Giving In

In July, I accidentally came off my antidepressants that I had been taking for over a year following a diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress with secondary depression and anxiety. I had been feeling a lot better, was managing day to day life and my own feelings and so when Wriggles was rushed into hospital, asking someone to go back and collect them for me was not even in my top ten of priorities. In fact, it wasn't until pretty much the end of the stay did it occur to me I didn't have them. When we did get home, complete with NG tube, I was really a bit of a mess to actually register whether I should re-start taking them and was quite distracted by the fact that we had appointments and community nurse visits coming out our ears and that my mum came up for a fortnight to keep an eye on us (ie. to make sure I wasn't tipping the loony scales). I was so fatigued throughout the summer months from admissions, then surgery, then getting to grips with a gastronomy tube and then coming to terms with the CP diagnosis that the world was slightly spinning. Who wouldn't struggle? I got dressed (if mis-matched), left the house (because I couldn't bear to always stay in) and Did Things to try and amuse the toddler. We had some fun, survived the second birthday and then landed in hospital again and since then I have been struggling to bounce back. After a few horrid days, it all subsided and I wondered what I was making the fuss about. But since then, it has been creeping back up on me like a little dark cloud hovering over my head following me around and is not going away. I feel like I am teetering on a tightrope wire over an abyss, about to fall any minute into an untold pit. I can't switch off the worry, both irrational and rational, however hard I try. I can't relax or concentrate.

On Saturday, we went for a Halloween soiree (read: small gathering of 4 toddlers and cheese on cocktail sticks at tea-time) and I had a G&T. Because my previous medication didn't mix with alcohol, it had been virtually two years since I had had a drink with the exception of the day when I got the letter confirming CP where I drank enough rum to feel completely numb and send me to sleep. So, understandably, this one drink sent me a little squiffy. As I walked back at around 8pm with the Wriggly one in her pushchair dressed as a cat grinning madly, with firework displays going off around me, it felt like walking on air. I wasn't in ecstasy, just pleasantly cushioned with a warm and fuzzy feeling enveloping me. I didn't worry, I didn't obsess. And then the next day, it hit me. I used to feel like that at least the majority of the time. I used to feel like that pre-child. I used to feel that way when my PTSD and it's entourage was being effectively dealt with. I used to feel Alright, I used to feel Relaxed, I used to Smile without force. Maybe I didn't float everyday, but I didn't drag.

So I am giving in. I am going to plead with my GP to let me try medication again. I feel like I am struggling and I need a cushion to get me through this next bit. I have been patiently waiting for this 'low mood' to lift and it is doing nothing apart from drawing in closer. Memories, feeding tubes and hurt doesn't go away just like that. But if I could a little less like a zombie, that would be marvellous thank you very much. Please.

Sticking like Glue

The other day I wrote about my sleeping arrangements and my fear of being far from my daughter at night. 

I like to think I'm going to be a cool mum, but I'm having to face up to facts.

I am terrified of being apart from her.

It's not a desperation to apart exactly, more like a terror that something awful will happen and a completely irrational feeling of betrayal. She would be fine, after all, I worked 3 days a week between when she was 8 months and about 21 months. She is now more reluctant to part but is such a sociable thing. It's me.

I thought I had put Neonatal and everything that followed behind me. I received excellent counselling until very recently, took a course of Sertaline (a SSRI anti-depressant also used for anxiety and in my case PTSD) and then unfortunately this summer happened and we got a feeding tube, starting diagnosis and reunited with some of the PICU consultants although thankfully avoided their unit by the skin of our teeth. Right now, two years ago, Wriggles was in NICU and this anniversary period is a funny old time. Full of flashbacks and bittersweet pride. Sometimes I think I over exaggerate the past, and then find a scrap of something from the time and it hits me again like a ton of bricks. She was that small. She was that sick.This lunchtime I was looking at her first nappy size given to me by special care when we left. I was shocked how small it was, fitting in the palm of my hand. I remember her looking dwarfed in it. Curled up in a special nest in an incubator, small, so small, with a huge chunk of machinery attached breathing for her. Then a little white hat keeping the CPAP apparatus on so she could breathe with some help. The feeding tube in for weeks and weeks because she was gestationally too young to have developed the suck/swallow reflex. The weeks and weeks of one cuddle a day, at 3pm sometimes for less than fifteen minutes. Oh god.

