Motherhood, Madness, God and Me

Tomorrow is a new day, Full of new promises, When you rush through the day, Tomorrow is always there to say, Don't worry tomorrow it can be done, Tomorrow we can try again. Tomorrow's exciting promise, Every morning when you wake. A bit more time to finish today. More time to play They say Don't leave till tomorrow, Why you can do today. Sometimes tomorrow seems the same. Tomorrow is so different from today. No joy before you settle down, Tomorrow you'll still feel like you'll drown. What if tomorrow never came? What if today was the end. Would you regret the things you put off? Would you ponder if that phonecall, That text, that knock on the door, Shouldn't have been tomorrow's chore? Would you beg for another tomorrow? Would you mourn your yesterday. Today someone needs you. That phone call can't wait. A chat, a cuddle, a hand to hold, Responding may mean more than gold. So don't put it off, don't delay. Someone'

Mindfulness is not new to me. When I was in 6th form and was suffering huge family upheaval (3 house moves in years, new baby, new step dad, new siblings, contact issues with birth father, mother with severe postnatal depression and step dad going (successfully) back to rehab) the school nurse was asked to help me with my anxiety levels. She talked me through what I later learned (10 years later) was a mindfulness body scan. I was reminded of this whenever I met an anxious mother and would talk them through this meditation. One day, whilst myself working as a school nurse I came across the nurse who taught me this technique. She didn't remember me, and was now working in mental health. A mother praised how I had helped her with relaxation techniques in a meeting we were both attending. I admitted after the meeting that it was this lady who had taught me when I was 17 and anxious. I revisited relaxation during my first pregnancy. Hideous hyperemesis     consumed me. My mood low a

Today I learned to knit. I knitted and knitted. I taught my children. They enjoyed it. It was something I asked my husband to teach them in one of my letters, because I promised my son I would help him knit a scarf. We went out this morning. We cuddled. I was left exhausted. My mind was more settled. The knitting, and achieving my promise helped. Then, at bedtime, the pain in my chest returned. Heavy, crushing. I try to fill my calender with plans, promises, to delay myself, to make me wait. Each thing I write I wonder if I will be around to make it. I am reading a lot of scripture. Trying to change my thoughts. I now have my photo of 8 year old me. I look at her and tell her the things she needs to know. She looks older than 8. She looks cheerful. Was I already hiding then? Was that before or after? Was I already good at masking? I can't remember. I'm trying. I'm trying so hard. I read today that God never tempts us more than we can deal with and will always send us a

It was said kindly and it's true. Nobody can make me feel differently, except me. It lays heavy on my heart and has done all afternoon. I can't do it. I have tried. I have tried 'health visitor-ing' myself. I repeat scriptures over and over. I say to myself and my inner child that I am loved, lovable, precious and good enough. I have prayed for strength. I have prayed for peace. I've waited. I've tried my hardest to leave my pain, my shame, my failings at the foot of the cross. I listen to other Christians who repeat over and over I must trust God. That this will be OK, no brilliant, in the end. I say it over and over. Yet my heart is heavy. Not metaphorically either. It feels like a stone crushing my chest, restricting my breathing sometimes. It hurts. I know that none of you can pick me up and make this go away, even if you wanted to. Listening to me, holding me, it helps. It doesn't fix it though. I can't change my attitude towards myself. I do

I know I will come in in an hour and say I am fine. You will either say that I'm not, write a prescription and send me away assuring me that I will be OK. One day. Or you may believe me if I'm convincing. Or maybe today you will finally give up and accept defeat. We both know that it's a dance we do every week, fortnight or month. I remain immensely grateful that you are kind and that you do fight for me. I can't find the words though. Not really. Sometimes if you ask the right questions you might get an insight. I don't know how to make the words come out. That I am totally out of control and can't stop myself and I'm terrified and terribly ashamed. I don't know how to say that it has been incredibly difficult this morning not to neck all my pills and take myself off somewhere to sleep. That Susanna and I have talked how I am able to step away and make a choice, that I did yesterday and have, so far, done this morning. This is why I am so very ash

