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.

Fiona

In the last few days I have had a letter from my old paediatric social worker Fiona, telling me that our file is due to be officially closed. She has said she will always be happy to reopen the file and will always be happy to give advice off the record but as we have been without complex medical needs for over six months, for now that is us done and let loose into the big wide world. Although we have not been reliant on her for a long time, it still feels a bit like taking the stabilisers off.

I was first assigned Fiona when Wriggles was less than 24 hours old. In my NICU unit, all parents with children under a certain gestation or those that for one reason or another were clearly going to have an extended hospital stay, automatically were given a health-based social worker. This aggravated many already fragile parents at first, assuming that the referral was a comment on their parent skills or social status, but as it was stressed by the kindly team it was actually to support us and make the neonatal ride easier. I don't know if this is uniform across neonatal units or if it is a service that everyone would welcome, but personally I found it a lifeline. Fiona became a confidant, friend, financial adviser, fundraiser, housing officer, counsellor, advocater, personal organiser and voice of reason at very low times.

Loose Marbles

When Wriggles was about 7-nearly-8 months old, it finally dawned on me that it was probably not normal to feel how I did all the time. I did some research and read up on PND and other mental health issues and just wept and wept because it made me accept that I wasn't alone. That thousands of other women, and men, had experienced similar and had been able to do something about it. The relief was huge and when I spoke to my GP who understood, it felt as if a weight had been pulled from my shoulders, leaving me that bit more free to go on.

"Losing your marbles" is quite an apt expression I feel. For me, it did feel as if slowly pieces of me were rolling away, gathering speeding and disappearing into crevices and cracks in the floor. Tiny bubbles of worth, personality and reason, encased for safe-keeping in beautiful shiny glass, rolled off out of reach. They were slippery and looked as if they might be lost forever. Enough to mourn but as each one fledged, too tiny to bother to rescue. 

Until, into the future, one day you stub your toe and come across a forgotten treasure. Tentatively you inspect it, running your fingers over the glossy shell and peer into the wispy colours inside. Preserved is part of you, returned after a journey of loss. Sometimes you might find several at once, sometimes just one and it is months before you even recall that there were others. I am beginning to feel as if I can account for most of my missing marbles and am slowly amassing the blighters and trying to find a Safe Place to put them where they will not roll off again.

When I was in the midst of depression, it felt as if I had lost all of myself, I was just a creature wading through day to day. My feelings were muffled, my thoughts worthless. I could function practically, but I felt alone with no one to hear me. I had lost my compassion to myself and my rationality that allowed me to deal with the everyday and my innermost thoughts. In the daytime, my daughter acted as my rock, weighing me back into life and stopping me from floating away. She bound me to life and made me want to 'get better' and find everything I thought I had lost. When she went to bed and wasn't physically with me, I would fall apart night after night. It's not easy admitting you need help, especially not as an adult with responsibilities. I felt I should know better or be able to give myself a good talking to, to snap back into reality. Oh, if things were that easy! And of course it wasn't that easy merely knowing who or what was my reason for trying to find the light again. I felt like a zombie caring for her some days and my heart continually lived in my mouth on the edge of a panic attack. 


Wriggles is now 17 months old. I still feel anxious and exhausted, but I don't feel desperate. I have found an understanding, both with myself and with depression. It is no-one's fault. It is a thing, not a persona. It is thoughts, not reality.
It is something that can go away and will go away.

Harrrrrumph...............I mean happy new year!

Happy new year!

I so nearly managed a "perfect" day. After a blissful Christmas with my family in Kent, we all intrepidly boarded the East Coast mainline yesterday for a New Year at my northern abode. This morning everyone arose rested and ambled around in pyjamas playing with Wriggles and drinking endless cups of tea. At lunch Wriggles finished her two-week boycott of food and demolished not one, but two (TWO ladies and gentlemen) mini fromage frais and ate the corner of a board book for dessert. Mid afternoon, I bundled her up in new woollen leggings and coat and we made forth to the city centre to see an exciting parade.

