Let’s Talk: Pregnancy and Infant Loss

This month has been Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month and social media has been flooded with people’s posts, stories, images and simple acknowledgements that they too have felt the pain that comes with pregnancy and infant loss. I have come to realise that pregnancy and infant loss is not as uncommon as you think. I’ve seen posts from friends or acquaintances that I would never have guessed had gone through their own loss. Silly really. It’s silly that, just because their Facebook or instagram posts reflect a happy, care free life, I would be surprised that they too had experienced loss. It made me realise that many of us present only our best lives through social media. I too am guilty for that. After all, why would you want to document your challenges, the dark days and the low times? They aren’t the days you want Facebook to remind you of this time next year and the years to follow. Many times I have written out a post that is a real reflection of the shitty time I am going through but then have hesitated just for a moment too long, hovering over the ‘post’ button. I don’t want people to think I am a whinge-bag. I don’t want people to think I am having a moan, or complaining. After all, there are people in the worse situations. I shouldn’t complain. Delete. Delete. Delete.

So, an awareness campaign like this does good. It not only raises awareness but in a strange way it creates a community. A community that nobody wants to be in, granted, but a community no less. A community where we have all, at some stage in our lives, experienced pregnancy or infant loss.

I experienced pregnancy loss following a number of years of fertility treatment. I had secondary infertility and we had tried a number of different treatments over the years. After the weekly blood tests and the twice monthly scans, trying for a baby had definitely lost its romance. It was now clinical. Mind you,  I would have had sex whilst standing on one foot with my right hand behind my back, reciting the alphabet in reverse order in Latin if they’d told me that would improve my chances of becoming pregnant. Every month I’d have to make ‘the call’ to the clinic to see whether the bloods had come back positive with pregnancy hormones and let’s face it, after years of trying, I was pretty used to them saying ‘I’m sorry, it’s a negative’. I’d have a mope about and then I’d get straight back on that rollercoaster of hope and think to myself  ‘this cycle is going to be the one’ and so the cycle continued. So when I made that call from my desk at work and they told me it was positive I didn’t quite believe them. For me, at this point, the hurdles had been overcome. I was pregnant! Nothing more could stand in our way – we were having a baby!

When on fertility treatment, you have early scans so we were scanned at six weeks. We were warned that a heartbeat at this stage would be unlikely so not to expect much; it was for monitoring purposes. I can’t say that when I lay on that bed in the scan room I expected anything other than the sonographer telling me everything was looking as it should in there. We didn’t get bad news, per se, but it wasn’t great either. The sonographer did some measurements and expressed some concerns but said it was likely because the scan had been arranged for too early on in the pregnancy. They said to come back again the following week. The following week came and we had another scan and this time they advised we may be able to see the heartbeat. We waited and waited but again we were met with concerned faces. The sonographer pulled in another colleague and they zoomed in and zoomed out, they moved the screen about, they got up close to the screen. Again, they advised they didn’t see what they wanted to see but that we could be a week too early. I asked them for a glimmer of hope and they gave it to me. They said that it could be that it was just too early for a scan but at 8 weeks next week, they were sure they would be able to see what they needed to see to reassure us that our baby was growing fine.

That week was a tough week. It was long. It was hard. At 8 weeks pregnant barely anybody knew which meant there were very few people to confide in. Those I did confide in would tell me exactly what the Doctors had, it was just too early. Hang on in there for one more week. I’m sure this time next week you’ll have seen your baby’s heartbeat and everything will be fine. After all, you’re still being sick, you’re still off coffee – they’re good signs, right?

