So you’ve started thinking about crashing your car again.

Only when you’re on your own. Never with the kids in the car, and even then, when you’re all by yourself, you don’t really mean it.

Like, you don’t actually think you’ll ever intentionally crash your car.

It’s just started crossing your mind again. Like the old days.

You don’t want to. And you won’t. But the fantasy is there.

And you wonder, why is it that this thought crosses your mind? Because it’s not a suicide thing. You don’t want to kill yourself, you know that. It’s not about that.

Is it the fantasy of escape? Is it the idea of being carted away to hospital, of the police realising it was intentional, that the brakes were never applied. The branding. This woman is sick. The serene white walls. (Would they actually be white? Probably not. Probably salmon pink.)

The sanctuary.

Or is it about attention. Is it the notion that with mental illness, there is still that stigma. I hate that word. I hate the word stigma.

So if you’re physically injured, not dead, just injured, people will think differently off you. If it’s a broken limb, a cracked collar bone, a nasty head injury, they’ll bring you flowers, they’ll visit, they’ll care – but in a different way to if you’re just sick because you’re depressed.

Because part of you thinks, I’ve already been here before. They all cared. They all offered their kind words. But if I go to this place again, perhaps they will think, “Fuck. Haven’t we been here already? Didn’t we do this once before? Didn’t she get better? Isn’t she over it?”

And if you’re back there again. Then maybe there’s something really wrong with you. Up there. Maybe you’re really fucked up.  Maybe there’s no coming back. And maybe they’ll always treat you differently.

You know what your husband would say if he were to read over your shoulder. He’d panic. He’d freak out. He’d tell you that you need help. He’d be frightened to let you get behind the wheel of a car.

You’d try to laugh it off. I don’t really mean it, you’d say. I’d never do anything like this. I’m just trying to express what I’m feeling. Oh forget it, I’m just being melodramatic.

But then why are you saying these things? And what’s going on in your mind? And can it be solved by a simple increase in Zoloft?

Or a crazy game of duck, duck, goose with your husband and your six year old and your three year old around the dinner table?

That game left you breathless with laughter. It lifted your heart and it made you think, this is all I need. Fun and lightness with my family. An elevated heart beat and the squeal of pure delight.

But is it enough?

And will you ever be better?

Once and for all.