Positive Thoughts

I’ve spent the last few weeks at home with my family enjoying the various delights of Christmas, Chicken Pox and Potty Training, because of this I’ve had a little bit more online time on my hands and have re-discovered the joys of Pinterest.

One of my favourite things to browse and pin on Pinterest are quotes or words of wisdom. I have my own board called “Words of Inspiration” and I wager most Pinteresters have a similar board. Quotes, proverbs and inspirational phrases are big business.

We all have mottos that we live by, or mantras we say to ourselves in times of need. I start each day by coming up with a positive thought about me, about my life in the hopes that a smidge of positivity each day will make me feel and act in more positive ways. It’s a small tool I’m using to fight the depression I’m trying to shake off.

Christmas, for all it’s special family moments can be a hard time. You’re forced to spent 24 hours a day with the people you love most, or if not that, then you’re related to them and love them grudgingly in your own special way. Regardless, it’s tough.

Being confined to barracks due to chicken pox hasn’t helped either, but browsing Pinterest and reading positive quotes, motivational quotes and 1001 things to do with quinoa has helped fend off a little of the black dog thinking.

I am desperate to get back into our routine on Monday. I know most people hate routine and I used to so I understand why. But if like me depression gives you a chaotic mind, then routine can help still that a little. Don’t get me wrong, I’m really just a bit down these days, but last year I was crazy depressed and now I know I have to look after myself to stop going down that road again.

So back to Pinterest, I found this when browsing last night and I thought “YES! I’m having that” so here it is. I think I might print it off and stick it on my fridge next to my “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” quote which I’ve clearly been ignoring recently.

I will look at this quote every day in 2014 and reflect on living positively and what that means to me.

Do you have a favourite, inspirational quote? I’d love to hear yours, I need as much, inspiration, motivation and positivity as I can get my hands on.

Thanks for reading.

2013 – The Year I Survived

I don’t know where to start with this one. It’s been a massive year, full of change. It’s been scary and awful and wonderful. I’ve been on Twitter today and people have been reflecting back over the last 12 months and most people are saying it’s been a tough year, or a weird year, certainly a year of change for most.

Last New Years Eve where was I? I’d seriously damaged my back and could barely walk. I was so off my face on painkillers I’d struggle to tell you my name and I was waiting for a call to go in for urgent surgery to try and fix it. My husband was worried sick and we’d just coasted through the most bizarre Christmas ever. To this day I have no recollection of my son getting up on Christmas morning and opening his presents. It chokes me up to think about that now.

Apart from being in unendurable agony, it was my sons third Christmas, he still wasn’t old enough to appreciate what was going on, but who doesn’t love a pile of presents under the tree?

I was employed by the NHS as a Project Manager, something I loved doing, I was in secondment from a job I really didn’t love doing and was trying to hatch an escape plan. Around Christmas time when I was laid up, it came to me that as I was already running the Twitter accounts for some friends businesses and I might be able to make a go of that. More of which later.

January came and went, still immobile on the sofa, still as drugged up as a human can be without actually being in a coma. On 1st February I went and had my first operation. It was to a degree a success. The searing pain had gone and I was able to move around more freely, but I was still in considerable pain.

The months rolled by, I was still a zombie, eating handfuls of strong painkillers several times a day just to be able to exist. I wasn’t a wife, I wasn’t a mother. I was a thing on the sofa that cried, cried out in pain, cried in sorrow, cried in grief for not being the mother I should’ve been. For months on end I couldn’t cuddle him or do anything for him, the day I made him a piece of toast, the first piece of toast in five months was a monumental one. I hope he has no memory at all of this year.

