Category: depression

Here Comes That Sinking Feeling.

In which I make a clunky link between learning a new sport and parenting a child with additional needs.

I’ve never done drugs. I’ve never smoked a cigarette.

I am, Dear Reader, an Osmond without the teeth and the Mormonism.

I have therefore to choose my highs naturally, and the latest, most modish high is open water swimming.

This is an extremely predictable middle aged women’s pursuit apparently, along with triathlons and getting tattoos to remind you that you are in fact yourself-and not the mother of three complicated individuals who are apparently unable to load a dishwasher, despite being eminently capable of unloading the fridge..

in this spirit you join me about to pack my bag to swim, in a lake under instruction.

I am a rubbish swimmer.

I hate taking children swimming.

I can’t do the sedate and sustainable breast stroke.

Instead I was taught a showy splashy front crawl, which is exhausting and doesn’t coordinate well with my breathing.

Fortunate enough to live bordering the Peak District I have hills surrounding me that are fabulous for running in and bird spotting.

Nearby is a particularly beautiful stream, ending in three waterfalls which people love to swim in. I’d never been despite living 20 minutes drive away for the last 25 years, didn’t even know how to find it.

Six weeks ago on a freezing May Day (oh how I love this country!) in the rain, with 3 people I’ve never met, I swam in it!. It was amazing.

A codicil. Getting out I experienced a continuing drop in body temperature, like a pre hypothermia, that effected my cognition, movement and vision.It was bizarre and unpleasant, and is the reason that if you decide to do this for the first time you do it with someone experienced,who explains that it might happen, tells you what to do if it does and watches you like a hawk to make sure you are OK. (Basically my body wanted to lie down and sleep, but I knew I had to keep warm and keep moving and it would pass) People die in open water, and it is much colder than you or your limbic system is expecting.

Anyway I want more, but I need to improve my swimming and I need to be with someone in case my brain plays hypothermic tricks on me again.

I leave in an hour with everything packed in a ruck sack, and am excited and trepidatious.

14 years ago my body did something extraordinary and heaved out a remarkable individual with no pain relief. (Yes I have mentioned it before and no I won’t stop banging on about it because I am actually a Goddess)

I had experience of birthing and parenting twice, and was well aware that it could be difficult, painful and unexpected, but oh the highs….definitely worth it?

Apparently when faced with uncertainty, disability, and unusual development of a child, coupled with complete lack of diagnosis – a parents body can do strange and unusual things.

Denial is one, fierce overprotectiveness another. Anxiety, depression and an inability to do tasks that were previously achievable all present.

A reasonable reaction at this time may be to lie down and sleep, forever.

I’m afraid sleep is for losers, or people that don’t have to wake up repeatedly in the night to change a teenagers pad/resuscitate a toddler/unblock a PEG feed(delete as appropriate )

If you are new to this extreme parenting I just want to come along side you and say, this reaction is normal.It doesn’t make you a bad parent.It doesn’t make you ableist.It is a reflex your system has that can’t be explained, strikes each of us to a different degree and is not entirely unpredictable..

There is a trick to working through this.

Keep moving.

Keep warm.

Keep someone close by to keep an eye on you.

Make sure you have plenty of coffee and something sweet.

Persisting through this difficult time will bring its own rewards, and teach you about yourself your strengths and weaknesses (believe me you will have both)

It might not be easy. It won’t always be fun, but then training isn’t supposed to be. It’s supposed to be training.

Dear fellow parentsI am in no way minimising the grief, confusion and sheer exhaustion an unexpected Pearl in the bagging area can bring.

But know this. It is possible to survive these early feelings of disorientation.

It is possible to thrive in a harsh environment.

It is possible to be utterly giddy with joy at your achievements. Not always, because come on people this is after all real life,not just a tenuous analogy about sport, but often.

Ease yourself in. Check your breathing.Persist with caution, but nevertheless persist.

You my darling have absolutely got this.

With thanks to Suzie at Peak Swims, currently rebuilding my swimming technique ! (News just in I didn’t drown or get hypothermia but I did work hard and had a massive giggle too!)Check out her page here

Short blogs about running.

How I started running and forgot I was no good at sport.

