I haven’t slept for seven-and-a-half years – at least, it feels that way. The TV, rotating between Bluey, the Wiggles and K-pop Demon Hunters (when the toddler is napping), has been on for days as we battle yet another winter lurgy that drains me yet barely touches the surface of my two daughters, who vomit on the carpet one minute then ask for ice-cream the next. My seven-year-old makes cameo appearances at school, only to catch the next illness and bring it home to the family, our toddler demonstrating what a fine job she’s doing at developing her immune system with fevers, snot, vomit and a bout of conjunctivitis that never seems to end. The house is covered in crumbs and yoghurt splodges, there are no clean clothes and the gastro I got on my birthday set off my chronic illness into the worst flare since being diagnosed in 2021.
I am running on fumes, but there’s no stress leave when your boss is a toddler. Had I been born in 19th-century England, my “nervous exhaustion” would earn me an opium tincture and a month by the sea – which in my opinion was about the only bright idea they ever had for women’s health (the seaside, not the opium). But instead, I crawl through my days, exhausted and desperate for sleep, only to lie awake all night, shaking with unexplained panic as adrenaline courses through my body.