The pain continued until mid-April when I stood up and felt something go in my back. I knew instantly I’d really, badly messed myself up again. Five days later I was lying prone in an MRI scanner knowing what would happen next. I was not chuffed to put it lightly. The following week I had my second urgent surgery of the year. Just to explain, a disc in my back had cracked open on both occasions spilling its contents so they were pressing on my spinal cord (huge risk of permanent paralysis and/or double incontinence) and my nerve root (unendurable pain and lasting pain). Thankfully my second surgery was successful but I was so weak I couldn’t sit for more than 20 minutes without everything hurting, my core muscles had all but gone and I was unable to walk even to the end of my road. I was fixed but I’d never felt more broken.

Luckily I was referred to a wonderful physio who instantly got me. He worked with me for months giving me tasks and homework to complete, telling me off for pushing myself too far and too hard. After three months of hard work I was able to touch my toes again and I was going on three mile walks. I was stronger and feeling good about myself. I now swim twice a week and go to Pilates as well as trying to keep up with the walking (weather permitting). I will never be able to thank my amazing physio enough.

However during this time my mental health deteriorated. I’d been stuck in the house unable to move with virtually no company or visitors. During that time friends on Twitter had kept me sane, but once the physical pain had levelled out I realised I was in trouble. I acted out, I drank a lot, I was having full blown anxiety attacks, my self esteem was through the floor. I hated being in the house, I couldn’t wait to go out. The walls of my house had kept me in like a prisoner for months, and I never wanted to see them or be confined by them again.

So I had a summer of madness. Self harming, suicidal thoughts, drinking, partying. I had a lot of fun, I met some great people. I met some horrors too, but I had a mad summer, there were incredible highs and the lowest of the lows. God knows how or even why my husband stuck with me. It must’ve been like being married to an overactive 16 year old. But I was moving through the depression and anxiety and trying to find a path forward which suited me.

I was assessed by various professionals and put on stupidly long waiting lists for therapy. I have no idea when or even if I’ll see someone, but through my old work I was referred for therapy. I was allowed six sessions which was perfect. It kick started a process of healing inside me. I’m no longer on my meds, I’m standing up by myself for once. I know I’ll need more therapy but it’s a start.

As far as being a parent, I love it, my boy is the business. He’s so funny and loving. I wish I could do more with him. I can take him to the park now, but I can’t run and chase him, I can’t pick him up and swing him around. If he falls I can’t pick him up for a cuddle. For a start he’s a big lad and it’s not worth risking taking all those steps back. I never want to go back to being a sofa slug again.

2013 for all it’s dark, difficult days did force me to make a much needed change. I’ve set up my own business. I tweet and Facebook for businesses and charities now. I love the copywriting aspect of what I do, I produce email newsletters and I have my blog. No two days are the same. I love the variety, I love everyone I’ve worked with and all the friends I’ve made. Yes it’s really, really early days and if I’m being honest, I could do with a bit more work (hint) but I’m happy and I get really good feedback from my clients.

I couldn’t have got through this year without my husband, he’s been amazing. He’s had to look after us all while I was physically incapable and then he’s put up with me while I was spiralling out of control. The man is a legend and I’ve never loved and appreciated him more.

Having a year like the one I’ve just endured makes you really realise who your friends are. Some stepped up, some didn’t. I made a whole raft of amazing, funny, brilliant new friends and I met some horrors, well one horror and a few weirdos. But I’m ending the year with more friends than I’ve ever had and better friends than I’ve ever known.

Looking back to last New Year, when I toasted the coming year with some diazepam and codeine, I am a completely different person. I’m stronger for my struggles, I know where I stand with people, I’m happy, I have a future, I have a life, my life, and I have my boys and if they love me half as much as I love them then I’m a lucky woman.

Happy New Year. Hope 2014 treats you well xx

A Monster Ate My Mum – Book Review

I’ve suffered from low self esteem all my life. After a period of illness this year that low self esteem turned into depression. There have been times this year I’ve been sad, dead eyed, weeping, cold in front of my son. He’s two and doesn’t really understand. He asks “what’s wrong Mamma?” as he did this evening when I cried, and he cuddles me and kisses away my tears. It’s heartbreaking and lovely. Ultimately it’s really unfair on him.

