Really, 14 months have passed. It'll soon be Skittle's due date. Babyhood is over, he is taking steps, understanding words, eating finger foods and wearing big boy clothes.
Can't help but feel I've failed. Can't help but feel I should be fine by now. Can't help but think everyone, including the blog world has had enough of hearing it. I've stopped talking to other people about it, not that I really talked to anyone in the first place. You see I'm feeling a bit lonely, I don't really have any friends. The 2 good friends I had in London are now miles away. I've always been crap at making friends, and feeling anxious and depressed doesn't make one jump at the opportunity to go and socialise.
But I should, for Skittles sake, be out and about. Helping him meet other babies. But what about his immune system? What if he gets poorly again? Blood test on Monday...maybe if the results of this one are good we could perhaps venture out? Maybe. Maybe not.
Maybe I should find another counsellor. But then I would have to tell them things that I really feel are best left locked up in my brain and not uttered to anyone. If I say them out loud they might happen. That would be terrible. Beyond terrible.
Maybe I should just pull myself together. I do try. It's all over now. Get a grip. Move on. I fight for a while but then I get tired and it feels like the depression just grabs me by the ankles and woosh, I'm face down on the floor, grappling to get up again.
Stop moaning Hannah, stop mulling and stop musing. Just stop. Stop.