As good as it gets…again!

Now! Where did we get to?

The police came to see me at work once. I told the policeman that if I found my Brother first, I was going to kill him! He nodded understandably and scribbled in his note pad but, really I expect he thought that I was an utterly heartless bitch! I wasn’t of course, I was in a place where I felt I was drowning, that I would never come up. No doubt how my Brother felt at the time.
I just kept thinking that he wasn’t at all like the Coppers from The Bill. I expect that this was his most exciting job of the day. To me, it was pretty much the end of my world.

How dare he! How dare he find that things were too much for him and so he could simply decide to run away and leave it all behind. Leave me behind. I had wished that I could run away but, I had responsibilities. He had a responsibility to be my older Brother and stick around. He didn’t run away to forget though, he ran away to disappear forever.

Disney baby!!!

Quite often it starts with something small. Don’t get me wrong, I am not trivialising self harm but in comparison of what was to come, it was much more preferable for me. I know that sounds selfish, I should not be talking about me here but, the self harm never seemed quite so bad as the determination to simply not be here. Perhaps that was because my Dad was still here then and emotionally and subconsciously, I was leaning on him so to speak. It is quite easy to ignore it, long jumpers and tins of razor blades hidden under sofas but, it is always there, always hanging around in the ethos.

He spoke to me about it once, we were probably drunk. As we became older and the age difference seemed less, we had a great relationship. We went clubbing together, drank together and on occasion, I was particularly enamoured of some of his male friends. He wasn’t always as particularly keen on that idea but he humoured me. The infatuation was ordinarily short lived. Most of all we would spend our time playing Trivial Pursuit, listening to music and reciting practically every line from Filthy Rich and Catflap…we still do that now. Those were happy times. We still do exactly the same when we meet up though, like we can retreat to those times when we were children and we probably need that.

My brother was always the intelligent one, he still is!

He said that when he bled, bled away, so did the pain and the frustration and the hurt. I could comprehend that, it made sense to me. It didn’t make sense however, that he would always have to be reminded of those times, that he would always always carry it with him, wherever he chose to go in life. Physically, that reminder would always be there. That part made no sense to me. Says she with the ongoing tattoo sleeve…I know I know!! But, I chose to have forever ink on me. He didn’t choose. No-one would choose that if they could. I respected that he had shared it with me though.

That’s exactly where we are now (but better). Since I was 18 and he told me that he would intentionally cut himself, he has never spoken about his pain. But, he does now. Those times of silence in between were dark. Very dark. Mary Celeste dark!

When he was hospitalised, I remember feeling like I did with my Dad when he was. I could not wait for my Dad to come home but, I was always worried about how our lives would be different. I wanted him to come home but, I was scared about being his carer. He could not walk and he had to be lifted into bed and into his wheelchair. Would I have to wipe his bum? Would I have to give up my life to concentrate on making the rest of his easier? Of course, I would do that and I did to some extent but, it is a scary prospect when you are just obtaining your own freedom in life. Incidentally, although I didn’t have to wipe his bum ( too much), I did have to do his washing and empty his commode which was always an experience. We would joke about whether it had been a sausages and onion gravy day. Thankfully, we learned to space those very far apart!

I never thought this may happen again. This time though it was a time when I had my own family to consider : a husband and a small child to concentrate on, I was also pregnant with another. Plus, I didn’t have my Dad anymore to lean on. Those times were times that I would really rather forget. When I talked to my brother on the phone from his hospital though, it seemed like it was just the two of us in the world. Just as we had to be before, just as we had been left and although these were the darkest times, those times are behind us now and we have a crazy relationship because of it. Crazy is our middle name. Although, technically he has a certificate to prove it :)!

Its not Tarby…but hey 🙂

I can honestly say that I have never been so proud of anyone. Of what he was then and now what he has become is a world so far apart that you would need a wardrobe to get there again! I know that he will never be cured. I know that my beautiful fiance will never be cured but in life there is hope and you cannot have sadness or pain without happiness and love. The world is meant to be full of opposites and I firmly believe that when you are given hardship, one day you will be given back what you gave in a positive reward. I already have now to some extent and so has my Brother: in the recovery that he has achieved. If that isn’t true however, I shall be most annoyed but i will die waiting. If I am proved wrong….hey, who cares..I’ll be dead!!!

As good as it gets!

It’s very easy to blame your future on your past. In truth, it’s how we cope with the life we are dealt and in which way we wish to view it. In some ways, it has been far easier for me being the ‘Strong one’. I would always be the person busily rushing around and getting on with practicalities and quite often, leaving the hurt to be dealt with after, when I had time. I am most definitely no saint and I, like any mother of small children, often has the patience of a turnip! My dealing with the death of my parents however was much easier for me because I didn’t also have to contend with ‘The big Black Shadow’.

