I had the week from hell. I was afraid to lie down alone in my new bed in case the bad thoughts overwhelmed me, so I stayed up so late that I could get to sleep through sheer exhaustion. I sat with documents open, but I couldn't bring myself to write a sentence. The tasks were so hard and I was so weak.
At five o'clock on Thursday morning, I lay in bed and wished I was dead. And I felt as if Someone was putting a huge pair of arms around me, telling me that I was far too loved and valued to die.
"Fuck off," I told Someone. "I hate you. You aren't real."
Someone didn't say anything. The silence felt like a challenge.
"You're not real, and every time I believe you I end up getting hurt again."
Someone just carried on holding me and telling me I was loved and valued.
"OK, do something for me. Make the codhead get in touch. Stop Scunthorpe getting relegated."
Someone couldn't do either of those things. All Someone was good for was the arms and the sense of love and value. And all that would do for me was soften me up ready for the next sucker punch.
Eventually I fell asleep, and when I woke up Someone had left me. Left me slightly higher than I was during the last few days, capable of finally getting through Chapter Five. But also vulnerable once more to the bad thoughts, as I proved last night.
You might have your own theories about who or what Someone was. Me, I think Someone was a creation of the part of me that aches to be loved and valued and believes that if I just hold off killing myself it will somehow come to pass. The trouble is, as the rest of me knows only too well, wanting it doesn't make it so.