When I went back to work, I made myself because as a single parent I felt I had a duty to provide as best as I could and also not to conform to stereotypes. I did enjoy aspects of my job, but after giving birth so much felt like clock watching. There were days I loved and days I hated. The worst bit every morning was saying goodbye at the childminder's. I never dawdled leaving the office, but pelted back as soon as I could. Since being made redundant, Wriggles' needs are arguably a little more complex. Aside from the feeding tube there is a greater understanding of why she gets so poorly, which in itself comes with more caution to be exercised. 

Since she was rushed to hospital late July, we have not been separated for longer than half an hour on a sparse handful of occasions. 

This weekend, I was supposed to be travelling for a weekend away probably involving some babysitting.

This evening I broke down and admitted how scared I am of loosing some control and not being within running distance of my daughter. I have not had a panic attack for a long time, but I sat here, dizzy, tears streaming, my heart racing and my throat tight and painful. It's too soon. 

My worry is, when won't be too soon? She is now 2 and it's not like we're going to be able to forget prematurity or hospital visits for a long time, such are her medical conditions and health. I don't want to become a paranoid overbearing parent, embarrassingly clinging to her trouser leg in the playground. I want her to keep her independent streak that makes her so her and that I cherish for her beautiful personality of her own shining through. I'm going to have to let go in small amounts at some time in the not too distant future, for nursery, then school and my eventual return to work. I'm going to have to trust other people to do their best by her, to learn her cues, to know her danger signs, her quirks, her needs. But not yet, not now. She is still my baby and I am still cocooned in the after-effects of scare after scare. I need to build myself up gradually and look back out into the light. 

I just hope these needs of mine don't step on her needs of finding out about the world without me.

Shock

I have suffered with mental health and I have known many other people around me suffer. Some have been classed as "severe" and complex, but it wasn't until the last few days that I saw someone truly on the brink. I have seen and experienced debilitating symptoms, breakdowns in communications and relationships, lack of interest and energy in anything and an acute feeling of helplessness and no future but now I've seen the next step when it gets worse. And it is chilling and sobering.

One of my closest friends has had complex depression for as long as I have known her and over the last six or more years has bounced from psychologists, psychiatrists, counsellors, medication and various forms of therapy. Somewhere she lost her footing and the last few weeks, and in particular, since last weekend had been very bleak. On Tuesday things reached a head and also information was uncovered about the extent of what has been going on, the depths of concealment so she didn't worry her loved ones and the ritualistic obsessions which have defined her existence and either accidentally or intentionally endangered her. Eventually she turned herself to the Crisis Team. It was expected she would be admitted to a psychiatric unit or similar care for a temporary period. Whatever she said to the doctor, she was released for the night and her parents decided to come and take her home. The next day was fraught with meetings and then the act of her leaving. It feels very disloyal thinking how she veered in and out of being herself and would flip within minutes to being full of clarity and understanding to being consumed with pure emotion and reaction and would become almost violent and child-like again. It took a long time to get her to leave her sanctuary of her bedroom, which although was understandable from her point of view, was also necessary for her to move forward. It took sedatives to calm her down and be released from panic attacks, before she was driven off down South.

Those of us close to her feel numb to the level of hurt she has felt and that we have not been able to wave a magic wand for her, and this must only be a fraction of what she has been dealing with in her own mind. To be tortured and imprisoned by thoughts is very sobering, especially when they impact on your physical actions and decisions and cloud your judgement from tiny things to much bigger things. It feels almost very surreal when the situation is real, but half of what the things someone says are not "real" except in the briefest of moments. It is very sad to see someone so vivacious, intelligent and talented felled by essentially thoughts. 

It is scary to have a glimpse of what things could have been like for anyone who has suffered from depression or anxiety. I held Wriggles so much tighter the day it all came to light and have done each day since, and been so grateful I turned a corner. And then wept a little inside, that my friend had not reached out for help or let herself lean on us, the way she has supported me. It is such a strange situation; we all felt so guilty for not realising sooner, not delving, not putting two and two together...but were two and two there? Hindsight is so clear but also mixes up the elements and clouds the reality. And whatever hindsight can throw up, the important thing is the here and now: this has happened, it is what happens next that is now important.


I miss her.


I miss meeting up with her. I miss sitting in coffee shops with her. I miss her coming round and playing with Wriggles. I miss the way Wriggles' face lit up when she was allowed to play with my friend's copious bracelet collection. I miss her gentle demeanour. I miss her humour and our funny jokes and memories together.