Being an outsider to Depression is incredibly hard. In it’s very nature, it remains a fog with no particular shape: cannot be defined or described and if that’s how it is for the sufferer, what bloody hope does any loved one have in dealing with it equally. The only clarity I profess to know is that it has none. There are no questions that you can ask and worst of all, there is absolutely nothing you can do to make it dissipate. I know what you’re thinking, ‘How does she know?’, and you would be right, I am not a first person sufferer but, I bet that my description would be equally as inadequate and informative as my Brother’s. And I have still suffered from it. Once (or twice), it has tried to steal my Brother from me and we have been fighting a tug of war with ‘The Big Black Shadow’ really ever since my Mum died.

My Brother, dressed as toothpaste, if that doesn’t make you smile, nothing will.

He came into the world unusually and that is really how he has continued to live within it. When my Mum found out she was pregnant, it was a bit of a shock. This is the most amazing tit bit of information that a picked on little sister could ever obtain and believe me, I used it many times. The fact that he wasn’t planned… In other words, I reminded him he was an accident. Particularly the time that we were due to all go out to the theatre and he tripped me up, most cleverly ensuring that my chin hit the coffee table on my way down. I was wearing my Minnie Mouse glasses at the time. They never broke. That really would have been the last straw! Stunning blue plastic they were, with Minnie Mouse appendages on the side. I also had them in red. Anyway, we never got to the theatre, we went to the hospital instead and he was disgraced for days. I utterly loved it 🙂 He always managed to bring it back however. Like the time I gently placed our Volvo in car cigarette lighter on his finger when he was being particularly annoying. Burning flesh really is a rather stinky matter!

Anyway, the stinky finger story has made me digress. Don’t be dirty!!
My Brother, again not wanting to be normal, was stuck in the Fallopian tube. Quite firmly stuck apparently and alas, it appeared that he had taken a wrong turn and would have to be removed before he started to grow and caused too much damage. My family wasn’t always unlucky, we had a miracle once. By some miracle, a dirty little batch of germs found their way into my Mum’s breathing tract and she coughed so much over night in hospital the night before the operation that she shot the little blighter right into where he should be. Please understand that these are not the most defined of scientific terms and I understand it wasn’t exactly ‘him’ but, it makes the story that much more descriptive don’t you think?

Isn’t he a cheeky little monkey…

Do I think it would be different if our parents were still here with us? Of course not! Grief and Depression are two very different things. It’s testament to this that my Brother and I experienced exactly the same life events (with a few dodgy girlfriends thrown in for him) and I never became a sufferer. I still have days when I do not want to get out of bed but, that is because I am lonely. I miss them and I miss feeling that there is someone in the world that can love me no matter what I did.
I simply believe that our Mum’s death was his catalyst. It would have arisen at a later date for sure but, in his case, he had a trigger. Most people don’t, I understand that.

It’s a very selfish condition but, so is coping with it as an outsider and trying to understand. I lost count of the times that I told my Brother he should be strong and helping me cope, not adding to my worry. I was thinking about me and how I wasn’t willing to cope with more difficulties in my life but, he just couldn’t comply, he had no control. I know he loves me but, love isn’t always enough. It is to me but, I don’t suffer. I do realise it though. That much I have learned and try to apply now but, it really isn’t easy to comprehend.

When I banged my chin on that coffee table, I knew my Mum would make it feel better. She knew she could make it feel better. I cannot in my wildest dreams imagine how it must feel to know that no amount of Love can cover a wound. I understand in respect of the fact that my Mum and Dad are no longer here and I can never feel that love again, I haven’t for a long time. My forever man suffers too and I have to be supportive and acknowledge the fact that in the rest of our lives together, he will have times where nothing I can say will help but, I wish it would. Yet, my accepting of this, although frustrating will ensure that I am always there for him, completely and wholeheartedly without judgement. As I am for my Brother. It has taken me a while to get there but, the road has been a little rocky. Blimey it has been Rocky…

My Brother and I in Disney. We went every year as a family. I wish we could go together again one day.

To be continued……. I definitely don’t want you to get bored and this story is far more than one solitary blog post believe me. I hope you stick around…

Humbled

Last night I had an utterly amazing message which has really touched me. It did so because it was from someone that I have never met, never spent time with or even met, yet they (she) took the time to write me an absolutely incredible and heartfelt message.