Something in my gut at this point told me that despite the morning sickness and other pregnancy symptoms, something wasn’t right in there. When the 8 week scan finally came, I was ready for answers. Living in limbo for three weeks had been tough on us and I was tired. I was exhausted of lying awake at night analysing every symptom or every ache or pain. I was exhausted of having to keep it all together emotionally when inside I just wanted to have a wobble. The scan started and within five minutes there wasn’t just one sonographer in the room but there were three. One thought they saw something but then the second didn’t agree. The third was unsure. They dithered about. They called my Professor in. She had been our specialist throughout our treatment. Within thirty seconds of looking at the screen she delivered the verdict and she did it with absolute certainty. I hated her at the time for it because it wast the verdict I wanted but looking back, that definitive answer was definitely needed. The long drawn out uncertainty of her other colleagues was soul destroying.

Our baby had started to develop but had, for some unknown reason, stopped developing in the early stages of the pregnancy. My body hadn’t even realised it yet, hence the continued symptoms. That afternoon I was sent across to the hospital to arrange the surgery to remove the pregnancy. I remember being in a side room in the hospital waiting for one of the nurses to come and explain what was going on and I felt numb. I felt like I wasn’t there, like I was almost looking down on myself being there, watching it from a birds eye view. This wasn’t happening to me. It can’t be. We’ve tried for this baby for years – six years in fact. When the nurse did come in I couldn’t even bring myself to look at her, or to process what it was she was saying. It felt like I had just emotionally shut down. I didn’t want to talk about it and I didn’t want to know anything about what was to happen next.

The surgery the following day made everything seem so medical, so clinical and so final. The nurses were sympathetic but all the sympathy in the world wouldn’t make this any easier. I remember coming round from the procedure afterwards and feeling empty. I felt physically empty and I felt emotionally empty. An infection following this procedure meant that my body was in for a long period of recovery from the miscarriage. I was ill for a good few of the weeks that followed. I had to return to the same ward because of the infection and that was difficult. I remember being referred to an occupational therapist because of the time I had taken off work and he very insensitively suggested that I should only have had two days off sick for a miscarriage. Two days! There was a complete lack of awareness of how a miscarriage impacts on someone emotionally, let alone physically.

Throughout the whole journey we were on, my husband was incredibly strong for us both. I knew he was broken too but he put a good front on. He really stepped up for me and I won’t ever forget the way in which he put his own emotions to one side in order for him to support the difficulties I was having with mine.

I chose to tell some family and some friends after this happened because there were questions being asked about my health, about absence from work and so on and it was too difficult to conceive a lie at this point. I only told those who needed to know though and as I look back on the whole experience now I do wonder why I made that decision. Miscarriage isn’t something to be ashamed of so why do we shy away from telling those around us about what is going on? For me, it was difficult because I hadn’t told many that I had been pregnant, never mind that I had miscarried. I couldn’t bring myself to say to someone ‘by the way, I was pregnant but I’m not now. And I’m not coping very well’ with it. Had I have been more open with people about being pregnant in the first place, I think I would have felt very different about opening up about the miscarriage.

I’m not sure why there is still this stigma about waiting for that 12 week scan before telling people you’re pregnant. I get that people are cautious and don’t want to celebrate the pregnancy prematurely but should the worst happen, it leaves you with nobody to confide in. If nobody knows you’re pregnant, there’s nobody there to support you through the miscarriage.

We were lucky enough, four years later (after two further years of fertility treatment and then a break for two years) to be blessed with another pregnancy. It was a shock. We had decided to stop the fertility treatment after being told it was highly unlikely that we were going to conceive again. Instead of the squealing celebratory response to the positive pregnancy test I instantly felt anxious. It wasn’t like the last time where I believed we had conquered all the hard bits by getting pregnant. I knew this was just the start of a very difficult journey to come; a journey that would see me never relax and never enjoy the pregnancy. We told all our close friends and family straight away. I didn’t want to be isolated if it all went wrong again. I wanted to make sure that I had a network of support around me incase the worst happened again.

