I don’t particularly love reducing my feelings to numbers on a page. I don’t like being asked how often I’ve had feelings of worthlessness and finding myself choosing ‘3 – Almost Always’. I don’t like the fact that it reminds me that just the other day I thought to myself, ‘You are failing. You are fat. You are stupid. You are useless.’

When I voice these thoughts out loud, my husband wants to slap me across the face. ‘Don’t say those things. You are not fat. You are not useless. You are beautiful, you’re amazing, you’re successful.’

I know that there is another me, deep inside, a me that knows these things. A me that can put things into perspective. A me that is sensible and can catch a glance of herself in the mirror and not become filled with hatred. I just don’t know where she’s gone. I don’t know at what point she became swallowed whole by this monster who judges and taunts. Who is cruel and unforgiving.

I feel as though I’m about two thirds of the way down a deep, grimy, spiralling tunnel. I’ve reached my hands out and I’ve caught hold of something. A rock maybe. A branch. I’ve dug my fingernails in, and I’m just holding on. Because I don’t want to reach the bottom again. I’ve been there before.  And it was dark and lonely. I want to scratch and crawl and find my way back out. But it just seems so far. I am tired. And my limbs feel heavy and weak.

I will though. I will start climbing. I have to, because at the other end, where the sunlight is streaming in, I can see two small faces, waiting for me. Smiling as they ask, ‘What’s wrong Mummy?’