I so badly want her to recover and yet I don't know how to help her.


I'm not afraid to put my hands up and say I probably don't have a brilliant understanding of how and what she is feeling. I know how I felt but it isn't the same because my experiences were directly related to very specific experiences. I don't have experience of sedatives being used or the particular problems she has, I don't necessarily understand self-harming and even in my blackest times, I can't imagine being that close to the edge, because I have Wriggles. Who knows if I didn't? That thought conjures up an empty void that frightens me.

It was also a very strange split to see as a parent: partly, I was shielded from a lot of things that our other friends dealt with and saw as Wriggles needed me and partly it was a small leap to be in her parents' shoes. It would break my heart if Wriggles was that poorly and I was that helpless. It was really quite terrifying to even contemplate that her perfect, innocent and beautiful little mind might be sullied by other voices muddying it and planting vicious thoughts. 
I have felt very redundant as a friend. In the old days, I would have been in the thick of helping and doing everything I could; now Wriggles is my priority and that means that both practically and physically I cannot always do everything I would ideally like to. I am doing what I can and sadly, that is not a lot. We have been told she needs space and also time with her family who will for the time being be her primary carers again like when she was a little sick child. Their baby. Hopefully they will be enough so that she will not have to be sectioned, something I know frightens her hugely. I know they will do everything in their power and more and that is a relief to know that finally she is being looked after by the people who love her the best. I know as a parent that there is no stone you will leave unturned in the quest to make your child better, whether it be from tonsillitis or depression!

It won't be an easy journey but one that needs to be taken. This is one where you can't just get off.

Winging It

After a period of uncertainty, a wobble and some time off working, last week I finally heard what was happening in my job. Namely that it wasn't happening. Unless divine intervention hands me a new contract, as of the end of June I will be made redundant.

It is both a relief and terrifying.

A relief because I will have the pressure of trying to do it all and have it all taken off.

A relief because I will be able to drop the mask of pretending it's all hunky-dory and of course I can do everything. In five minutes. Five minutes yesterday that is.

A relief because I will be able to feel more of a mummy rather than someone who says goodbye several times a week.

Terrifying because I haven't been with Wriggles 7 days a week since she was about 6 months old (illnesses notwithstanding).

Terrified because I am worried how I will be judged-yet another single parent reliant on the welfare state for a period of time.

Terrifying because I am scared I will not be up to the job.

Terrified because it feels like so far I have been winging it and it is just pure luck we have scraped through.

What if I can't entertain her all the time? What if she's bored? What if she misses going to the childminder and is in a grump with me? I can't provide a cat or a garden swing. What if when I have no escape I tip back into fighting demons every day? What if it is years before I can contribute financially again?

Part of me is really looking forward to some time with my little girl.She is growing up so fast and it makes me sad to loose out on her new discoveries, even for 24 hours a week. When I drop her off in mornings and she instantly goes to the toy box and waves me off it makes my heart ache. Whilst I am proud of her Independence and assurance, I miss the closeness and warmth of my little baby I carried everywhere. When we are at home, she is vehement in that even though she wants to do everything by herself, she wants me to be watching, hovering in the background to jump in and rescue her or praise her achievements. I am looking forward to doing that all the time, and am hoping without the stresses of work I can throw myself into it without distraction.

But part of me is worried and feels like a failure if I am not putting something in to the bank of my own doing. I know it's just a stereotype but it does worry me that I will just be chalked up by people and written off. I never ever envisaged that I would be in this situation. I feel at odds with myself-the idealist black-and-white view against the compassionate. The maternal urges against cold hard reason. 

Sometimes being a mother, and a single mother at that, is like having two voices in your head constantly arguing. Go to bed, voices. Please.

Breakthrough with extra ice cream

This weekend something amazing happened.

We were invited to a birthday party.