After eight months of anxiety, liver complications, regular bleeds and lots of prayers that this time would be different, our baby girl was born by emergency section. She will be 2 in a week. After we made the painful decision to give up the fertility treatment and to accept that we were never going to have a second child, never did we expect to find ourselves with the beautiful baby girl that we had dreamt about for so long. She has definitely eased the pain that came with having the miscarriage but it’ll never be something that I will forget. It has made me fiercely grateful for what I have. I have two beautiful children and I know every day how blessed I am to have them. Even on the toughest parenting days (and let’s face it, we all get them!) I know I am blessed and I am so grateful.

For those who have experienced miscarriage, I am thinking of you. I know this is tough. It’s just shit. There’s no polite way of describing the situation; it’s just shit. I’ve been where you are now and I know that grief is heavy and the darkness you feel around you is thick, like a thick fog. You will get through this. You won’t ever forget this but you will get through this. Talk to people. As hard and inconceivable it may seem, talk. Let people in. Let people know what you are going through. You need them. Take one day at a time and when a day seems too much, take one moment at a time. Allow yourself the time and space to grieve. You are entitled to grieve for your baby, no matter how early on in the pregnancy you experience your miscarriage. It doesn’t matter how small or how formed the baby was inside the womb, the baby was your baby in your head and in your heart. You had hopes and dreams for that baby in the same way others do for their children. You may have envisioned what your baby would look like,  perhaps, inside your mind,  you had played out the moment you would first hold your baby in your arms. You need to grieve that loss and you have every right to do so. Take your time.

My Solution to the Blue Badge Debate

I’ve not blogged in a while. There are mixed reasons for that but it mainly comes down to the fact that for ten years or more I have been on stonking doses of morphine and other meds and having changed GP surgery recently, my GP advised that the dosage I was on was potentially lethal, informed by new medical studies about the use of morphine at that level. I had no choice but to accept that my meds needed to change but it brought out a lot of anxiety for me. Anxiety that I would be in pain; that my life would be impacted – my work, my ability to parent, hell, my ability to just be me, wash my own hair and get on with my every day life. The reduction in the meds has been gradual to stop any withdrawal symptoms and I have got it down to a reasonable dosage although the GP wants to drive it down even further. However, there is no doubt that the pain is now not managed. It is taking its toll on me both physically and emotionally.

So, when the Disabled Blue Badge scheme hit the headlines recently, it prompted me to return to my blog to share my opinion on that matter because it is close to home, particularly at the moment.

I have had a blue badge for a number of years. I suffer from two chronic conditions: an inflammatory arthritis and Ankylosing Spondylitis, both of which give me chronic pain in my spine and in my joints. I was diagnosed around 14 years ago and have been battling with pain and reduced mobility ever since. The thing about my conditions are that they are incredibly variable. One day I can manage certain tasks, like walking from the car to the shop, lifting my baby girl, putting the washing in to the washing machine and so on and on other days I am bed bound or physically can’t walk or move. It is so difficult living with this uncertainty. It is hard to plan things and for years I felt like all I did was let people down. Texts saying ‘I’m so sorry. I’m having a flare up and I won’t be able to make it today’ were a regular occurance. I let friends down not just once, but repeatedly. I would feel fine one day and arrange something and the next I would be floored. These days I am wary to arrange anything at all as I can’t stand the feeling of letting people down at the last minute. It makes me feel like a crappy friend/ daughter / mother and believe me I already beat myself black and blue with mum guilt, I don’t need any further guilt on my plate. I’ve lost friends a long the way and I certainly don’t get invited to the nights out and the parties that I used to, but theres no point crying over an invitation that I probably wouldn’t be able to attend anyway.

On a ‘good day’ I still battle with chronic pain. I may be a little more mobile but I am still, constantly, in pain. I depend on my car and the blue badge even on those good days as without that I would be pretty lost. Every day trips to places like the supermarket, the bank, the doctors, would be nye on impossible if I wasn’t able to park close by in a disabled parking bay. I start the day with a certain capacity and energy and if I use up that capacity having to walk from a parking bay further away then I am going to be pretty snookered for the rest of the day. On certain occasions, I push through the pain and I end up using a week’s worth of capacity in one day and then I’m out of action for a week after, bed ridden or unable to move. Some days I knowingly make that decision because I want to live my life. On those days I rebel. I want a piece of my old life, even if for just a day and even if it comes at a cost.

