The emotional weighing scales in my DNA seem to self calibrate of their own free will. And living with bipolar inexplicably grants these scales permission to tip at any given time.
Then came some actual real life interaction with the mummies at the school gate. As in, proper interaction. Relaxed, controlled, and dare I even say it, enjoyable chat. I think I even made eye contact at one point. Today was a good day.
I wouldn’t change the good times in these past few chapters, naturally, but having thought about it a lot, I actually wouldn’t change the bad times either.
My plan was to take a whole heap of valium and wade out into the sea until it became so deep that I’d need to swim. To swim as far as I possibly could, until exhaustion and the valium kicked in. I wanted to drown. I wanted to die.
The bottom line was though, if I didn’t take some kind of action, this was going to be the shortest marriage in history due to me being so poorly (and consequently, extremely difficult to live with).
They’ve felt pain and heartache as they’ve witnessed the blackest of times in my life, and they’ve seen the equally alarming euphoria where at times they’ve found it hard to recognise me.
I’m going to do what I do when going into a cold swimming pool. I’m going to hold my breathe and jump straight in. Deep breathe. Jump.
14 years ago I was raped.