Now, this might be an everyday occurrence for many mums. But I have been spectacularly rubbish at making and keeping mum friends, my depression and anxiety cutting all ties with rationality and sending my confidence and voice deep down into a pit of despair, cutting off the sunlight. I would shrink from other mums, like a vampire from the dawn. Not at all because I didn't want to be their friend, quite the opposite, but because I would just panic. Why would they want to be my friend? I kept trying to go to baby groups, I would make myself because if nothing else my darling Wriggles has always been quite partial to "borrowing" other babies rattles and charming stranger's grannies. I don't know quite what has happened but somehow things turned a corner and bit by bit I began to talk properly to the other mums and remember their names and stop my jaw dropping the floor if they remembered mine (or at least Wriggles'-it's practically the same thing once you give birth). Then I plucked up the courage to accept invites to coffee and this week, exchanged phone numbers with not one, not two but three, yes THREE mums. And received a party invitation for my troubles.

After this feat of brilliance, I seized the day yesterday and went small-person-affordable-gift-shopping. I wrote (on behalf of Wriggles) a card and sealed the envelope in the hope that if I wanted to chicken out I might reason that that would mean a wasted card. This morning I wrapped up a copy of What The Ladybird Who Heard whilst fending off an energetic Wriggles who wanted to eat the sellotape, and tried to find a pair of leggings that didn't have any food down: a near impossible task. For someone that barely eats, all her clothes are covered in bizarre stains and trodden in crumbs.

As the time drew near I ummed and ahhhed. I felt nervous and began to look for excuses. I could see the opportunity slipping away and in a rare fit of decisiveness, grabbed the A-Z and tried to locate the party location. It was less than 10 minutes walk away. The sun had come out. I was running out of excuses. Wriggles had found a shiny box and was pacified. As long as she was still allowed to hold the box, she was happy to put her coat on. Now I had no excuse. Before the moment was gone, we left. As I walked along the road, thoughts niggled at my brain. Was I going to be the only unmarried one? Were their husbands going to be terrifying? I don't even know why these felt important things. I think the one of the hard things about mental health wobbles are the feelings of inadequacy it cloaks you in. I often have felt conscious of being babyfaced and a single parent and worry that it isolates me. In reality, it doesn't or at least hasn't so far. I have been pleasantly surprised that no ones gives two hoots if your house is magazine-perfect (mine isn't for the record, it is a scruffy flat) or Mr Darcy brings you breakfast in bed. Probably as so many mothers are battling through sleepless nights and chasing around after mad toddlers to rub together enough brain cells to care. It is so easy to forget the two things that unite most parents are their children and the helpless desperation to Get It Right whilst doubt and guilt gnaw at you every time CBeebies is switched on. 

The worries were all unfounded. We had a truly lovely afternoon, the babies all played (relatively) nicely and everyone was so friendly. I hope these are the beginnings of real friendships; even if they are not, I can't think of many ways better to spend a weekend that in the company of some Good Eggs especially when you get two types of cake and ice cream at the end.

Walking back home at 7pm (if you're going to party, you need to do it properly. I'm installing this in Wriggles from an early age) in the golden fading sun, I felt euphoric. It is such a small thing, but for me, such a big step. It felt like I had broke through a fog holding me back and hiding me from the world I crave to be part of, that I should belong to. It made me so happy to feel like I was grabbing life with both hands and loving it, rather than living in bad memories. 

To be or not to be?

Cheerful, that is.

I am currently signed off work to come to terms with and acquire adequate/successful management of my depression and anxiety so that I can juggle both single motherhood and working at the same time. After a slow-building but sick-inducing wobble very recently, I simply could not do both and with no family or back up, it was with both regret and relief that I agreed to forgo a small period of working to make sure I could mummy as best as I could, rather than fall apart and let my one year old take the consequences. I am already feeling calmer, more rational and more positive with regards to the future. This weekend was a stressful weekend, as Wriggles was poorly again, but I am proud to say I held my cool and even made us leave the house yesterday to go to a parent and toddler group we haven't been to before, and speak to strangers. You know what; I think we both even enjoyed it. A breakthrough. Before I could barely manage the duration of such a group without a panic attack or breaking down into tears either and running off (with Wriggles in tow of course!).

Today was a good day.
I had a productive appointment with the psychologist I see.
Wriggles and I went to an art gallery with an interactive pre-schooler section and listened to a story and then played with some blocks, a plastic tea pot and a colour mixing bubble lamp (honestly, that alone signifies a brilliant day surely?). 
We met up with my good friend and had lunch (ie. cake) in the cafe and Wriggles ate half a packet of Quavers (dietician approved. Salt content is soooo yesterday...when your child doesn't normally eat) and consented to having some spoonfuls of fruit and custard too. 
Afterwards we went for a wander in the sun and put the world to rights while Wriggles dozed in the pushchair, wrapped up in her pink coat and spotty socks.