I wanted to say thank you to her and to everyone that has taken their time to let me know that they are enjoying reading my ramblings! I have even had messages from people that have said that my blog has made them think differently about certain things in their life, including everyday occurrences that would normally bother them. I am honestly and wholeheartedly so amazingly over the moon by this. What was started as merely a suggestion, has turned into something so cathartic and quite frankly utterly life changing for me. I am so dramatic!!

I saw this and I liked it.

I have not suffered one panic attack whilst driving since I have started writing. I still feel the initial bubbles sometimes (that’s the only way I can describe them) but, instead of reaching the normal terrifying crescendo, they have merely dissipated. I can then continue on my drive to work whilst listening to Billie Holiday or John 5 in peace, whilst obviously driving competently and completely unlike the stereotype of women drivers at all! (unless I have to reverse park of course)

Although, I have always thought of it as a defence mechanism, I have realised that there is absolutely nothing wrong with using humour to heal and cope, providing it is relevant and appropriate of course. Unlike the time at my Uncles cremation when my Dad moaned at me for being the only one smoking. I informed him I wasn’t!! My Uncle would have laughed, as I would. I was going to say he was just like my Mum in that respect but there was absolutely no chance of entertaining her the time she broke her tooth in half on a KitKat.

Anyway, I wanted to say thank you. I never really felt like I had much to offer and even though I still won’t be running out for lunch with J K Rowling, I want you to know that I am so grateful and I shall always remain just a normal person but, with lots of things to share.

Life can be hard but, how we choose to view it will determine how we continue to exist. I choose to view it with humour.

Mostly, I want to thank one person in particular for making me feel like I could do anything, who always tells me he is proud of me and who, without his encouragement, I would never have got off my lazy backside and written anything. As well as the technical support he has given me, he has only really lost his patience (in regards to this anyway) half a time 😉 Therefore: to my guitar playing, White Falcon wanting, Setzer loving, Zappa crazy and Beefheart bopper man/Fiancé : I love you and I look forward to spending forever with you. With the new life you have given me. A life with hope. Always yours. Me xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Just Like Anne Boleyn.

When I was little, I always used to tell my Mum and Dad that I wanted to have five children when I grew up (If you could say I’ve even grown up now!) Five boys I wanted, can you only imagine? They would all have dark hair, wear leather jackets and we would live like they did on Happy Days. Friday after school television certainly had a lot to answer for.

After I had my first daughter, people would say that having two children was not much different to having one. What an utterly bonkers thing to say I thought. In reality though, it is true. Second time, you have the benefit of experience , you’re far less nervous and quite honestly, you have so little time that you couldn’t give a monkies anymore about the beautiful blonde on the front of Child and Parenting magazine who has seven children. No doubt she also just took her final exam to become a civil rights lawyer (whilst I may add, maintaining perfect blonde roots and not one hint of grey). These days I celebrate with a fist pump if I have managed to shave my legs more than once in a week and have caught up with all the weeks episodes of The Real Housewives. I don’t mind which but, obviously Beverley Hills is the best!

Sadly instead of taking fifteen hours to just leave the house to pop to the shops, it now takes thirty ( I would like to point out that obviously this is a slight exaggeration, but only slight) I am lucky enough to have two girls who can never be bothered to put their own shoes on and whose favourite saying is, ‘eughhhhh do I have to?’ and ‘why cant you find it’. With your first child, you delicately hand mash a ramekin of pumpkin and butternut squash to ensure your little one has a much varied diet and you label your breast milk chronologically and in order of nipple. Second time around, you’re lucky if you remember what your original nipples looked like.

Obviously I am never grumpy and I handle the strops with utter decorum and patience…

I remember how I felt on the way to our 12 week scan for my second pregnancy. Actually I didn’t feel anything. I had lost count of the amount of people who had asked me if I was very excited and you know what, I wasn’t. I don’t know why, I just wasn’t. In hind sight, it was probably because I already knew that my baby was dead. I say baby and even though they later referred to my baby in the hospital as ‘product’, it always was and always is a baby to me.

She had such a lovely face the Sonographer, I think that is what they are called. I can still see her face now. All she said to me was ‘Are you sure about your dates?’ and really I knew what that meant. It (the baby) had been gone for about four weeks apparently. I remembering hearing a high pitched squeak like a Velociraptor and wondering what it was. I realised that actually it was me.

I am going to get on my high horse now but, why on earth can the NHS not comprehend the very lay out of their prenatal screening facilities!!? I had to leave that room, still sounding a little like a Velocirapter and no doubt with an abundant amount of snot and walk past the very same bevy of pregnant ladies that were sat with me in the waiting room just minutes earlier. I felt bad for them . It must have been utterly terrifying and no doubt, all of them remember it still. I hope all of their scans were trouble free.

