Only time tells

Over the last few days there have been many reports and responses to Princes William and Harry‘s open declarations of mental health issues since the untimely death of their mother, Diana. It must be very painful for both of these adult men to disclose their anguish and misery, although I am sure that the world has come to understand that trauma such as they experienced, was never very far from the gaze of others. It strikes me that in sharing such intimate details, people are more likely to be honest about their own struggles and hold a hand (albeit shaky for some) up to ask for help or to share their own stories.

Although my illness didn’t begin with the death of a loved one, it certainly didn’t help and it was at one of the lowest points in my adult life.

My own journey (yes, I do think it is a journey. Rocky roads and mountains may be prevenlent but so too are the brilliant rays of sun at the end of a tiring trek) began when I realised at the tender age of 8 that death becomes us all. A night alone in my bedroom, when I should have been sleeping, turned into years of waking and walking nightmares of panic attacks. Even writing now feels like a daft thing to do as I may start the whole panic off just recalling and writing about it. So panic attacks are where is began for me I think. Mortality in mind and ultimately body.

I stopped eating properly. I saw no point. I mean, why bother if in the end it didn’t matter. We weren’t a rich family by any means so I was a skinny kid and I don’t think that many people really noticed – at least judging by the fact that no one ever mentioned my lack of appetite or abstaining from food. I was considered a ‘picky eater’ – no more, no less.

The majority of the attacks would come at night. I felt I could drown in this irrational fear and my coping mechanism was when a panic spread over me I would stand bolt upright, go to my sister and ask her to slap me out of it. Initially out of concern, she refused, and when she saw how desperate I was she caved. The thing was my sister and I were separated at night and I would have to venture into the room she was in (it was my parents room as we would often be separated because we ‘acted up’ a bedtime) and this was above the living room where my mum was. Not my dad often whilst we were awake. He would be at the pub until closing. So mum would hear me creep in or even just try to open the door and I would be caught and sent back to the darkness. You may be thinking, why didn’t I just tell my mum? Confiding in the woman who bore me about what troubled me. Well I did and that didn’t work out too well for me. I was scolded and sent back to bed with a flea in my ear for being stupid. Several times in my life I went to my mum for support and assistance to be told the exact same thing, but I never learnt that lesson well. I mean, you go to your mum when you’re scared, right?

Fast forward to the here and now and the relevance to William and Harry. My father passed away in July 2015. I was there when he took his last breath. I was there the whole weekend when he struggled to breathe, to urinate, to drink, to find any comfort. I watched as he was given morphine to calm his own mortal panic. When people sat around him and tried not to speak loudly or cry or think of the inevitable. After a lung cancer stage 4 diagnosis, he was hit hard. I would like to think that it was quickly so that he didn’t suffer for months on end knowing that nothing could be done but I’m sure that couple of months felt an awfully long time.

During this time I was myself going through crisis/self-care management of my own. In 2013 I suffered a breakdown although I didn’t really know that’s what it was. Many situations, work, home, personal were culminating together to bring one almighty crash. It got to a point where I stopped leaving the house (my job at the time permitted) for many if not all activities; crossfit, shopping, family and friends. Weirdly, only the people at crossfit noticed that I was missing in action. I was distancing from everyone and everything in my life. I didn’t want to burden people with the thoughts in my head and be shunned for asking crying for help. So I left people and places, good times gone and to come to those who would eventually stop thinking of me or how I once fit into their life landscape. This didn’t work though. In doing so I was so isolated, so desolate that I saw to take my own life. I had a plan in how to do it too which I won’t explain.

One day during this episode, my Son came to me and asked me if I knew about mental health issues. A once close friend of his was going through an exceptionally hard time since the loss of his grandfather. I said I did and whilst I tried to talk from a third party perspective – somehow I think he already knew. He asked about signs and symptoms and what I felt could be the worst that could happen to his friend as his mum and his friends were all extremely concerned for his welfare. I was honest and brutal. I knew what this poor young man should have; kindness,  comfort and solace. Help. Something must have triggered my Son to start asking if I was dealing with MH issues now. I burst into tears and shared everything. Slowly at first as I didn’t want him to be as concerned for me as his friend (I was an adult and could take care of myself, yeah right) and then it came tumbling and gushing out.

I can honestly say that moment was a turning point. Whilst it wasn’t all sun from the behind the clouds, it did make me think I needed help. My Son was the only thing that was stopping me from taking my own life and no one should carry that burden; known or otherwise.