I feel such guilt at these times, he doesn’t understand. I hope he’s too young to remember the dark days. The dark days are fewer than they used to be. I’m working on my recovery for him and for me.

I was mooching around Twitter when I came across mention of a book called A Monster Ate My Mum. It’s a new book aimed at the children of mothers who have post natal depression. To be honest, having read it I think it works for depression generally.

I loved the title. It does seem like a monster has eaten me. Snatched me away from my family. Eaten my smile, suppressed my giggles. Made me less human. I had a copy of the ebook to look at and read to my boy. I was immediately struck by the gorgeous illustrations. I fell quite in love with the illustrations by Helen Braid and when I read the book to Splodge and Hodge they loved them too.

Author, Jen Faulkner suffered from PND with her third child, she wanted to find a way of explaining her feelings to her older children, so she wrote a poem which this book is now based on. It is beautifully and heartbreakingly written.

From my perspective as a parent with mental health issues, this hits all the right notes. It explains things perfectly in an accessible way. Husband Hodge said it made him feel sad because it made him reflect on the impact of my depression on the family. But he agreed that the book is a valuable tool in explaining why Mummy is sad to her little ones.

We sat down and read it to Splodge who is just short of his 3rd birthday. He was excited by and engaged by the illustrations and wanted to look at them over and over. We read the story to him a few times. I’m not sure how much he understood, he is still very young, but he did say “Mamma sad” and pointed to the Mummy in the book. I think if this was read to him regularly then he’d understand more. So that’s what we’ll do.

It is a beautiful book about a sad subject. I’d definitely recommend this for children who have Mums like me. I feel really strongly about mental health issues. I speak and write frankly about my problems because I’m not ashamed, I have no reason to be ashamed and by speaking out it makes it less of a taboo.

Children aren’t stupid, they’re often more astute than adults, by teaching them about the reasons why Mummy is sad can only be a good thing. By not demonising mental health and depression it might make them ask for help if they need it later in life, it might make them more equipped to cope with the problems others face later on, and if it helps them understand there and then that Mummy isn’t like that because of anything they’ve done, then that can only be a good and incredibly positive thing.

I really hope this book is picked up and used as a tool for helping families in this situation. I’m quite in love with it and I know it will help us and Splodge. My recovery continues. The dark days are less frequent but they are still there, at least now I can explain that the monster ate my smile.

Read Jen Faulkner’s Blog about A Monster Ate My Mum
Buy a print copy of this beautiful book
Buy the Ebook (only 99p, a real bargain)

Medication’s What You Need…

Since the end of July I’ve been on Sertraline for my anxiety, depression and PTSD symptoms. My GP suggested I go on anti-depressants to give me time to come to terms with and deal with the causes of my issues.

Since then it’s been a bit of a journey for me. It took me almost a month for the awfulness of getting used to the meds and the scary serotonin rushes before they started to kick in. During that time my anxiety generally lessened, but the depression seemed to worsen and I frequently had suicidal thoughts. My self harming was also increasing. Though I was starting to think more deeply about why I felt the way I did.

Over the months since July I’ve come to terms with an awful lot. Accepted an awful lot and discovered an awful lot about what makes me tick and why I behave the way I do. I am a product of my environment and my environment hasn’t always been healthy.

I have been feeling better, stronger, happier recently. I’ve hardly had a suicidal thought or an episode of self harm in about a month, but the one thing that really bothers me is the lack of sleep. One of the most common side effects of Sertraline is twitching. I go to bed and immediately my legs start twitching, kicking out so violently my husband can no longer share a bed with me. On bad nights the twitching takes over my whole body and even my face twitches. It’s awful and I hate feeling out of control.

Recently it’s got so bad my legs are aching badly, it’s like I’ve spent the night running. Only managing about three hours of sleep a night on a long term basis isn’t helping my “recovery” and I knew something had to change, it’s just not sustainable.

