Suicide dreams and social workers

I haven't had suicidal thoughts for a few years now, not since the serious contemplation when a powercut alerted me to the presence of my son, sat at the table behind me.

I went to bed last night, late, having tried to distract my weighty mind with trash tv. I kissed my sleeping boy and got under the covers, said a little prayer of thanks like I usually do and settled.

In the darkness hung a noose, suspended in mid air, alert and waiting. Shall I kill myself? I can. I want this life to be over. I stepped over and placed my head in the loop, my chin resting on the course rope.

I was at the point of fastening it around my neck with my free hands when I saw my son, sitting cross legged to the left of me, not staring up at me but into the empty space before him.

I took my head out of the noose and that's all that I remember.

I woke up this morning and thought I can't even kill myself in a dream. I had to pack my son's bag for the sleepover with his dad. I didn't want to do this. I asked my son to help me because it is good he is going; he needs space away from me just for a day or so while I find myself again in order to be the person he deserves to have.

I'd arranged to meet the school student social worker this morning. That's lucky. I'd tidied up for her on Tuesday, while waiting for DHL. The Twin Pointed Fork of Council and Foca, Wednesday and Thursday though and the place is a mess again.

She didn't mind.

We talked for ages, about the Foca, about the Council, about God too funnily enough.

"You need to forgive the Foca," she said.
"I can't, I've tried."
"You need to forgive yourself," she said.
"I've tried, I can't."
"If you can learn to forgive, all your power will come back to you."
"Forgiveness," she repeated as she got into the lift. "That's all you have to remember today, forgiveness."

I have to take the laundry out of the machine. I forgot about it last night, switched the machine off this morning.

Start the day hanging out the clean washing. One step at a time, one foot infront of the other.

I am not in Haiti. My heart goes out to these people. I have food to eat, water to drink and yes, a roof over my head, but being as I am in one of the richest cities in the world, one that hasn't suffered a natural disaster, not the kind of roof yet that I desire for my child.

Forgiveness, forgiving, why is it so fecking hard?