I wrote as much as I dared to share on paper and made an appointment to see the doctor. I’ve seen many doctors over the years for depression, anxiety, panic attacks and wasn’t looking forward to this anymore than those other times. Feeling like I’m going into the lion’s den, I was going to be prepared this time and have my instant concerns on paper – things I probably wouldn’t be able to get out because I was being interrupted or losing train of thought or just such a mess I would hastily leave.

Gosh as I write this I can feel the tears but that day saw me sharing more than I had ever, with another human. I was a wet, sniveling mess. Laid bare my rawness and desperation cascaded from every word; paper and verbal, every movement, every reach for more tissue. Not once was I told I was stupid or to pull myself together. This person actually listened. They reached out when all I could do was fall apart. It felt like I’d been there for years but time elongates it seems when you cannot stop the verbal flume of pain from falling. The doctor put plans in place for my support and well-being and judging by how quickly this happened, and the potential threat of suicide no doubt, I headed off into therapy. Therapy which whilst painful and during the time of my dad’s last couple of months, helped me to see that talking with people, getting out, getting help was sorely needed. I wouldn’t like to ever compare what I was going through to my dad or any one else who is going through the turmoil of cancer – however my life was in real danger of demise and close to its end before the day talking to my Son helped me to see what else I was about to lose.

Losing my dad during this time was f*cking hard man. That and the aftermath of family fights. I still have dreams about seeing him, alive and well and me dying. I didn’t do exceptionally well in therapy. I got loads out don’t get me wrong and more than I imagined I would. I also drank quite heavily and on top of medication I was heading the exact same way before my Son’s initial intervention. I couldn’t escape the pain enough and those thoughts of self-harm seemed ever closer. Once again I made the arduous visit to my doctor and explained how this was affecting me and my family; Son and Fiance, and that I couldn’t take any more. Again, I visited therapy and once more I was helped to put the pieces of my life back together.

It’s 2 years almost since my dad passed away. 4 years almost since the breakdown. Only time will tell if this ever happens again but if it does I can honestly say that having people such as William and Harry reaching out plus listening and reading every other human who is also going through this like I did, and still am to an extent, is sharing in an effort to overcome the pain, overcome the silence, the barriers helps me come to terms that I’m really not alone and I can ask for support if and when I need it.

Talk to someone. Anyone. Please reach out. I couldn’t bring myself to do so initially and it is fortuitous that I have a Son that (in helping another) used that situation to encourage me to move from crumbling mess to still breathing and moving forward today.


Spanner in the works

Or rather a screw in the tyre.

Working away this week so after a rather pleasant evening out and my last office visit imminent I disposed of my attire and bags in the car boot. Just as my colleague and I were about to leave I noticed a rather dumpy tyre. Not to worry, I do have the air pump so as it was a short drive to the office I’d do the necessary there.

Fast forward, I’m now sittingying in a rather unusual tyre repair centre. When I say unusual, it is pretty standard in so many respects; lots of overall wearing men of varying ages, lots of grease on faces, a dusty drinks machine, seating area. No what is unusual is the service. It’s good. I mean as a woman I detest taking my car to anywhere motor related. My opinion is I will be treated as an idiot or ripped off. Rightly or wrongly, past experience has taught/ scared me to think and feel this way. But for some reason my concerns have been wiped away, unlike the dust on the drinks machine.

The welcome from one employee, even as I entered the rather dodgy one way only looking entrance, to the reception chappy was, well, friendly, welcoming and altogether unexpected.

Even when they answer the telephone they seem to genuinely appreciate the opportunity to help. Perhaps my mindset is the thing that needs to change from this experience. I always presume I’m quite an open minded individual. Is this showing me I’m not?

Only thing wrong with the entire experience, loo roll was the wrong way around.

Maybe I need to change.


Bloody hell, what is Broadchurch trying to do to me!

I admit I have watched this whirlwind of a TV drama in a haphazard fashion. Started in series two, back and started series one whilst still watching two and now fully fledged addict on series three.

The show, the actors, the tension, the frenetic ebb of anger and energy – and that’s just the characters played by the wonderful Olivia Coleman and David Tennant.

I wonder if because I can’t binge watch, the apparently old fashioned cliffhanger keeps me aghast and yearning for more or just the mighty scripts and incredible acting, who knows, who cares. I’m caught in its grip – it’s stronghold – it’s spell.