I saw my GP this morning, she’s changing my meds because I can’t put up with the twitching any more. Which means over the next few weeks I’ve got to reduce my sertraline dose and then take nothing, then start on my new meds, citalopram.

I’m dreading starting the new meds, I felt so rough with the last lot and I don’t have the emotional or physical energy to deal with this right now. Honestly I’d rather just stop them all entirely rather than go through the rigmarole again. But I’ve got to do what’s best for my family and if that means putting up with it, then that I will do.

I know I’m in for a rough 4-6 weeks, I may become more depressed, more suicidal, the side effects from the new meds might make me ill again. I suspect it’ll be horrible, but hope it won’t be.

I had my first therapy session today. I know it’s going to really help me, it raked up a lot of things I’d buried, opened up old wounds and made me cry. It did make me want to harm myself again but I didn’t. Progress. My therapist seems excellent and has got the measure of me already. I’ve only got another four sessions, which seems too short for someone with so much going on.

I’ll get there. 37 years of hurt won’t fix itself overnight. I know that I hit rock bottom over the summer and I’m clawing my way back up. I also know it’s a journey I can’t make by myself and I’m incredibly thankful for the unwavering support of my husband and friends. Thanks guys x

Stupid

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I’ve been stupid. This is nothing new for me I admit, but this time I’ve really messed up. I’ve got issues like anyone and sometimes, just sometimes I lean on friends too hard. They’re not trained professionals. They don’t know how to cope with me, my moods, my anxieties, my weirdness. I say and do things that are sometimes just wrong or hurtful or inappropriate. I don’t mean to.

photo (20) (600x450) — *Some* of my meds

I seem to have got myself into fortnightly cycles of downers, I’m fine for 13 days and then, boom, my mood goes through the floor and I act up, act down, act weird, do stupid things, say stupid things. This is really not cool. This is really not me. This is really not how I want to be.

As I write this I’m crying. On the verge of losing another friend over this. I’ve got to take ownership and control of my moods, my life. This just cannot continue.

I need a strategy. Previously my strategy was to drink massively and to excess, it was my first thought this morning but I’ve not touched a drop. That’s progress. My second thought was self harm, I’ve not cut or burnt today. Progress. I am getting somewhere. I need a non-destructive way to deal with stuff. Until I find that I’m stuck with dark, harmful thoughts in my head but not wanting to fall back on my old ways of dealing with them.

So, to friends old and new, friends I’ve lost and are losing. I’m sorry. I won’t use my mental health as an excuse for poor behaviour. Pull me up on it, challenge me, don’t let it float by. But love me and hold me when I need to be loved and held. It’s a scary old rollercoaster in my head right now. I know I am getting better but it won’t happen overnight. Bear with me, please, and I’m sorry. I really am.

Learning to live with and accept my scars

I am covered in scars. Sign of a life well lived or recklessly lived I don’t know. I only really regret one scar and I’m working on learning to live with and accept the rest. What is the story behind my scars and what do I really think of them?

I’ve got a number of scars on my wrist from when a glass panel fell out of a door when I was 6. I was lucky not to be cut to ribbons, but the scars are bad and I clearly remember seeing the white of the bone. For the record, bones are very white.

I have a cesarean section scar which is a reminder of my boy. I don’t regret that one bit. At the time, it was the only way for him to get out as he was stuck and we were both in trouble.

I have my back surgery scars. Twice this year I’ve been sliced and diced, so the scar is a very ugly one but hopefully will fade in time. A necessary scar because without it I’d likely be in agony and paralysed. I don’t regret that.

I have had many and various skin conditions so my legs are scarred. To figure out what was wrong I had a biopsy, so I’ve got that scar too which looks like a strange dimple in my calf, as well as marks from the skin conditions which are horrible.

My feet are in a shocking state. Years of secret self harming and picking at the scars have taken their toll. Look at the soles of my feet and you’d be shocked.