Sometimes I have to use a wheelchair, sometimes I have to walk with a stick and sometimes I walk independently; it totally depends on how I am doing and how active the diseases are. Over the last few years as a blue badge holder, I have had my fair share of run ins with people who have seen me use a disabled bay. I regularly have people inspecting my badge, quite obviously, through the windscreen, after they have seen me. I personally think that people see me pull in to a disabled parking bay and on the surface I look (ahem) (relatively) young and, possibly on the surface, healthy. I’m judged before I’ve even got out the car sometimes. People shake their head at me like I’m not supposed to be there; like I don’t have the right to be there. The irony of the whole thing is that I would so love NOT to be there. I would give anything to be able to park at the furthest point in the supermarket car park and cart wheel in to the shop if I could. God, given the chance I’d hop around the perimeter of the car park on one foot, naked.  Sometimes I get the feeling that people view a blue badge as a privilege. That idea knocks me sick to the stomach. Nothing about needing a blue badge is a privilege. I’d give anything not to have that so-called-privilege.

Then there’s all the times where I have come face to face with people who have judged me as not needing that ‘privilege’. Maybe I was having a good day and on the surface it didn’t look like I needed it. Usually I’ve only just got out the car so they are yet to see me even walk. I’ve had vile comments said to me. I’ve stolen the badge. I’m lazy and just want to park close to the shop. I’m exploiting a disabled relative’s badge. I’ve heard it all. Fortunately for me, most of the time my husband has been there with me. My husband is an incredible man. He has stood by me and supported me in every which way you can think of. He has to do so much because I am unable to and I am so grateful for that. He is protective of me. Fiercely protective of me. He isn’t able to stand by when people make these comments and on more than one occasion my husband has challenged these people, shouting at them the reality of my situation. Their response? I’ve never had an apology once. They shake their head at us. Or, at best, they bow their head and scurry on.

My personal experience has found that the most judgemental people are Blue Badge users themselves. I’m not one for making mass judgements but based on my very real and personal experience, it has been blue badge users of the older generation that have made those judgements about me. Whether it’s a generational thing or not, I don’t know but I think it’s really sad that those who share similar limitations in their lives (thus requiring a badge in the first place) would be so quick to judge others on whether they are worthy or not of the same badge.

The fact that the government are now considering allocating those with ‘hidden disabilities’ and non-physical disabilities blue badges sits very comfortably with me. On some occasions I am sure my disability is hidden. I still get up on a morning and try and put my face on. I still try to (badly) do my hair. Maybe that’s the reason, maybe I don’t look poorly or disabled enough, I don’t know. I know I have had similar judgements made when I have used a disabled toilet. On the surface I possibly look absolutely fine. But look closer. Follow me for an hour or two and you’ll see my struggles. Even on a good day.

The opposing view is that those with non-physical disabilities don’t require a parking bay as much as those of us with physical limitations. I don’t buy that. There will be people out there with Autism or Dementia who need support to access places we use in our every day life. Who is to say they need that parking bay less than me or someone else with physical limitations? Who made anyone judge and jury? I totally understand that there are limited numbers of disabled parking bays and, perhaps, that is the only point I would agree with. If more disabled badges are being allocated then maybe more spaces need to be added. But that is the only point made by those opposing the suggestion that I agree with.

