving 5 or so years later because they wanted too much from her.
So instead, I decided to stay at home with my beautiful daughter. The child I thought I would never have because it took us a few years to get there, and in that time, I would always have my ex’s words circling round in my head – ‘I had my tests done and there’s nothing wrong with me, so it must be you’ – and the cervical erosion I had had for over 7 years. A year later my daughter was diagnosed with DDH (Hip Dysplasia) and needed to be with her anyway.
As the years have gone by, it has become more and more obvious to me that society, especially other mums, have a real problem with me being a SAHM. I know it’s mostly born through jealousy, because there is this hugely incorrect belief that to be one, you must have a loooooooot of pennies. But we made mammoth sacrifices as a couple, and I did as an individual person. I no longer can just go out and buy myself whatever I want. My make up starts to run low and I start to panic, what the best way is to replenish it. My clothes are years and years old. My hair? Cut once a year, if that. I couldn’t even tell you when I last had my hair dyed in a salon. I used to get my nails done every month, now I try to do them myself at home. These aren’t major things and they are probably what other mums give up too, to some extent, but I’m not rolling around in dough, going shopping every day (well, I shop every day at Aldi, but that isn’t quite the same, is it). I’m currently very carefully placing socks over my feet every morning that have two mammoth sized holes in, but so long as you place them on just right, you can just about make do. Money is not the be all and end all for me. I have lived on a lot less when I lived in refuge, and believe me, you never, ever forget being homeless. That shit is ingrained into every fibre of your being for the rest of your life. When things seem bad, when finances are tight one month, it is absolutely ok, because you know what? There was a time when I didn’t know how to get food, when I did, it was pasta and potatoes and relying on what kind people could donate to me. So yeah, I have experienced much, MUCH worse. I will therefore, no matter how tight a budget I’m on, will always find the extra 20-30p for a tin of something to donate to the food bank basket during a food shop. I don’t go out. Any free time I have is spent window shopping around the local shopping centre (because I LOVE looking and it doesn’t matter to me that I might not be able to buy it, still get excited nonetheless), reading, writing, gaming at home, but realistically, there isn’t much time for any of that because I’m food shopping almost every day for my PDA child, who has a very particular diet, a dairy-free child, and a child who only wants some stuff on some days and other stuff after I have done a shop because apparently I’m supposed to remember all the time what everyone is wanting to eat by reading their minds – tell me I’m not bloody alone on this one. Then there is the house that constantly needs stuff doing. So much clutter. Floors to hoover, to mop. Laundry, Laundry, Laundry. Never Fucking Ending Laundry. Then there is the whole list of jobs that need to be done, but don’t get done, because well, children and tiredness. And then sometimes, I just have to say ‘Fuck it’ and ignore all the shit that needs doing because I do, actually deserve some time. But since my youngest started preschool for 3 half days a week, every one thinks I just have all this time to do jack all.
‘Oh, it must be so nice!’, they say, and I smile sweetly in return, because I have learnt that my mouth gets me into trouble when I speak my mind and it’s just easier if everyone thinks I’m really passive and to some point, a walk over.
Being a SAHM is actually really hard. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t change it for anything in the world. I do love it, but I have got to be real. I am always about keeping it real. I don’t at all believe in this faking it until you make it bull. There are no breaks. Not in the morning, not at lunch and at dinner I am getting the school stuff ready for the next day. I might get a break if the 3 year old naps, but this isn’t a guarantee, and she likes to keep me on my toes by changing how long she likes to nap for. It might be half an hour, might be 2 hours. Nap Time Roulette. My days are filled with cold cuppas and half coming off the loo, mid poo, at the sound of my toddler suddenly going quiet and knowing she has just walked past towards the kitchen. The other week, I literally said to my children ‘I just want to have a poo! In peace!’. Honestly. It’s not like I’m some dedicated multi-hour, throne-hogging shitter. I’m in and out within 5 mins. It’s almost Olympic level, really.
I have a child who can have multiple screaming meltdowns a day and who takes up to 30 minutes each time to calm down and re-regulate himself. I have had to retrain myself and change my parenting style (just for him), to accommodate his PDA and our sanity. I have a 3 year old who is an emotional hurricane and will throw the house into disarray, whilst she plays with one item for 30 seconds and then moves onto another to do the same, and then again and again x1,000. The 3 year old wakes up multiple times a night. The PDAer has started sleep walking and toileting elsewhere and the almost 8 year old wakes up in the night to bargain with you about how awful a night she is having and wouldn’t it be better if she came to sleep in your bed for the night *cue almost falling out of the bed all night or being kicked in the back or elbowed in the eye*.