Deirdre O’Connell can you hear me?

I know I was a disappointment to you. Not all speed and golden limbs like the Team Captains. Crying on cross country runs and having no coordination did not make me a top pick in a PE class, although my lack of concern about my appearance made me more enthusiastic about hockey than some of the well coiffed  and manicured Essex girls I grew up with.

In my young day there were two types of girls. Nerdy swots, or gorgeous sportswomen

You can guess which category I fitted when reading this report entry, from the above Miss O’Connell  PE.

“Jane continues to try to give us her best, but PE is not her strongest subject area”

I followed up the crying on runs with throwing up during a time trial in a biology class about physiology. Genius.

Encouraged by parents who felt thinking was more important than running, and an “everyone in our family is rubbish at sport anyway” I stuck to regularly being bad at ballet-and gave up on everything non dance related.

So what changed?

The Gym. A place where you could turn up follow a programme and go home.A  place that children (when I became that stay at home mum) were not allowed.Suddenly fitness became attainable, and what is more I found that it affected my mood positively.

Then I became that other parent-a parent of children with additional needs.

I began to dream of running. (Excuse me I think my subconscious is showing)

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However, how could I, a person who was interested in reading and thinking, the last person picked in every team, an enthusiastic but talentless dancer who had picked up a longstanding ankle injury during a ballet exam(yes truly) possibly run.

I pronate, I am gangly running couldn’t possibly be for (as my mother would put it) ‘The Likes of Me” could it?

I never did my D of E. Did I mention I’m not the sporty type? When the first born started to do her bronze I was desperately trying to pay her back for having been ineffective enough to have produced a sibling who took up all my time.

“Don’t worry about the sport challenge we can do Couch  to  5 k together”I said blithely.

And so, between caring for a small needy person, a middle child with latent Aspergers, and working part time as a Speech Therapist,I laced up my trainers and plodded.

Nobody told me what this meant.Couch to 5K if you haven’t come across it, is an easy accessible way to start running.You walk/run over an 8 week period until you can run for  5k. Despite feeling I couldn’t run for 5 minutes much less 5km we carried on.

I say we. We started in February. 3 weeks in Dof E girl who gets asthma got terrible hayfever and asthma and stopped, And I just couldn’t.

How the above has led to me signing up to run the London Marathon-a Marathon Miss O’Connell-might take a bit more explaining.

But that is a story for another day.

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If you feel inclined, sponsors for my Marathon challenge can be made here .They will both encourage me in my training  and help people ( like my wonderful Mum) living  with Alzheimer’s.

 

 

 

 

Strange Days

Sometimes days are too much.When escaping and hiding under a blanket can be classed as self care.

This blog originally appeared on firefly.

 

It’s one of those mornings.

 

I wake at 5am to hear a determined 13-year-old trying to exit her room by squeezing herself under the stairgate at her door. It doesn’t work as she is blessed with the booty of her mother’s mothers, so she gets stuck and shouts.

 

I left the marital bed at 1am for the spare room as the snoring had become deafening so I figure it’s not my problem.

 

Shaken out of sleep I realize I am a terrible mother and wife, and so am wide awake, while the escapee and snorer have both managed to fall back to sleep.

 

Just for fun I run a few of my favourite, back stories in my head. I am the star of these glorious productions, and while I consider myself, failing in a myriad of ways I make absolutely no concessions for my age, tiredness or general humanness in the tale. Each failure is utterly my fault and could only be resolved if I was an all-round better person.

I’m not.

 

Thirteen years of caring hit me like a brick on the forehead.

 

I was going to write about self-care this morning.

How important it was to eat the rainbow, do the things you love, exercise religiously and surround yourself with sunlight.

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Exercise religiously and with Pearllike determination

Instead I offer you this.

 

On the  mornings you wake up imagining that the teachers at school talk about you behind your back because you lost your child’s reading books again, these same books that your child only manages to listen to the first word of (This you understand ,not because she has huge cognitive challenges, but because you have not used your professional skills to gradually increase her attention span, but have let her watch The Wiggles on her iPad)

 

On these mornings forget the Instagrammable meals and to do list.