I think the solution to the whole debate is kindness. If we were all just a little more kind, a little more empathetic, a little more sensitive, then society would be so much better at supporting those who require a little extra help to access places. Every one who is given a blue badge is given one for a reason. It’s because they have it tougher than someone who is emotionally, mentally and physically healthy. It’s because their life has challenges.  It doesn’t matter whether their challenges are greater or lesser than mine. It doesn’t matter whether they look well on the outside. It doesn’t matter if they got the last disabled parking bay in the whole of the town. Give them a fucking break. They have that badge for a reason. Nobody has any business judging, commenting or head shaking.

The government should allocate blue badges to whoever they believe requires one. If a doctor has assessed a person as needing one, then that should be enough for everybody else. It doesn’t matter whether their disability is visible or not; a doctor has said they need that badge, that should be the end of the discussion.

I’ve been reduced to tears by someone who judged me as not being ‘disabled enough’ to warrant a blue badge before. I was having a really bad day and it had taken me every ounce of strength to get dressed and get in the car to nip to the shops for a couple of essentials. My capacity for the day was done with just getting out of bed. Constant pain wears you down on an emotional level and I was already at that point of only just being able to hold it together. I just wanted to get to the shops and get back home without seeing anyone I knew, without being asked if I was ok, without even making eye contact with anyone. I looked terrible. I felt terrible. I was conscious of the way I was walking and I felt fragile. A couple of vile comments from a complete stranger completely broke me that day. It had an impact. It only further compounded the shitty-ness of my day. Nobody needs that, especially those who live with health challenges every single day.

The solution to the debate? Be compassionate. Be kind. Be sensitive to the needs of others. If you’re a fellow blue badge holder, don’t compare your needs to that of someone else – you can’t possibly tell by looking at someone whether they deserve to be parked in a disabled parking bay.

Kindness is the answer. Topped with a sprinkling of sensitivity and a drizzle of compassion.

I think I’m finding myself again

I’m sure many of you will understand me when I say I think I’ve lost myself for a little while. I’ve never been one to think or feel that in becoming a mum I lost myself, because I definitely don’t feel like that is the reason for it. I’ve been a mum for fifteen years so although we have a baby (more a toddler these days but I’m not ready to part with the term ‘baby’ just yet..) being a mum isn’t new to me. After ten years of trying to conceive our little lady, becoming a mum again was something I had dreamed about over and over and over again. My arms yearned to hold a baby; my heart yearned to be a mum again. When Little Miss came along she completed our family and with her she’s brought such joy. Both of them have.

 

So why do I feel like I’ve lost myself? I suppose I hadn’t really realised I had, to be honest. As a working mum, I throw myself in to the same routine every day, getting ourselves up and ready, getting the Big Lad off to school, getting the Little Miss off to nursery, getting to work, dealing with whatever work throws at me, then home with the kids and the bedtime routine ensues. By the time they have both settled down I am fighting with all my might to keep my eyes open.

 

As much as I love work and as much as I am passionate about my business and excited by where we are taking the business, I got myself in a rut, doing the same routine day after day with no time reserved on any day for doing anything specifically for ‘me’.

 

Last year I went through a period of going swimming a few times a week, only for half an hour each time, but it offered me some time just to focus on nothing other than myself. I was feeling much better on a physical level and it did me good to get out and do something outside of our usual routine. Then the winter came and I got lazy. I opted to curl up on the sofa in my pyjamas rather than head out for a swim. And now I’m out of habit of doing it and there just never seems any time for it anyway.

 

It wasn’t until my Mum and I went to a Psychic event and one of the Psychics picked up immediately on the fact that I had been feeling down and not feeling myself that I even recognized that I hadn’t been myself. It was like, in one statement from the Psychic, I suddenly realised that I had been feeling pretty low and not myself. I guess as mums we push our own emotions to the side and we rarely have the time or inclination to process them and really consider why we feel what we feel.

 

The revelation made me really thoughtful. I realised that I had stopped doing even the smallest of things that used to bring me pleasure as an individual. Not as a mum, not as a wife, not as a business owner – but as me. I realised that I hadn’t read a book in a very very long time. As an ex English Teacher, I’ve read hundreds of books and thoroughly enjoyed many of them. So why had I stopped reading? Maybe because I didn’t have time. Maybe because I didn’t make time for it.