I know this picture is utterly disgusting but, it is the first ever picture of my eldest daughter. She poses much better now.

Warning! This bit is scientific and a little bit boring: I was diagnosed with a partial Hydatidiform Mole or Partial Molar pregnancy. Apparently this happens when two sperm are able to fertilise one embryo at the same time and this results in an imbalance or extra amount of genetic information. This embryo can therefore never develop into a normal baby but often forms a very proliferative type of afterbirth tissue. I believe the Hydatidiform Mole part is the Greek name for a bunch of grapes and this is how this type of tissue portrays itself. Nothing to do with an actual mole, Adrian or fury. (I know what you were thinking).

Because mine was partial, it looked like a normal baby on the screen at my scan. If it had been complete, it would have the appearance of a bunch of grapes and been diagnosed straight away. All good fun but bloody and utterly frustrating as the condition is rare and in my case it was hard to get the immediate answers I needed. Particularly as my consultants explanation letter was delayed because his secretary was on holiday and the first correspondence I had was a big brown envelope marked ‘Oncology’ from Charing Cross. As you know, Oncology was not a stranger to me. A Molar Pregnancy can also result in Trophoblastic Cancer…lucky me. Why couldn’t I just win the bloody lottery!

Warning! Still scientific. Still a bit boring. With Molar pregnancies, the afterbirth can continue to grow in an uncontrolled way which produces lots of pregnancy hormones (as if there was any need for more of them) and that’s the tissue that needs addressing before it can become something much more nasty. Life is strange eh, something that protects a growing baby and gives life inside you can also manifest to something that can actually be the end of you. Perhaps its like eating a blow fish if you’re really hungry. One false move and its curtains! Apparently this is what happened to Anne Boleyn (not the blow fish). Once you have one Molar, your odds are increased to have another and I think it was documented that she had many. I also think one of my past lives was in Henry VII’s reign..probably a greyhound knowing me!

I didn’t give up and after 6 months of follow up, I was able to try for Florence.

All joking aside though, I know miscarriage is really common and I am sure every woman affected is left wanting answers. I actually felt incredibly lucky to have been diagnosed with a Molar and although it could have been nasty and I have to face monitoring for any subsequent (cross fingers) pregnancies I may have, I had something most women don’t: an answer. It was much easier to deal with that way. I was lucky enough not to need any treatment but, that isn’t the result for some women. The best treatment is Chemotherapy as the next place Trophoblastic Cancer travels is usually to the lungs. Chemo again! Luminous green wee and a free NHS roast. My Daddy raved about those roasts. I’m happy to merely take his word for that.Although, I do particularly love Airplane food. Is that the same?

Over and out!!

Panic

I listened to my Mum’s Deezer playlist on the way to work on Saturday. I hate working Saturdays, who doesn’t I guess? But, I like my job. Anyone with small children will know that actually going to an office with real grown up people is a chance to remember who you used to be before you surrendered your Vagina to a team of a dozen doctors without giving a monkeys. It’s also a chance to drink a cup of tea whilst it’s warm. Not hot, because you’ll never get back to the days of hot tea, never ever. Your mind is always planning a million jobs and tea is always the last thing on it.

More recently my panic attacks have started to slowly creep back into my life. But, only whilst driving. ‘Oh, that’s OK then’ I hear you utter sarcastically. I have a routine, a routine that I know will subside the irrational blighter in my brain. I turn my air blower right up, direct the nozzles at my head and theoretically freeze my entire face for a number of seconds. I know it has nothing to do with actually curing the panic attack but, over the years, I have taught myself how to deal with them. I need a trigger. Something that I tell myself will stop it. When I realized this, it was my epiphany. Without being dramatic, it really did save my life. A book saved my life.

When I told my Dad, I played it down. Told him I kept feeling dizzy and he told me I should eat more steak. Perhaps I didn’t play it down. Really, how could I play it down when I didn’t have one clue what was happening. I didn’t even consider that I may be mental or have some incurable disease:I just thought I was unlucky and what I was experiencing was a downright pain in the proverbial.

Candy and I would spend many hours together: she was a good therapy for me.

I remember the first time really well. I was 18 and I had been shopping in Exeter. Actually, at that time I had just had my hair done and popped into Marks and Spencer food hall for a little treat. Before we had Waitrose in the darkest depths of Devonshire, this was the best option for particularly special edible posh naughtiness.