Get your child out of the house onto transport as soon as possible-stay in your pyjamas, cleverly disguised as exercise wear. In fact, if you like put your running tights on so you look like you’re just about to go out-they are as comfortable as pyjamas anyway.

 

Shut the front door. Turn off the phone. Find a carb if your liking and consume it with a cup of coffee.

 

Grab a cat if you have one. Put it on your chest and lean into the purr. This is an animal that knows the importance of rest. Let it be your teacher.

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New mindfulness delivery from Prime

Turn on the tv (books are available but at the bottom of this well of tiredness who even has the concentration?) and watch anything you like without fear of judgment.

 

At some point you may have to get up to boil a kettle or eat something. Do not be drawn into a chore. Resume the position you only have a few hours before the school taxi returns.

 

Rest is important, vital for recovery and progress. It is not an indulgence it is a requirement. Nobody will die if you don’t put a wash on. There is absolutely another day tomorrow.

 

There are other days when getting up and setting yourself a task like getting dressed is the way forward. (if all you tomorrows are like today and getting off the sofa becomes an impossibility then another level of self-care needs to kick in involving a GP and extra help.)

 

Nobody told me there’d be days like these. They don’t tend to be ‘grammable.

 

Strange days indeed.

 

 

 

Happy?

In which I ponder the black dog, his habits and my reluctant relationship with him.

This post was initially published on Firefly.You can see the original here

 

I have always been a big thinker. I don’t say this out of pride, in my experience it is not necessarily an advantage.

 

An introvert adolescent and the youngest of three, I spent plenty of time alone growing up. I didn’t mind.
I liked reading. I liked thinking. I very clearly remember saying to my mum when I was about four ” but what is a human being?” The philosophical thoughts of a preschooler are enough to make most parents shudder, but I’m not convinced my thoughts have moved along much.

 

The main problem of having a mind of your own is that you have no one else’s internal workings to compare it to. Your normal is the normal.

 

When does being a loner, a thinker, a ponderer, tip over into something pathological?

 

Are all introverts depressive? In an attempt to resist over thinking this I’ll tell you how it is in the grimy recesses of my brain.

 

Depression to me is hard to explain and harder to admit to. It colours  other people’s perspective of you. Go to the GP and I believe a little flashing link appears on the case note screen.

”I think I’ve torn a ligament Doctor” “And how long have you been on the antidepressants Mrs. Scott?” (I exaggerate but…)

 

I have long felt that any bad health I experience, physical or mental is a character failing. If only I worked harder, ran faster and was an all-round better person, I would not experience this thing. As my excellent GP really did say “you are extraordinarily driven” Well duh?!Through sheer force of will I can, I will, be better!

 

Oh dear, that definitely sounds like the workings of a depressive brain. Couple that with the fact that I think I’m probably putting it all on. A double whammy.

 

Also, if I’m not depressed I’m happy. I don’t really do in between. I feel things extremely intensely, or I’m depressed when I don’t really feel anything at all.

 

In the absolute grip of it I long, long, for it to be over.

 

So what is it?

 

An absence of feeling. An abundance of desolation. A loss of appetite for food, drink, touch, smell, life. A deep hole which seems impossible to scale the walls of. A heavy sadness in my very bones. An utter and total loathing of myself, and a certainty that my family, my friends and indeed the world in general, would be better off without my draining existence.

 

Where does it come from? I know it comes from a lack of serotonin. I know that. But how, and why, and where has my quotient gone? Does somebody else have my measure? Is my happiness so happy I spent all my serotonin on a good day? Where does it go?

 

I lie some mornings in bed, sniffing the air. Is it here?  Has it gone? It’s gone! I leap up! Oh. No Still there. On days like this I would amputate my own arm with no anaesthetic if someone told me it would make that thing, black dog, cloud, slough of despond, go away.

 

Sometimes I sense it creeping up on me. If there are too many hospital appointments or LA fights, I keep my wits about me and take action before it settles in.

 

Occasionally its stealth amazes even me. It quietly whispers into my unconscious brain “you’re worthless” So quietly that it becomes background unquestionable fact.

 

Most of all it lurks invisibly. People don’t see it in me, I keep it well hidden. Well would you go out in public if you felt like that?