Then I saw some people from work.

It was a bit awkward.

When you are sick and it is not a physical illness with obvious signs, how can you prove it? Answer, I haven't a clue. Answers on a postcard please. I felt a fraud. I know I am not, but I still felt one. Do they think I'm making it up or exaggerating? Do they think I just don't care? I worried and wondered if they would say anything to my seniors back at work. Silly, even if I was at working, Tuesdays are my day off anyway, why shouldn't I be out?

There is a real misconception that depression means a constant state of melancholy and wringing your hands. Depression can actually manifest in many other forms and is very changeable. You can have several good days followed by many more terribly bleak days. You can have several good weeks, followed by despair and isolation. Depression is not just unhappiness, it is more complex. Depression is always there in the background, but on good days it is not the defining factor in your day. It is possible to laugh and smile and do "normal" things. It is possible to make decisions and feel motivated. In fact, it is really quite important that on the good days, you really make the most of them. Sitting inside and feeling guilty is only going to enforce a negative cycle of behaviour. It can be a self fulfilling prophecy-I am depressed therefore I must act depressed therefore I will feel more depressed... in a nutshell, not helpful to you, people around you or people helping to treat you.
I know that this time off is imperative that I will be able to get on with life in all spheres soon. But I desperately needed this little break to slot my mind back into thinking mode and start feeling like I am "living" again and not just "existing". This time off is helping my focus, concentration, ability to make decisions, ability to prioritise and face up to things and think rationally. It is letting me manage things not let them manage me. It is reducing my anxiety and rekindling interest in anything other than hiding under the duvet. I have never questioned my feelings for Wriggles in the dark moments, if anything my love for her burns bright with a fierce intensity, but I could see my capabilities and my day-to-day devotion through simple tasks and attention slipping away as I would struggle with daily tasks, routine and getting things done that needed doing. I am clawing those things back now, and breathing in each moment as it happens. I am trying hard to be here in the present, not floating in the ether looking down.

But can you show people that in a brief meeting? How can you say that when people say "How are you?" and you reply on autopilot "OK, good thanks." Because anything more is a long and/or delicate conversation that is not really for fleeting moments.


I am revelling in feeling cheerful again. I am getting better, just not "cured" yet. I know my close friends and family understand.

I just hope other people do too.

The Compassionate Mind

In the past year when I have struggled I have briefly dipped my toe in Cognitive Behavioural Therapy to help change unhelpful thoughts and break the cycle of behaviour which ultimately spirals into feelings of acute distress and failure. When last week, I reached a falling apart point and realised enough was enough I started reading up again and finding some exercises to do at home to rationalise thoughts and reduce anxiety. One of the things I came across was something called the Compassionate Mind by Professor Paul Gilbert and Dr Michelle Cree. This has it's roots in CBT, and I found that the way it explained the workings of the brain resonated with me, and allowed myself to use compassion to shake off the feelings of failure, which ultimately is the idea. I have only the briefest of understandings of psychology and the biology of the brain, but found the way it talks about the primitive brain reactions with more modern thinking was useful into trying to understand how as a reasonably intelligent human being, you can be felled by pure emotion and allow reactions and feelings to run your everyday life, cutting you off.

Cuckoo?

Although it is more of an "acceptable" subject these days, mental health still holds something of a taboo. It is not one to be discussed lightly and can be a minefield of political correctness, ignorance and compassion. We're all guilty of claiming to be "depressed" when the washing basket is too full, "going mad" when it's been a bad week or five or "traumatised" over losing something but none of these really go anywhere near acknowledging how it really feels if you are genuinely battling with a mental illness. Mental illness sounds terrifyingly serious. It describes a huge umbrella of things in varying severity, many of which can be recovered from and escaped. I don't think anyone ever expects to become a sufferer or a loved one to succumb. Until you are gripped by one, it is very hard to fully understand being controlled by thoughts and emotions, many devoid of reason or rationality.

There can also be such a fine line.

When do the baby blues turn into postnatal depression? When does grief turn into depression? When does shock turn into post-traumatic stress? When does worry turn into full-blown anxiety?