In my meeting today, still looking for any positive, Susanna reassured me that I am still the good person I used to be. The good mother. We spoke about how I have everything I wanted. My dream of having children. How I loved them being babies. How I enjoyed them. How now I don't. I can't. We spoke about how I have written to my children. How I want them to remember me as a good, kind person and not who I am now. What I put in my letters, I said, was because I never want them to feel how I do. I spoke about how I try to "counsel" myself and say I am good enough, and good enough is fine, and my kids are fine and will grow up fine. I am sick and I can't do what I used to and that's OK. It's OK not to enjoy parenting. It's hard and kids are annoying at times. That's OK. But I don't believe it. It doesn't sound truth for me. Fake it till you make it. Parent yourself how you parented your babies. Say to yourself all those things you write

What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save them? Suppose a brother or a sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to them, “Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,” but does nothing about their physical needs, what good is it? In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead. (James 2:14 to 17) We know that we are saved by grace alone but sometimes our prayers are not enough. Our works are how God shows His love through us as Christians. I'm drawn to the parable of the Good Samaritan. I cannot fathom how mature, educated and usually servant hearted Christians can excuse physically turning away from a suffering church member. I am truly trying to understand how this action can be seen as loving, biblical or even humane. Removing previous support and care in a time of great trial and need. It is not God I am questioning. It is that this decision is accepted by the el

Would you walk by the tearful man on the bridge? Would you run past the girl crying at the train station? Would you drop a line to somebody sounding down on social media? Would you tell yourself when you saw their smile beaming from the newspaper after their death that there was nothing you could have done? Let me tell you. You could save a life. The Samaritans #smalltalksaveslives campaign highlights this. A small kindness, even an acknowledgement. A small effort, could give strength for one more day. A dog walker saw me. I had a rope round my neck but wasn't yet hanging. It was dark. I held my breath but his dog came to sniff me. He shone a torch towards me and called the dog away. He walked on by. I have asked for support for a client who wants to end her life to be told she doesn't mean it. Leaving me no choice but to leave her and wait anxiously to see the news the following day. I have been sent home alone in a taxi in the middle of the night after a suicide attemp

Suicide Sensitive When I died my head hurt. The world was spinning round, Everything was white, I could still hear sound. When I died I felt peace, Everything seemed still, No regret, not sorry, No more days to fill. When I died a fire, Grew inside my head, White hot explosions, Soon I would be dead. When I died I felt like, Life was slipping away, It seemed to take a while, When I died that day. Except I didn't die, I woke to lights of blue, Cold, wet and frightened, Not knowing what to do. I cried because I lived, Worse was yet to come, Surviving your death, Isn't that much fun. That quietness over, Peace shattered again, Relentless questions, All the whys and whens. Dying hurts a bit, Surviving hurts more, Stares, tears and shame, More than was before. Dying isn't easy, But better I feel, Than living in a mind, That will refuse to heal.

What does it feel like? What is dying like? Do you see your life, Flash before your eyes? Does it hurt to die? Is like sleeping? Do you walk to light? Or fall to darkness? Do you know you're dead? Do you float above? Out of your body, Watching overhead. Do you feel at peace? Do you feel regret? Can you change your mind, If you choose to live? Do you see the Lord? Does he hold your hand? Does he welcome you, Home to rest in peace? Do you go to hell, Falling fast and hard. Perhaps you didn't love, Jesus after all. Do you just decay, Body in the ground, Eaten by the worms, Flowers growing round.