 

Recently I’ve been naming and shaming. Get it out there in the light, show it up for what it is, in the hope it will burn up and fade.

 

Mainly at the moment I thank Big Pharma for the little white pills. They contain the right dose of my elusive serontion. I have hated them, I have resisted them, but now I welcome them.

 

Just now, right at the moment they help. They can’t solve my problems but they can smooth over the rough edges and help me muddle along.

 

Isn’t that all that any of us can really do?

 

10 Things You Didn’t Know About Me.

 

I’m not sure this was exactly what Mum on a Mission had in mind when she set day 2 of #30daySEND bloggers challenge. I know she has an excellent campaigning blog in mind, but I’m feeling egocentric-so settle down, or switch off as the mood takes you. If you find you already did know them, consider yourself one of the inner circle. Welcome to my world.

1. I  judge people on coffee. I’m very polite, you’d never know. Instant coffee is NOT coffee. Similarly decaffienated-what’s that all about then?

2.  I love antique and vintage things. Before blogging I had a little Vintage business Pearlie Queen Collectables (that child gets everywhere) selling homewares and decorative glass and ceramics.(Oh and owls.That is a whole other story) My eldest used to help and we sold at fairs and markets always dressed up vintagely.

3.  I was a committed Christian. I think I still might be. Since Pearl, I have had a real struggle over faith, meaning and the purpose of life. It all appears to me to be very random, and some of the things said to me about healing, strength and being a special parent really haven’t helped. Still on a bit of a journey of discovery on this one. Suspect most of us are.

4. I worry. All the time

About money. We are in a very fortunate position, but are both employed by my husbands business. What if it fails?

About health. What if I die or become really ill? What if the Mister does? Who will care for a small special Pearl?

About the future, do I have the stamina to care in the long term?

About Pearl’s health, what if the epilepsy gets worse? What if her mobility deteriorates?

5. I can’t bear people making assumptions about me based on my appearance, gender,accent, politics or beliefs. I can become quite aggressive if I see someone doing this to someone else too. I try very hard to rein in my own assumptions when meeting others, and make every effort to notice those I do make. Unless I see someone drinking decaf   instant coffee, then all bets are off.

6. I have a tendency towarsds depression. It’s hideous when it’s here, but it is possible to live with it, and I have had plenty of practice. I believe in Citalopram, exercise and occasional hibernation.You absolutely do not have to be afraid of me because of this, I am a master of disguise, with a well chosen outfit, the right amount of slap, and an impressive smile you would be none the wiser.

7. I am a little bit obsessed with clothes. And styling. And design. And handbags. Oh and shoes. It’s getting worse as I get older. If I see a stylish soul out and about I compliment them. Complete strangers. Mainly people are delighted, except my teenage daughter, who if with me, is mortified especially when it’s her friends I’m complimenting.

8. I am tired and emotionally wrung out much of the time.

Tired of fighting the system for provision that is necessity not luxury.

Tired of wrangling a small girl who can’t bear the ordinary routine of dressing, tooth brushing, and washing.

Tired of the smell of nappies in the house.

Tired of handling people’s stares going out.

Tired most of all of being patient, understanding and reasonable. Surely  it is my turn to have a meltdown in public?

I am basically tired of being the grown up and would like someone else to take a shift.

 

9. I  love to laugh. Generally,despite everything  I find life to be lovely, people to be fabulous and nearly every situation potentially hilarious. Unless the black dog is visiting obviously and then-well more if that on a future blog.

10. I hate waste. Medicines that have not been opened or used have to be thrown away?Really? Splints that have been grown out of into landfill? In ‘Austerity Britain’? This does not sit well with me.

10.5 ( Oh go on, humour me) I think T.K.Maxx should be offered on prescription:

“take 2 hours browsing at least once a month. In  emergency cases of extreme fed-upness  enter immediately and do not leave without an unnecessary tea towel or mug.”

True Story.

I leave you with a picture of a Radley Handbag I bought from a charity shop, neatly encapsulating points seven and ten.

 

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You are most welcome.

 

Why not check out other fabulous SEND bloggers on Firefly Community? Join in, comment and take part!