It is hard work. Most people, they get to leave work and clock off. They might be mentally preoccupied with work stuff, but they don’t have colleagues making demands of them once they are home. Most people get quiet down time on the way to and from work. That peace, that opportunity to listen to your music or read a book with no interruptions, is golden. Never take it for granted. I am absolutely not slating my choices. I stand by them, I love them. I just wish everyone not only understood how hard it is to be a SAHM, but also respected it. We absolutely do not sit around on our arses all day long, and guaranteed, the moment we get to for 5 minutes, someone we know is walking past the front window and spots you doing, what looks like, shit all.
This is what my day looks like, Mon-Fri:
Get up at 6am after getting up at least 4-5 times in the night for whichever child has needed me. Though on a day where my husband is working away, it’s 5.30 so that I can actually shower and wash my hair.
3 lunches to make. Don’t mix them up like I have previously, because preschool who has strict guidelines, will absolutely tell me when I have got it wrong and promptly remind me what is not allowed. Coupled with a PDA child who is probably dysregulating at school over how I forgot a crucial element of his lunch.
7am or earlier, but usually no later, breakfast for all three kiddos. Constant reminding them to eat until about 7.45 which is then panic stations if they are all still sat eating and no one has even started to get ready. In between this, I have packed bags and sorted any missing clothing. I also have to do my own hair (usually just a claw clip will do because I apparently can’t have both a made-up face AND hair and so ultimately, I choose my face because no one needs to see those eternal bags under my eyes and without make up, I might look like I might eat you up if you so much as say the wrong word to me). In this time, C has got up to walk around with milky or buttery hands multiple times because she either needs to stand on the chair (and falls over), have a dance, run around the sofa, or walk around whilst squeezing the milk out of her cereal, leaving a trail of milk on the floor. G must have what he calls his ‘Foot Relaxer’ in order to eat. God help us all if that can’t be found. T then irritates G by sitting too close to him with whatever food she has that he doesn’t like and finds disgusting, because she doesn’t want C to contaminate her meal with some half-eaten, soggy, scrunched up food item. Someone is usually deeply unhappy about something that is on the tv.
7.45am – 8.30am – Get 2 out of 3 kids dressed, because one is 3 and needs to be rugby tackled and the PDAer absolutely cannot dress himself without a huge meltdown making us all late. The eldest can get herself ready, but oh my god, it is at an absolute snail’s pace. You can rush her all you like; she will remain the slowest of slow. Makes no difference so I just leave her to it. Table needs to be cleaned, cups and plates put away, kitchen somewhat cleaned, or attempted to clean, vitamins, teeth, hair, but not forgetting on a Thursday, the eldest must have a specific hairstyle for P.E. because she wants to have the same hair as her friends. *Eyeroll*. Water bottles. Lunches need to be packed and everyone has a different extra in their lunch bag. Don’t mix it up. Nit spray (because according to my PDAer, I forgot one day recently, and he for sure had a nit that day). Write in his Comms books so the staff know how to manage him for that day. Update reading diaries. My make up. Coats in bags, spare clothes in 2 out of 3 bags. Change over spare clothes if it’s a P.E. day. Do socks for all three kiddos because apparently my almost 8 year old can’t deal with the struggle, my PDAer absolutely not, and the 3 year old will wear them for 3 whole seconds and then I have to figure out where she has thrown them because for some reason, our washing machine is a magical realm of missing socks and I am running on a very small number of pairs for her, in part because she does keep throwing them everywhere. One day, she stripped fully off. At 8 bloody 20. Cheers chick. At this point, I have given up trying to have my own breakfast and have just resorted to the fact that I can eat when I get back. Throw everything together, everything on to everyone, start saying over and over again about how late we are (again), buggy out the car, load buggy, rush out the door (but not too much because the PDAer can’t be rushed too hard or we’ll have a screaming fit at the front door and then you can kiss goodbye trying to get in through the main gates). Hope that I look half decent because, truth be told, I’m not the roll-out-of-bed-look sort of school run Mum. No judgement at all if that is you, it just isn’t me. I need to look a certain way so that I can mentally feel comfortable and confident enough to walk through those gates 4 times a day. Mental Health and all that. Kiss one goodbye, force a kiss on the other, signal to his TA if he is ok or not using a thumbs up or thumbs down, rush out the gate, get back home, load up the car with the toddler and buggy, go to drop off number two, which is never on time. Take the million things she has to have with her out of the car, take her out and somehow hold onto her (because she is feral) whilst I shut and lock the car, take her to the door, hand her over, rush back to the car (why do I even rush because at this point I can leisurely walk back to the car, but maybe because all the other parents are rushing back to their cars to go to work, I get subconsciously swept into it).