I cannot speak for everyone, only from my personal experience. At present, I am currently signed off work for a small period following over a year of dealing with post traumatic stress, depression and anxiety. In the main, I have largely been able to control these with help from sertaline (a selected serotonin uptake inhibitor, or SSRI drug) and a course of counselling. There have been low points certainly but so far I have been able to juggle things even if that means really struggling. Lately though, the struggle has been getting harder. Motivation and concentration have gone out the window, and I have been exhausted. My mind has spiralled into a whirlwind of pure emotion, little based on fact. It's not something visible or that people can necessarily understand, which I have found the hardest part. It's easier to joke about loosing your marbles than it is so say "I really, really need some help."

I don't know whether the feelings started from a difficult birth and extended stay in Neonatal, but they certainly grew at an astounding rate shortly after discharge from Paediatric Intensive Care when Wriggles had pneumonia at 6 months old. Then I became quickly swamped, and whilst I could muddle through in the day, when Wriggles was in bed and separated from me, I became a mess. I couldn't eat, drink or sleep, let alone do the washing up. I would sit, glued to the sofa because I felt too leaden to move. I was in a perpetual state of hyper vigilance, waiting ears pricked for disaster to loom again, and would cry silent tears and become surrounded by flashbacks and nightmares of my daughter in distress. The relief after admitting how far things had come was huge. I was told it was a form of post-traumatic stress. Granted, it wasn't going to be the severity of soldiers from combat or people who have suffered horrific abuse or ordeals but in my little world, my family had been rocked as I had stared bleakly at the prospect of losing my child. I was started on sertaline and began counselling in earnest with a wonderful psychologist who had had a premature baby herself previously, which acted as an excellent bond and feeling of trust that she knew what I was going through. With support, the acuteness and rawness began to fade and I began to gain confidence and relax. Daytimes became better, where I could revel and immerse myself in Wriggles without inhibition and slowly I re-learnt to be "normal" at the end of the day and enjoy working. Unfortunately Wriggles had other ideas and an admission lasting nearly a month and enduring a mis-diagnosis of queried brain damage with an unsafe swallow triggered everything off again. I regularly would "hear" the noises of the ventilator and alarms going off and would burst into tears at anything. Thankfully, I was in good hands and able to get back on track with the healing process and shaking things off before a welcome break in the hub of my family over Christmas.

So what now, five months on? Where did I slip again when it was all going so swimmingly? Wriggles is 19 months today, it is just a year yesterday since leaving the hospital after our PICU scare and she is blossoming all the time. It isn't as simple as accepting things are better and consequently getting on with things. It isn't as simple as processing memories. I suspect that like everything, it needs time and these are relatively early days. I imagine also the sense of responsibility and physical demands of being the sole carer as a single parent have not helped, draining me of some energy and quickening the need for maturity and stability. Of course I wouldn't have it any other way, and I would do it all again to have my little girl with me. But once you have been gripped by the fear, it is all too easy for your brain to muddle up facts with emotions and responses with feelings and turn a vulnerable mind into a seemingly random generator of reactions. Depression and anxiety can be bred from post-traumatic stress, they can be there independently. It is beside the point how they got here for me, only that they are there and it is the physical symptoms of them which made me go to GP this week and resulted in some weeks off. It isn't as easy as pointing at a specific memory and saying, "yup, that one there. Zap it" as it is far more complex, especially as some upheaval and work-based anxiety is very much playing into this at present. It wasn't easy admitting it this time and agreeing to take time off. I have been encouraged to in the past but always declined partly for feeling it would be selfish. Yes, it is my responsibility to keep our heads above water financially. But it is also my responsibility to make sure I can care for Wriggles to the best of my ability to ensure that she remains the happy and healthy toddler she is. 

I am confident I can return to being myself, i just need to harness this blasted anxiety and stem the flow of overpowering emotions that come from memory which will enable to me to clearly deal with everyday worries rather than letting them get out of control and taking on exaggerated and fictitious fears. Much of the feeling is a peculiar form of grief and guilt. One blog I enjoy has put this into words better than I can here. It feels wrong to use the word 'grief' without reference to a bereavement, as I am acutely aware how lucky I am not to have had to deal with such and my heart goes out to all that sadly have. The feelings are similar though, and in my experience can stun you into a sense of separating from the rest of the world. Asking for help and admitting that I can't just lock a box of the past away has been one of the hardest things I have done, and I am not naive enough to think it will all just magic away and that there may be repercussions in how people tread in the future. But that is another day. For now, I am looking after Wriggles, and looking after myself *puts kettle on".