Giving Me The PIP. The Politics of Disability

Politics.It’s everywhere.You wait around for a General Election and then two come along in quick succession.

So how do you vote? Follow your family, stick with your tribe? is anything that goes on in Westminster relevant to the daily grind anyway?

Yesterday I was minding my own business, parenting and such like, when politics came up and slapped me hard across the face. I took my son to an assessment to see if he qualifies for PIP.

I’ll explain.Once there was a boy who was little eccentric and rather old fashioned. He muddled along with friends in the school system until Secondary School, or “living hell” as he preferred to call it. Becoming extremely angry with violent outbursts in school, he would tear his clothes swear at teachers and have to be physically restrained.My boy became suicidal, self harming and desperately,desperately sad. Eventually he was removed from school, provided with a tutor for 18 months, and placed in a Special School for children with autistic spectrum disorders.

The boy had secretly been harbouring Asperger’s, and his otherwise remarkable (and modest) mother simply hadn’t noticed it.

The care needs at the time, related to the Asperger’s and his depression,were significant. As a result we received Disability Living Allowance. This was easy to apply for (hollow laugh) and only required the filling in of a colossal form with appended information from all his healthcare team and his educational statement.

When politicians get a bit bored, they look around for something to fix.When they want to impress the voters, they like to show you they are saving you money

For this reason (Insert Fanfare) The PIP or Personal Independence Payment was born! See how it removes the word ‘disability’ from its title replacing it with the hipper “independence’. Marvel as all the disabled people who we all know are ruthlessly draining the countries finances (unlike for example, large coffee chains or internet delivery warehouses) are sorted into “properly disabled” and “scroungers”

Anybody needing assessment will now be assessed by form, frequently followed by a one to one assessment in person, carried out by ATOS. At 16 all current recipients of DLA are also reassessed.

I find myself then, far from home with a young adult on the autistic spectrum, who fears change, gets stressed about meeting new people and has significant sensory issues, related to noise,crowded areas and being assessed.

I have never been anywhere quite like this centre. It is large and clean, and that is truly the only positive thing I can give you.

The chairs are in rows in front of a screen displaying colourful, friendly logos about what the assessment will contain. Despite all this there is the same smell of fear and despair you find in a vets waiting room.

Periodically someone comes and calls out a name, very quietly from the back of the room. It is packed with people waiting with ‘companions’ and we wait for 45 minutes for our turn, at which point we are taken upstairs to a room. There is a stairlift, but we are told that we need to be able to get down the stairs independently in case of fire.

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Access wise so far then, we have the difficulty of getting there, the strain of hearing or understanding your name, and the inaccessibility of fire exits. Forgive me if that seems a little peculiar for a place likely to be assessing people with needs, but it is what it is.

Upstairs we meet a perfectly pleasant Health Professional. I do not know what her specialism is, but I suspect it has something to do with form filling and typing. In 45 minutes she questions Aspie boy who is by now, in an extremely agitated state, takes most questions literally and looks more distressed than I have seen him in some time. I have to discuss in front of my mentally fragile young person, the suicidal ideation he suffered, the lack of school support, the Psychiatric input, my locking away of knives and drugs. All this to a stranger we had just met. This does not appear to aid his mental state.

The assessor is supportive and impressed with how far he has come, but has no idea if he will be eligible, having to send the report to the DWP to use as an assessment tool. We have leave to appeal if it doesn’t go our way.

You may glean that I have some problems with this process, how astute of you!

I absolutely believe that governments should be held accountable for how tax payers money is spent. I do think we should minimise fraudulent claims, and encourage independence as far as possible.I suspect that there may be better ways of doing this.

For example, what if the DWP used medical information provided by medics who know the person well? How about school or Psychiatric reports? Does reinventing the wheel and adding another layer of assessment really save money? How much do the centres cost to run, clean, heat staff and light?Is this money offset against the colossal savings made by removing the fraudulent claimsters? Should centres be accessible? Do the Authorities realise that being disabled is not a choice? It does not discriminate. It could be YOU!