*Cue obnoxiously loud drive time music where I sing my loudest, shades on, I am in fact, on the stage with everyone around me gasping how amazing a singer I am and asking why I have never shown this amazing set of lungs off before*
I am absolutely not a good singer, just for clarification. Sometimes there is dancing. Depends on the mood. I’m sure I go past houses and people think it’s that bloody Audi wanker, again. That’s ok, I’m not passing anyone for more than a second. They can deal with it. It’s a tiny bit of me time that truly helps me to reset. It doesn’t matter where I go, but I need loud music and to act like I’m some kind of world-renown singer.
I go home and blitz the basics for the next hour, because I can’t relax in the destruction left behind by my kids. For my husband, he needs a clean kitchen before he goes to bed, for me, I need the living room in some kind of neatly manor. Then there is probably a mini food shop to do. By the time that is done, it’s lunch, then pick up for the toddler, drive around until she falls asleep, get her in, and maybe, I might get half an hour to myself before I have to start frantically getting everything ready for the next pick up (my life won’t be worth living on the way home, if I forget a single snack). Pick up at two different locations at the school. Walk home whilst hoping T & G don’t annoy the TA who lives on our road too much (she sometimes crosses the road and I’m sure it’s to get away from us. Understandable). Getting through the front door is a mission in itself. Must be done in a way that my PDAer is comfortable with or he will just sit on the step outside in full meltdown, screaming and crying, because he didn’t get to unlock the door or go through it first, or do a run up to it, or I didn’t let him open the boot. Sort all bags and lunch bags out. Figure out what everyone wants for tea because a PDAer, a dairy-free toddler and a so-so child usually means 3 different meals.
I could go on. But it’s pretty much the same thing. I eat dinner around 9-10pm. Our neighbours think we’re mad and it’s too late, but it’s all we can manage. And it’s better than not eating.
I live and breathe our children, and I like it that way. I might moan, but we as parents all do that.
In terms of C starting school in September next year, I’m now going to say something that I realise is controversial, though I can’t for the life of me, understand why.
Here goes:
I don’t want to go back to work.
There. I’ve said it. Might need a drink.
*Cue judgement*
Yeah, I know how it sounds. I, of course, will go back to work if I absolutely need to. If my husband needs me to. If my family needs me to. But I have reached a stage where I have accepted that I have been through so much in my life. There has been so much trauma, and whilst I tell everyone I’m okay, the reality is, I’m not, I’m still processing, still working everything out, and I may never fully be okay or healed (Do you really think you can heal if your parent was brutally murdered?). I have accepted my diagnosis of CPTSD. I own it, I use it to understand my own behaviours, of which there are many. I use it to be kinder to myself, when it is needed. I use it to regulate myself and to give myself extra peace when it is needed. I know when I need to take a step back, when I need quiet, when I need to be outside, when I get triggered, when I get back-to-back flashbacks (every single day). It’s a term that is massively overused by people online who don’t actually have it. It’s just some phrase or joke. ‘Oh, it totally gave me PTSD’. There is a sense of how it is only reserved for army vets who have served in conflicts. Your everyday person couldn’t possibly have Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It is a brain injury. And not one the brain can always heal from. There are brain scans online that show the difference between brains that don’t have CPTSD and those that do, and the difference is stark. A new murder trial is to start soon. This will be the third. I have yet to hear whether my application to stay out of it as a witness will be accepted. I have no start date. I only know sometime this year. Then it will drag on for months. Then the recovery journey resets once again. New traumatic memories will be there from a new trial. Life is short. So far, I have spent over 17 years living mine in trauma. When I threw myself into my job all those years ago, I hadn’t realised at the time that it was a form of masking. Of pretending to be normal, like nothing serious had ever happened to me. I was just like all the others. No murdered father. No imprisoned mother. No Domestic Abuse. No homelessness. No dead brother. I ran away from it all. And not a single person noticed. I did that great a job of pretending to be just like everyone else (you can hand me my Oscar now). I started private therapy in July to help me prepare for the upcoming trial and to be in the best possible mental state for it. To get a real strength from it, that I don’t think I have ever had before. Being strong when it all happened at the time is different. Being strong in every day life so that you can continue living, is a different level altogether.