But the only scar that bothers me is the one on my hand. I cut it with the blade of some scissors, running the blade repeatedly over my flesh until it opened up. I wanted a visible reminder of my pain. Of that moment in my life which was both beautiful and terrifying. I cut it in June and the scar is still obvious and unlikely to ever really go away. I want it to fade because of what it represents but equally I want it to stay forever as a reminder.

Learning to live with My Scars — Self harm cigarette burn & the scissor scar

I look at my scars and I don’t think they’re ugly. I think they’re me. Others might think they’re ugly or disgusting or shocking but they are part of who I am. They are the map of my progress through life.

Mental Health: Feeling insufferably bleak

Today I’m feeling low, really low. I’m feeling insufferably bleak. I woke up yesterday wanting to die but got on with my day. So I’m doing what I usually do, I’m writing all of the dark feelings out of my head and hoping I feel better on the other side of it.

My struggles with my own mental health are pretty well documented on this blog so feel free to check the mental health category if you want my back story.

Fact is if someone really want to kill themselves telling them how special they are probably wont stop them doing something unspeakable. It may help some, but I think that’s probably a rarity.

My life has been touched my suicide. Several people I know and love have taken their lives or tried to. It’s about the most horrific kind of pain you con inflict on your loved ones. I’ve seen both sides and both are awful places to be.

I’m feeling low right now and my answer is to blog it. A huge number of blog posts I’ve written I’ve never published for fear they were too bleak. They probably were but to write down my feelings got them out of my head and that did help.

I’ve had a good four weeks, I’ve been feeling chipper. I felt my balance of meds was alright and I was exercising and getting stronger. I’d cut my drinking right down and I’d started eating reasonably regularly too. I saw my GP last week and they wanted to increase my meds. I nodded sagely and agreed but I didn’t want to increase my dose. Things were fine, I felt fine, so why mess with the balance.

Yesterday, suicidal, wanting to self harm I realised they were right. But I’m not going to, not for a few days, I want to see if I can work it out myself, dig myself out of my bleak depressive little hole.

My self confidence is so fragile that all it takes is a small knock for me to be bruised inside. I’m working hard to improve me, why can’t others see that and appreciate me. At the same time I feel so immeasurably selfish for thinking that way. Why should anyone notice or pay me a compliment. Why? I’m worth nothing to them so why is my self worth so bound up in what they think? I’ll work it out.

So if you know someone on the brink, someone depressed, do tell them what they mean to you, how irreplaceable they are and what a wonderful, beautiful human being they are. It might help, it might not, but if the worst happens then at least you know that they knew what you meant to them. It could save a life.

Mental Health: Feeling insufferably bleak

Goodnight Vienna

I don’t think I could do it. Kill myself. I don’t have the balls. It’d hurt for a start, probably quite a lot and I’ve got family to think about and care for. When I became a parent, I signed that invisible contract which says you’ll promise to forever protect your child from the darkness. Being ill is pretty dark but not as dark as being dead.

I’ve spent much of the afternoon reading suicide notes online and researching methods. There’s lots out there if you want to find it. Pictures of bodies who’ve died in different ways, none of them pretty. Some of them may have lived fast, died young but there’s rarely a good looking corpse. Faces lined with more pain than a lifetime of depression could ever offer.

I’ve got to stop thinking like this. I’ve got to stop lurking in the darkness and listening to destructive thoughts. I’m better than this. No really I am.

Today has been a good day, I’ve been busy, been for a walk with the boy, did colouring in, lots of cuddles. I’ve done some work, played with my blog. a good day. My boy is out with his Auntie and I’m alone which is why my thoughts have turned to darkness.

It’s easy to cut and harm, to bleed a little, to bruise, to scrape away at skin. It’s harder to still your heart permanently and I’m not going to. I’ve too much happiness ahead of me to go that far. I’ve got to believe that and I do. I really do.

I think.