I found the whole situation shocking. It felt like a processing plant. It was dehumanising, to see people coming in with crutches and walking frames ready to be assessed to see if they really needed them. It infantilises people, and discredits the existing medical and social care professionals. It breeds the idea of disabled scroungers living off the stage in the public mind, and discourages inclusion as a result.

I want to believe this was not the intention of Government when it was introduced.I truly want to believe that everyone in our society is valued equally. I strongly advice you not to become sick or carelessly acquire a disability.

Please consider this when you vote, but most of all, please vote!

 

 

Zen and the Art of Extreme Parenting.

In which I wake up crying, and try to put it into words.

As you have been graciously following the inane ramblings of a parent carer, I thought you may like to join me on the next stage – how to stay calm while dealing with extreme  pressure to parent fully and effectively.

I have recently become interested in extreme sports and have been considering amazing feats of daring-do and endurance. Maybe this is an age thing (46 as our local paper was keen to pointlessly share) or maybe it’s a growing awareness that life is short.

I suspect it is more to do with the fact that jumping off the side of a bridge attached to an elastic seems a great deal easier than parenting my three children.

Before I start, can I just say that parenting is difficult. All parenting is difficult. Childcare is difficult. It can be tricky, keeping small people safe let alone moulding them into useful and delightful members of society. It can be boring. Anybody who has watched  a friend who is a party loving wild child turn into an exhausted zombie, unable to stay awake after 7.30pm, will know what a baby can do to a person.

My personal view is that if you get to the end of a day, haven’t killed,maimed or lost anyone and  you’ve all been fed, you are a successful parent. If the house is clean and tidy that’s a bonus. If you have completed an improving craft activity with child/children you deserve a medal. If you have managed to arrange some lemons in a ceramic dish, photograph it and put it on Instagram, you probably need professional help.

Let me tell you what parenting in extremis looks like. In my case, qualifying as an extreme parent, includes a preexisting tendency to depression, which is largely managed with careful monitoring. Add a lack of sleep, and constant physical exertion, so that you no longer have the mental resources to carry that monitoring out.

You will be responsible for a small non verbal person, with physical and some health and behavioural issues. (Let’s call her Pearl) She will be prepubescent and in thrall to hormones that she cannot understand or explain. As well as this you will have a filing cabinet (or two) of information on her to keep up to date and in order. Somehow you will also have the role of coordinating all her care, and communicating across disciplines.You may have a Family Support Worker who has roles that don’t appear to match her title, and both she and you are not certain of what they are. Social care ‘support’ will make you want to cry. You will have to travel across counties and sometimes at short notice to a vast array of appointments. You will absolutely not be able to keep up your professional role, and end up doing your husbands admin with a very bad grace.

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You will also be responsible for a 15 year old male of the species. He will cleverly have been harbouring Asperger’s Syndrome until the age of 11. There will have been many signs of this scattered liberally through his life, but as you are busy  extreme parenting the small person, you haven’t noticed. You will continue not noticing until he becomes suicidal at the age of 11, and is advised to leave school at the age of thirteen. You will be expected to deal with having a very sad stressed person at home for 18 months while receiving minimal support. You will lock up all the knives and medication,and live in a state of hypervigilism, realising that the one thing you want for your children, that they would be happy, is not under your control. You,my friend will have to deal with an extraordinarily unhelpful and overstretched CAMHS department, find a new school and ask for  one of the first EHC in the LA (and country). You will learn about autism, watch him become well adjusted and in tune with himself, and try to hold your nerve while he wants to move back into the very mainstream setting which caused him pain, for his A levels.

You now have to guide an 18 year old female, who has taken it upon herself to be The Glory of the clan, through extreme social anxiety, watch as she refuses all help and begins to spiral downwards into depression. At this stage base jumping looks like a walk in the park. Offering support while also giving her room to make her own choices, pushing her academically while recognising that her mental health being stable is so much more important, will be the most difficult balancing act you have embarked on. Her school will be limited in the support it can offer, counselling will be in short supply and variable, and CAMHS, well you have seen the help they offer already.

When you wake up in the morning wanting to cry, out of touch with your own needs and feeling that you, and you alone have caused this myriad of difficulties take heart. In your dreams you may have been a more, Little House on the Prairie type parent. Remember Laura Ingalls running through a sunny field? Do you also remember the lack of running water, decent sanitation and washing machine?