When she starts school next year, in an ideal world, I want to take time for myself. I will have spent 9 years by that point, being a SAHM, I would love to rediscover myself and do whatever it is I need to feed my soul. To enjoy my life for me. And hopefully by that point, with no more trials, no more investigations. The peace I know I finally deserve to have. I know people wonder why I might not be ‘over it’ yet. I’m not sure victims of murder ever do ‘get over it’. Would you? I know plenty who have never been able to return to work. I have also experienced other traumas in more recent years, just silently and on my own. And every trauma forms a new layer and makes it very hard to come back from. I lose a teeny tiny piece of myself every time and honestly, I don’t know if it will ever come back. I don’t really know who I am anymore. And that’s not just the Motherhood talking. For a lot of women, work and their job is who they are, and that’s absolutely fair. My job was my life. It gave me life when mine was over. But it was never really mine to have. It was never really who I was (at least that’s what I have recently been coming to terms with). I would love to finally be in the position to write and to publish. I have ideas for it, just not the time. It isn’t that I don’t have dreams. I have many. I am constantly day dreaming through out the day about my present life and what’s to come in the future. I’m a deep, deep thinker. I’d love to be able to plug away at a novel. Where I can, it’s too early to tell just yet. I have been scouting potential part time jobs that will also be available in Autumn next year, but I do it because I feel pressurised to do so, not because I want to. I have no burning desire to be in a job I dislike, or hate even, filled with people who probably don’t like me, either (I’m an acquired taste). I don’t have the energy to deal with social politics at a work place. I haven’t ruled out self-employment, but I’m not great with people these days. There’s a reason why my husband is the face for all our meetings with the school for our SEN child. I exploded at a teacher last year. I’m not proud of it. I actively try to not put myself in those situations any more. I’m blunt. Too blunt. I wasn’t always. People used to like me. A lot. My students thought I was fucking hilarious. One tried to kiss me once (that was awkward, and for another post maybe, though currently thinking about releasing a short book of all ‘those’ moments I experienced as an EFL teacher – watch this space). I most definitely am not everyone’s cup of tea. And that’s okay. I don’t need to be liked. I get that Steve is much more likeable than I am and I know secretly, the other mums are disappointed when I rock up instead of him. I’m not a charmer (unlike my dad), I don’t beat around the bush. I say stuff when I probably shouldn’t. I exercise great control over my mouth during every conversation with every grown up. I think I am my most autistic self currently. And what I feel a little ashamed to say, because society makes it so, is that a part of me has reached a point in my life where I just want to be looked after. I want to be able to let my guard down, demolish the walls and finally, finally be able to relax because I can, because the pressure isn’t there to be everything to everyone all of the time and the only way I can do that is to be given the freedom of my own choices and my future once the littlest starts school next year.
Someone once said to me not long ago that if only I had a job, it might take my mind off things, as if that was all it took to forget everything that happened. Unfortunately, the panic attacks would still be there. The insane levels of anxiety that no one, not even my husband, sees. The sleepless nights, even when my children sleep. The nightmares of the darkness that lurks in that house. The Sleep Paralysis I have when I don’t get enough sleep (look it up…it is something else). The back-to-back flashbacks I have of what happened to my dad, what my narcissistic mother did to me, the way I was victim shamed by Dorset Police, by the German Police, by the Prosecutor. Some thing I will carry with me forever and I accept that. Then there are the intrusive flashbacks where I suddenly see one of my children being brutally run over by a car or something equally as disturbing and I watch, utterly helpless, as their bodies get flung, get mutilated, and I am filled with the horror of it all, the pain and grief. All flooding within me in the space of a few minutes. It’s pretty awful. But it’s part of how my brain is reacting to and processing many, many years of trauma. It’s the terrifying fear, I know, that something will happen to my children and I won’t be able to protect them from it. Not being able to answer a phone call, because it sets off a panic attack. Waking in the night to check all the outdoor security cameras (like last night). People see me and they see ‘normal’, because that’s what I want them to see. And because truly, no one is there to see or feel what I see and feel every second of the day. With that in mind, I genuinely don’t think I am well enough to go back into the work place and deal with the pressures of work. But I will, if I have to. It’s just not what I want for myself. I know what I want for myself. I dream about it all the time. Somehow though, it isn’t socially acceptable to say, you don’t want to go back to work. I mean, the look on some faces I’ve experienced is comparable to someone having been shot in front of them.
So, if someone asks, I tell them I’m still figuring it out.