Waiting for the metro, poor Wriggles was violently sick. She still suffers from reflux and has a over-sensitive gag reflex and not particularly eloquent oral skills, meaning at 16 months she is still prone to frequent forceful projectile vomiting with feeds and sometimes can be triggered by something so much as brushing her lips. I managed to stem some of the flow with her footmuff but she still succeeded in decorating a large portion of the inside of her coat and inner ear not to mention plastering her hair. I really hate reflux. Not just because it involves dabbling around in sick and wearing that popular around strained mums, 'eau de baby's stomach contents', but mainly for Wriggles' sake. It must be so horrid for her, I just want to wave a magic wand and make her a hundred times more comfortable. It also serves as a daily reminder of prematurity and on bad days taunts me. Rational-me knows it is not my fault but a medical condition that could still be there even if she had been a term baby. Irrational-me says it is all my fault and if I was a perfect mummy like I should be, it wouldn't be here tormenting my baby. It also panics me when I run out of baby wipes on a platform in gale force winds already late to meet my family due to misplacing of the baby's mittens.

We managed to make it in without little trouble, located the family, vetoed Starbucks due to a monstrous queue and found a place to watch the parade that was causing this fuss. Now unfortunately since Wriggles' birth, I have gone from a mild dislike of crowds to having panic attacks when in crowded places and/or stressful situations, or sometimes, Just Because. Cheers mental health. However, I have not had a full-blown one since her birthday in September when we went to a singing and music day (how not to appear a normal level-headed potential mummy friend at the local play centre) and later on that day, the post office.As I took up my spot, I could feel my airways tightenings, panic rising and tears springing up. It is not easy juggling a wriggly Wriggles (my sister had commandeered the buggy to house her shopping sale purchases; this baffled me. I literally cannot remember anymore shopping being anymore than a terse trip around Sainsburys and occasionally a slightly dog-eared jumper from Oxfam which is next to Sainsburys) and practising deep breathing whilst trying to stop sobbing and not appearing a lunatic to a) my family who seemed entirely unaware as were busy bitching about the taxi parked in front of their sight line and b) the general public including a picture perfect family stood next to us. When the parade finally went through, it seemed an utter let-down, possibly as I was wishing it to go faster so I could run off, and partly as Wriggles was far more interested in trying to wave at the two-year old little girl nearby and fend off a little boy who wanted to hold her hand (she will not hold hands with strangers. This is the only hint of separation anxiety; apparently I have shouldered the rest of it). The "Norse-themed mythical spectacular" featured dragons, morris men and mermaids as well as some 'wolves' which looked more like rabid lions on a bad hair day. Apart from that, it was extremely jolly I have been told from people more with it.

The rest of the evening passed without offence. The new year came and went; we all watched Cyndi Lauper in a bin liner on Jools Holland and watched some poor fireworks out  the kitchen window. Wriggles slept unaware of the year turning. I sat her down on New Years Eve and explained about the concept of years and celebrations to be greeted with a blank look and a biffed nose. It could have been worse; she is quite partial for biting noses when teething. Mostly this can be relegated to long suffering Mouse, Christmas Hedgehog and Wheely Hedgehog but occasionally she still goes for people's snozzles or Grandma's toes. New Year always feels such a anti-climax after the bustle of Christmas. However, the next day (post-lunchtime) feels like a fresh new start. Which I fully intend it to be. It is hard to believe my little girl will be 2 this year. This last year has been undoubtedly tough with it's frequent and frightening admissions to hospital. When counting up, we spent as much time in hospital as I do work; not a healthy balance to off-set nice time at home. But now we are crossing the magical boundary of most time ever out of hospital......Long may it continue! That is my new years thanks.I have spent a lot of the time of 2011 reflecting and regretting the sad moments, so want to stuff 2012 with as many happy times as possible. Bring it on!

My New Leaf:

*throw out holey tights (they do not magically self-mend and there is only so much nail polish you can apply to "disguise" ladders) and pair up to socks to avert odd-sock crisis on work mornings

* try to be slightly more punctual. 5 minutes late is acceptable. 55 minutes late is not.

*be nicer to nice people and self-I do try my best and that is all I can do

*be less nice to dastardly all-night-raving complaining crack-of-dawn-shelf-putter-uppers (where do they fit in sleep?) rude neighbours

*keep in touch more frequently with my grandparents

*worry less (hahahahahahahha.......................)

*dwell less on the past to create more for the future

*take a picture everyday of Wriggles so I don't forget this fast-moving time where she seems to learn a new skill/cause more chaos every day. I know I will treasure these times when she is a sullen teenager borrowing my shoes

*get involved with Tiny Lives, the local charity that supported Wriggles' SCBU and is a regional unit providing much needed support and funds.