 

The one thing that really lights fire in my belly is writing. I have always written creatively and nothing gives me greater satisfaction. Yes, I’ve written the occasional blog post but I haven’t explored the daily ideas I think about for future pieces of writing and I can’t understand why; there has been nothing stopping me doing a bit of writing after the kids go to bed each night. The only person stopping myself from doing it is me. I can’t even begin to understand why I would stop doing something that gives me such satisfaction and enjoyment.

 

Over the course of the last couple of weeks I have really made an effort to pursue time on a daily basis dedicated to what I want to do, dedicated to what will bring me enjoyment for me. I have started writing creatively again and it genuinely excites me. I have bought some new books and have started reading again. I might only manage ten minutes of reading a night before my eyes decide to close themselves out of sheer tiredness but that doesn’t matter – at least I am going to bed each night knowing that I have had some time out of that daily routine all about everybody else, to focus on me and what makes me happy.

 

As a woman I think we naturally tend to put others before ourselves. We’ll happily do whatever it takes to make our children happy, make our husband happy, or our parents, sister; the postman or the candlestick maker; we are generally far more comfortable devoting time to making others happy rather than spending time on ourselves.

 

I have had a realisation that in order for me to the best Mum I can be, I need that time for me. Having that time for me means that on an emotional level I am so much more happier and we shouldn’t underestimate the impact this has on our parenting.

 

Being a mum, or taking on any other roles, doesn’t mean we have to lose ourselves. I hadn’t even realised that I had got lost in the routine and monotony of the every day. I’m sure it won’t be the last time it happens. I think even just by acknowledging the fact that as people, as human beings, we deserve time for our interests, our ambitions, our hobbies, our enjoyment; is a huge step in the right direction.

 

I know how full on it can be as a Mum. I’ve done the nights where Little Miss has resisted sleep until the small hours and then you’ve got to get yourself straight to bed so that you’re able to be even the slightest big functional in the morning. I’m not daft enough to believe that there will always be time to focus on ourselves every day but we should definitely take ownership of that time where it is possible. Grab the five minutes here, the ten minutes there and spend it wisely. Spend it on something that ignites your soul. Something that excites you. Something just for you. Because, ultimately, we deserve it. It’s working for me. I’m so much better for it too.

World Mental Health Day: Let’s talk about it.

When I was 18 (which, frankly feels like a whole lifetime ago) I was diagnosed with Clinical Depression, sometimes referred to as major depression or major depressive disorder. I rarely think about that period of my life for obvious reasons – it’s a time I don’t care to remember but as today is World Mental Health Day, I found myself reflecting on my experience of depression and took time out to give consideration to those who are experiencing the same.

 

Almost twenty years ago, there was a huge stigma surrounding mental health. People didn’t talk openly about mental health and this only further compounded the situation I was in. I believe that my poor mental health was triggered when I made the very premature (and rather silly) decision to leave home at 17 and move in with my boy friend at the time. I found myself trapped in an abusive relationship; he had manipulated me in to giving up college, moving further away from my family and friends and I was incredibly isolated. Talking openly about mental health just wasn’t the done thing then. The only person I talked openly with was my Community Psychiatric Nurse and GP. I was isolated and I experienced crippling loneliness, stuck within the confines of the four same walls day in and day out.

 

It affected me in many different ways – and probably in more ways than I can even remember – but I certainly remember becoming so bad that there was no Monday to Sunday and there was no day or night: I simply existed. From one hour to the next. I didn’t have a routine. I didn’t get up at 7am and go to bed at 10pm. I simply slept as much as I possibly could because being awake was just too painful. Every day became the same because I had nowhere to go, nobody was expecting me anywhere and I had absolutely no purpose and no reason to get up and go out. I didn’t even have a reason to shower let alone get dressed.

