There is no doubt that if I didn't have kids, I wouldn't be here right now.

I hate that I have kids. That they stop me.

I hate my existence. Its not a life. I exist. I get up, I breathe, I go to bed.  There is no point to this existence. There is no reason to get out of bed. No reason to be here.

My marriage is a farce. Almost every day something happens thanks to my husband that makes me think that I should just end my life. The pain is too great, being badgered and hounded at my lowest point every time until I want to die.  Knowing that it is affecting the kids to watch how I am treated...I can't describe that pain.

Even now, with what I am going through on this new medication (one my doctor has now been told - by a shrink I've never seen -  I must stop! Immediately! For it has never been used to treat Bipolar Disorder! Fuck me.) I am still attacked until I want to die.

Everything I have ever said or done when ill has been brought up and twisted, thrown in my face used against me and it is very clear, oh very clear indeed, that should I slip, falter at all, my children will be long gone.

Take them, and take my life with them.

There is no escape from this living hell.  No carer to replace the one who does not care.  No one to help me through my disability and make sure I can raise my children. I would be better off if I were a junkie. I'd get all the help in the world then. But a broken spine, not "the right sort of spinal injury" and under 65? I am invisible. I do not matter. My children, therefore, do not matter.

There is only one escape. Only one. It seems to be the one everyone wants.