Long may this show, these people, this type of TV show remain as it makes the long Monday after full and frantic weekends just that little bit less of a drag and far more willing to go forth and continue with the week ahead.

Always There: A Stranger and Mindfump.

As I travel, not as far as China I may add, but from Brum to Wolves this tale has both tickled and made me want to hug someone. Only I’m on a train with strangers and they don’t look kindly at (most) people that do that sort of thing….. Especially late at night. Mindfump, oh dear Mindfump, please write a book. I know I would read not only for the chuckles but also for the comfort 🤗


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I got to my late teens and I wanted to better myself, I’d completed Age of Empires 2 and I’d beaten my friends at Pro Evolution Soccer 4. But something deep down said I was worth more than this, I had more to offer the world. I didn’t know exactly what that was yet, but I felt this unknown offering should go to a country outside the UK. China was quickly chosen – maybe too quickly – and off I went, to teach.

Now this was just slightly before the invention of smartphones and common sense. So I headed off across the globe with no accommodation to go to, no name to look for, no contracted work and no other instructions. All I had was a number to call when I get to a certain location.

What should I care anyway? I…

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*Warning – lots of self-deprecation coming*

Another business trip to London today. Up at 4am, was quite awake actually, although the vibration from the phone alarm clock startled the crap out of my partner.

My thoughts weren’t so much about today as they were about the god awful weekend; drunk, rowing, sober, rowing, trying to mend bridges, not mending bridges but almost completely trashing a relationship. That’s the condensed version. The expanded is even worse and I can’t even imagine how hard that must have been on my partner. The gnawing, sick growl in the pit of my stomach and flashbacks tell me all I need to know about how awful it was.

I don’t know why I do it. There seems to be an overwhelming desire to me to completely destroy everything around me or to do such despicable things to justify my hatred and angst. Both of those being aimed solely at me. I hate myself then I project that onto others, namely my partner.

I’m too afraid to return to the GP. Afraid I will be turned away as a hypochondriac. Someone seeking attention (the LAST thing I want). My brain takes me in a myriad of directions from self-loathing to Ooo, I could paint the wall ombre style and back along suicidal lane. But the one true constant is I feel guilt. All the time. Guilt for feeling good (that led to a couple or more glasses of wine), then guilt for feeling bad (after the wine), then guilt that I’m not a good or even nice person because I’m a bitch after wine. Guilt, guilt and more bloody guilt.

Sat on the train heading home from London. Good day but anxiety and guilt laden nonetheless; did I prepare enough, was the team who came with me unhappy with my presentation, should I have waited for 2 plus hours for the train instead of getting into a panic attack and buying another ticket so I could be in the safety of my own home! I mean for pity’s sake!

I was asked once at the mental health meeting, did I ever hear voices. No was the honest answer as the context is always that unless it’s a voice of an entity other than you, it’s your own inner monologue – and that’s just fine. Only it isn’t. When you’re own inner voice is loud and quite irritatingly proud in your head saying, “you’re sooooo awful and everyone is sooooooo much better off without you” it’s paralysing and hypnotic.


#84 Embarrassed – ‘Celebrate Yourself, Respect Difference’

Oh this made me smile so broadly and laugh so hard 😄😆


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I can’t be the only one who suddenly starts denying the existence of things out of embarrassment. Like when Shaun Davidson was over playing at my house and found a poster I had made with magazine cut outs ofthe Spice Girls. At first I didn’t understand his surprise at the find, I didn’t think it was a big deal at all. I eventually just assumed it was because he was more of a TLC kind of guy.

He wasn’t.

I went into school the next day to a wall of wind ups, people singing Spice Girls songs at me, people saying I loved Geri Haliwell*, saying I was gay*, and the rest can be summarised as generalised abuse. Naturally as a 7 year old, my reaction was complete denial. There was no poster.

After yesterdays events, where Iwas involved in…

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Mr Rylance

I’d not come across Mark Rylance until I saw the film Bridge of Spies. In truth, I’m an awfully lacking film buff except for those who contain actors of whom I’m fond.

I’ve not seen Wolf Hall, which some say made him a household name. My relationship began with BFG. And not because of the story. Because of his voice.

He has just the most beautiful voice. Comforting. Warm. But exceptionally powerful to me at least. It makes me want to listen. To me, that is power. It both relaxes and commands simultaneously.

I felt compelled to note this as I’d just seen another Dunkirk film trailer. That and I’m sure my memory is becoming worse.

Old age eh? Clearly working working for some, just not me.