I see you, fellow extreme parents. I see you and weep for you, for your situation, and for the poor and patchy support you are receiving in your taxing, thankless dirty, painful jobs. I have had coffee with some of you, and railed against the system and your situations. I have lost sleep over a country that prioritises academic achievement over the good mental health of its children, and who makes accessing support so difficult that some of you just give up asking.

An older woman of my aquaintance told me that love covers everything, and smooths out any parenting mistakes you may make. I hope she’s right.

So, if you like me have accidentally become an extreme parent what do you do? I expect you are waiting for the Zen moment? I’ll let you know.In the meantime I’ll try to practice Pearlfulness TM and be grateful for Gilmour Girls on Netflix.

 

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If like me you are struggling with extreme parenting take a look at this graphic from Carer’s UK.

 

Note to Self.

Mornings. Generally I love them. I am the most irritating of people, a morning person.

Today however I  woke up to find depression attempting to sneak under the bedroom door and floor me before I even got started. I will be having words.

The rational, fabulous, experienced menopausal woman would like to address you, default teenager who has appeared unannounced, so sit down, shut up and listen!

You can do it!  Yes, you can write, pitch ideas, speak eloquently in public and (whisper it quietly) keep going with the novel. It’s possible you could make  fair fist of running the country given a chance, you certainly have enough opinions. You don’t however have to do it all today. Actually, just make a cup of tea and sit down. Worlds will still be there to be conquered tomorrow.

People like you. You have friends. Make time for them, they are an investment.These friends think well of you, remember you and even pray for you. If they speak about you behind your back it’s because they are concerned,or possibly because those shoes really don’t go with everything. You are actually quite likeable.

Medication. Not a sign of weakness. Yes I know you just watched the BBC programme about overprescribing but you have a sensible GP who knows you and your circumstances. Some people have not been so lucky. Some people don’t make it. Thank Science, God and Big Pharma for synthetic serotonin.

You cannot second guess what other people are thinking about you. Further, you can’t control it and it’s none of your damn business. Some people don’t like you. That’s OK. You do not  have to be universally liked. It’s life, not Miss Congeniality . What would Mrs Pankhurst say ?

Being the universal fixer is a thankless task. Think carefully before taking it on. Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. Remember being Chair of Governors? Just that. The immigration crisis? Probably not your problem. Brexit? Definitely not your fault. That tax return however…

Other peoples success is not a reflection on you and your ability. It does not make you an abject failure. You think this is the case because today, and only today your self esteem has dried up. Oh and you’re British you have been bred to mistrust confidence and success. Just get over it already. “Rejoice with those that rejoiceth”

The drive to be internationally recognised? May be this is slightly irrational?  Ambition is good, but  not be completely beneficial in this case.The sad truth is you will die one day. People tend to. Enjoy now. Go to galleries and auctions. Read about ceramics. Argue about politics. Run in the fields. Squeeze your children. Make improper suggestions to your husband. Smell everything especially the coffee. This is it. Now. Just this.

Laugh, laugh and laugh again. Watch a comedy a day. Meet up with people who get you. Drink coffee, eat cake and laugh some more. Try to meet up at least once a year with the geographically distant friends who make you laugh so much wine comes out of your nose. Embarrass your teenagers by mispronouncing pinterest, loudly,in public. Swear randomly at your husband, to shock him. Tickle your smallest child until she can’t breathe and then roll around on the floor laughing with her.

Truly some days will be hideous and some glorious. This sadly is the human condition, and no amount of railing  at the sky is going to change it. Roll with the punches and don’t beat yourself (or anyone else) up when you’re just not feeling it. As Mrs O’Hara said “tomorrow is another day” and you have to believe a woman who looks good in vintage curtains.

 

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Take your own advice. Take care of you. Be kind to yourself. How many people have you said that to this week? Wise words for any day of the week. Listen to them, feel them and breathe them in. You are not immune from this advice-in fact you have followed it in the past and it has worked. Remember?

Give yourself a good hard shake. Put the kettle on. Grab a book and put your feet up.

Normal service resumes after the break.

 

 

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