Why do you love me? What is it in me? Why do you love me,? What is it you see? Why do you love me? So not let me leave? What have I given you? That might make you grieve? Do you remember The times that we smiled? Is it those times that, Our laughter was wild? Is it because I, Showed my love to you? Is it because of, The things that I do? What are these things that, One day you will share, Things I have done and The ways I have cared? Is it your memory? Which may fade, But it is the things, On which friendship is made? Why if you love me? Do I feel so alone? If I am so loved, Is it with pain I groan? Why is it silent, When for help I ask? Why is loving me, Such a huge task? If loving me is hard? So hard as you say, Do you prevent me, From escaping this way? Why when your words, Show you find me a chore, Do you walk far away, To be friends no more. Why when you say, You love me still? My heart remains broken, Now too broken to fill. The whisper

I asked my GP to sedate me. So I was safe. So I could rest. I begged him. He looked at what we had tried. Clonazapam Lorazepam Promethazine Zopiclone. Diazapam Temazepam Nitrazepam Nothing worked. Clonazapam worked when I took too much or when I was first starting medication. Promethazine gave some relief from anxiety during the day. Last night he gave me a single double dose. I night of sleep. 10 dreamless, still hours of safety.

People will speak of surprise. She seemed so well. She looked so happy. She had so much to live for. Why didn't she ask for help? How could she leave her children? Is it really a surprise? Loosing my mind. Loosing my job. My parenting investigated. My body pumped full of poison. The loss of my community. My friends. Alienated, blocked, ignored by those I thought loved me. I did not want to leave my children. To be honest they bought me an extra year. They deserve better. They will get it without me in the way. I did ask for help. Several times. Help isn't there. Removing freedom doesn't save people. It just makes it harder to ask for help. Nobody has been able to lift me from this pit. Asking for help involves switchboards, receptionists, knowing that nothing will improve the physical pain, knowing that when you get through they will wonder why you bothered phoning if you really want to die. For me this is not a surprise. This is not an impulse. This is being too t

How do you get better? How do you recover? Do you suddenly wake with hope? Do you feel differently? Do you just notice after it has happened? What is recovery? Is recovery real?  How long does recovery take? Is it even possible? How will I know what recovery looks like? Why does it take so long? So long I gave up hope. What do I need to do now? To end this nightmare forever. I don't know how much longer I can bear this. How can I continue? To face another day. It feels like this will never end. They say it happens slowly. That recovery is possible for me. Do they really know that? Can it really be true? Is recovery possible? Is there a flicker of hope? Or is it just a fairy tale that's not truth? Each day that passes by, Hope slips further away. I feel this is life forever. The tunnel light seems dimmer. No hope, no light, just darkness forever more. I cannot see past this. The pain overwhelms me. I'm deep in a pit of despair. Recovery is a

This is important... Check out @Rethink_’s Tweet: https://twitter.com/Rethink_/status/981969730243309569?s=09

I wasn't prepared to feel this way. I wasn't prepared to feel close to tears when my child came home from your care. I wasn't prepared to pretend to smile at his work and songs and joy whilst burying the physical ache in my chest. I wasn't expecting to feel this exhausted and this alone. I wasn't expecting that yet another professional questioning your judgements and decision making to make me feel more conflicted then ever. I wasn't expecting to still feel so heartbroken after all this time. To miss the you. To miss the hard work. To miss me. I wasn't expecting this to happen at all though. So I guess it shouldn't be a surprise. I don't know what happens now.

I saw a meme on Facebook today. It said "you need to love me a little louder today" Sometimes, when you hate yourself. When you cannot think of any nice thing about you. When you cannot find a single lovable thing about you. You need to be told. Of course, others love isn't going to fix your self esteem in the long term. Good therapy will eventually, slowly, restore faith in yourself, or give it for the first time. That is very important. Long term change and improvement will come from knowing yourself and being comfortable with who you are and that you have an intrinsic worth not based on other's opinion. However, this doesn't happen overnight. It takes months, years even. A little "loud" love might just be enough of a plaster to stop somebody bleeding out. To do this work, the person needs to be alive and have enough hope that love is possible. If someone breaks a leg, for a while they need driving around. It's not forever. Time, treatment in

Sometimes getting out of bed is so hard. Like really, really hard. The thought of facing people and pretending you are full of Easter joy when inside your heart is certainly not focused on the gift of the resurrection but instead on how much people hurt you. How continued rejection and lack of encouragement overwhelm you and you fall foul of your sinful heart again and again and again. Please pray for me. I don't need likes or replies, I need prayer. I need to stop hoping in people. Even Christians. I need to empty my heart of the illusion I should matter to anyone else. I need to be satisfied with the love of God only. I need an Easter miracle. Or to remember I've already had one. Please pray for me.