 

I distinctly remember one night in particular. I had argued with my boyfriend and I had overheard him speaking to one of his ex girlfriends who had suddenly come back on scene. I had such a low opinion of myself that I could not see a world where he would choose to remain with me over her. I’m not even sure why I even wanted him. He was pretty damn awful. The truth is, he didn’t make me happy. In fact, he made me distinctly unhappy. But as isolated as I was, I felt I had nowhere else to go. My Mum was supportive and would’ve welcomed me home within an instant but having left home at 17, I felt like returning home would be like admitting I was wrong. And I thought I knew it all at 17 so admitting I was wrong seemed almost worse than staying with a man who contributed towards making me mentally ill.

 

That night I remember standing at the front door of the maisonette I was living in. It was dark and it was cold. I can remember the shape of my breath as I sharply inhaled and exhaled the bitterly cold night air. I felt like the world around me was spinning and whilst it spun around me at such a speed, I was unable to process my thoughts. I couldn’t make sense of how I was feeling; I just knew I felt bad. Really bad. Worse than ever before. I had become so upset that I was hysterical. I tried techniques my CPN had advised me to use when I felt situations were getting out of control, such as breathing exercises, but it was almost as if it was far too gone for those sorts of things to work. My heart pounded so hard I thought it was going to thump through my chest and my whole body was violently trembling. I had lost my grasp on the world. I couldn’t think. I just wanted it all to end. I could not see a world in which I would get better. I could not see a world in which I would be loved. I could not see a world in which I would not be lonely. With each and every thought I took one more unsteady step towards the railing on the balcony.

 

I remember looking down at the ground and trying to make some sort of vague calculation as to how likely I was to die if I threw myself off. I didn’t want to just hurt myself. I didn’t want to wake up in hospital injured but alive. I wanted to die. I did not want to be there. There was nothing about my life that gave me any hope for a better future. I hated my present and my awful present made me think I had nothing but an awful future ahead of me. It feels wrong to speak of suicide so flippantly now, but back then I saw suicide as my ‘get out of jail free’ card. I would reassure myself that if things got too bad, I’d always have suicide. To think that that idea gave me comfort back then makes me feel sick to my stomach.

 

Luckily for me, a complete stranger was passing and instantly recognised the struggle I was having. They talked me down. They calmed me down.

 

Fast forward just two years later and I had got out of that relationship. I had moved back home. I had got a job and built up a network of new friends and, most importantly, I had met my soul mate who is now my husband. When I say that the life I am living now was completely unimaginable to me when I was in the depths of depression would be an understatement. I had absolutely no hope that my life would change, that I would regain control over my own life, that I would be happy again. And yet I was wrong.

 

If I could give two pieces of advice to anyone going through a similar experience with their mental health, the first would be to breathe through the bad moments, the ones where you feel crippling pain, fear or anxiety. I always say to anyone going through a bad time to ‘do whatever gets you through the day’. If that means sleeping, sleep. If it means listening to music, put some tunes on. If it is writing, then get scribbling – you do whatever you need to do to get through those crippling moments. The second would be to always view your present as temporary. I lost myself in my depression the day I convinced myself that this was to be my life. There was no getting out of this alive. Never ever forget that what you are experiencing is a moment. It is one moment in time. It is not forever. This time will pass. It will get better. Breathe through it. Do whatever you need to do to get through it. Things will get better.

 

To think that I may have jumped that night and may have ended my life over the life I was living at the hands of an abusive man, who quite frankly wasn’t even worth crying over, makes me shudder. The thought that I may have deprived myself of the opportunity to meet my husband and fall in love, bring my two beautiful children in to the world, make precious memories with my family and friends and lead a life that brings me such happiness and satisfaction, makes me feel physically sick to the stomach. I love my life now.

 

Just keep breathing. Do whatever you need to do to get through it. This is temporary. It is not forever.