I always loved food and food was always a reward, a treat and was and still is an escape. When I was visiting my Dad on the Cancer ward in his final days, the only way I faced it with a smile was to think of ‘normal’ things. I would think to myself ‘When you get out of here Shu, you can get a pizza or something yummy and a bottle’. Then I would think about what utter tripe I would watch on television (I definitely still enjoy a large amount of tripe these days too). That took me back to normality. I still do it now. It’s no bad thing: although it was a slight pain when I was unable to get rid of excess baby weight second time around and had to lose three stone because of it. Luckily no one was ill or dying at this point and I managed it without too much struggle. Although, the reduction of the special wobbly grape was particularly difficult.

Prawns! It was prawns I was reaching for at the time. Not just any old prawns however. They came with an avocado mousse and some sort of cucumber jus on the side no doubt, all encased in a wonderful circular clear plastic dome. I remember that all of a sudden the lights seemed really bright, like they were burning through my eyeballs and into my brain. Script on the food seemed more prominent, more acute like it could actually be touched and everything started to become sort of swirly. I felt really heavy, like I could feel all my body parts, like they were square. Although I could hear and see people around me, it was like they were underwater and I was in that wonderful clear plastic dome all by myself, separate from them; like the cucumber jus. My heart was in my throat and I can honestly say that, even after watching my Mum die just a couple of years previously, I had never been so terrified in my life. I had to sit down. If I didn’t sit down I would topple over like a domino. That would most definitely be embarrassing.

It subsided pretty quickly and I brushed it off (as you do most things at 18) and started to queue. As the bile rose in my throat and I started to feel like it could happen again, I made a conscious decision to leave those prawns behind, ditch the queue and simply hop on my train and go home. From that moment, the moment that I gave into it, supermarket queues were always my Kryptonite and so they remained for at least four years. Yup, four wonderfully utterly crap and debilitating years.

18-20! That’s on average how many panic attacks I would have a day. I couldn’t wait in a queue. I couldn’t go into a shop with too many people in it. Couldn’t travel on public transport without an available seat. I couldn’t go to the cinema if I wasn’t sat by the door. I couldn’t even visit Trago mills because it was so big that once I was inside, I could not see the exit: could not reach the door in an emergency. Those people that are aware of Trago Mills will realize how utterly and completely bonkers this statement is. Not just for the sheer amount of crap you can usually purchase for less that a quid to keep your mind entertained ordinarily.

I visited my doctor several times; had blood tests for anaemia and I even ate loads more steak, just like my Dad suggested. Then, one day a different doctor said that maybe I should consider some medication to help my mood. My Mood? I was utterly fine. What a downright cheek! Peter Andre helped my mood, not medication. Actually, that was a couple of years earlier I’m sure. What on earth was this woman rabbiting on about? The bloody liability! Like an attack, I saw her mouth moving but really, nothing of consequence came out of it. Like I was the Little Mermaid under the sea again and she was that grey haired witchy villain with the rather large cleavage.

I would never have dreamed of having children if i was still suffering with such severe attacks.

I saw her at a party a few years later, pissed as a rat she was! I remember smiling and (not just because she was ‘off her tree’) but, thinking that it had been her that woke me up that day. I still can see her face now. I never took the pills, I did something else. I read a book.

The book I read was:

Panic Attacks by Christine Ingham

The very first chapter of my savior book described the reason we had panic attacks and those that they affected and in what scenarios. Guess what? Those that lost maternal figures early in life were prime candidates for panic attacks (Another negative legacy that I felt my Mum had left me with).Places that had bright lights, like supermarkets and places that had no visible exits. OK, it never ever mentioned Trago Mills per say but, I knew that’s what it meant. In just one paragraph, with one little selection of words, my life became normal again. It was me; this was like reading about me. It may as well have had a picture of me on the first page.

From that moment on, I realized that my body actually felt like I was in danger and it was actually my own stupid self trying to protect me. Damn my own stupid self! I would go to the supermarket and if I had to queue, I would simply spend the time adding up the value of my shopping in my head. It took me a while as I was always in the bottom set for math. Before I knew it, I had paid and left and absolutely nothing had happened to me. Once I had achieved it once, it was only up from there. Like the first time that i gave into the negative feeling, it was only downhill.I was still alive and what’s more, I actually had some shopping. Best of all, I went and have been several times to Trago Mills. Oh yes!

Anxiety is a much smaller part of my life now.

I have always been proud of myself for this and that’s why, at times when it creeps back into my life, I know it’s my little reminder that everything is getting just a little too much and I have to change it.

12 years later though, I didn’t read the book again, I started writing a blog instead.

Cooey Mr Shifter

Menu

Tag Archives: mental health

As good as it gets…again!

As good as it gets!

Humbled

Just Like Anne Boleyn.

Panic