A colleague of mine is dying. She retired and was then diagnosed with terminal cancer. I think of her. I think of her sons who have only just reached adulthood. I feel sad she will no longer be here. I wouldn't have seen much of her but the loss of someone so sunny is sad just because it is a loss to the world. Then there is the shame. The shame that I would gladly take her place. Not to save her but to free me. The shame that whilst she has to plan her funeral because she is dying, I plan mine because I can't bear to live my life. The shame that I share a gospel of hope and profess a faith where I am expected to suffer. Where I know I am loved beyond measure. Where I know all suffering is for a purpose and will bring glory to God. The shame I tell others of this but cannot live it enough to see any way out of my own suffering. The shame that where my colleague has no choice, I do and wish I didn't. Trapped as I feel unable to share because I know how selfish this feeli

Happy Birthday to me. If only it were that easy.  It has been lovely. I am really grateful for my husband and children. I had the usual random gift from my children (something they would want for themselves. Today a giant cuddly toy), lots of bits from my husband who put a lot of pressure on himself to create a perfect day for me. We went out together. Then we baked and did some craft. Then my family arrived. It's so hard. On your birthday you are supposed to be around your family. People who have been at your birthdays all your life. For me that's not so easy. My mother. Remembering my grandmother is deaf but forgetting I am not, she began to comment on how very miserable and stroppy I am. I heard. My husband confronted her, no apology, not even denial, just that she hadn't meant me to hear. Mother 1 strikes a birthday blow. Mother 2, my surrogate. My friend who filled the void for me.  No contact. No text. No FB post (not expected as she has blocked me). Nothing. I s

I won't name. I wish I could but I shouldn't. I visited my GP today. I was expecting the usual sympathetic and kind but fairly unproductive 10 minute appointment. My appointments always start the same. Dr: So, how are you? Me: Fine Dr: You are still stuck.       You poor, poor thing.       This is so bloody awful and unfair.                Should we try a week of this?       You are a worry.       I am going to get you help today. His manner is sweet and often desperate. He's a prisoner of bureaucracy. Of funding cuts. I never feel seeing him is a waste of my time, even if nothing new comes out of it. I do worry it is a waste of his and feel guilty every time he books a repeat appointment. He has chased second opinions, questioned diagnoses, supported my husband, stayed late. He's made me tea several times. Today he asked more questions. He took so much time. He dug right down into exactly what my thoughts were and where they start and evolve. Who or what th

I know I am loved. I often can't see why. I know my children love me. I don't think they could quantify why though, I perhaps wonder if it's just that they have been trained to love me, it's expected that small children love their mothers. I know my husband loves me. I wonder if it's still the love for a wife, or it's that he is my best friend, or it's a dutiful love. He married me and now he's stuck here. There are others I know care. I know I have friends who care. Again I wonder if it's a duty thing again. It's been implied that church members love me sacrificially. They are required to love me. Although some obviously do that more than others. I have some wonderful professionals looking after me, as well as some who, well, are not so great.  Again, some you can see do care. They care how I have cared and had fondness for some of my clients. They care, but they are paid to. Today was a bit of an eye opener. I said that I didn't want t

They say a picture paints a 1000 words. I found this one on Pinterest today. This could be me. In fact this has been me. I have sat in the corner of a cold, bare, clinical looking room more times in the past year than I care to remember. This is exactly what I looked like. I'm pretty certain that even the demons were visible. I could feel them. This is what I look like still. I cannot shift it. I. Have. Tried. I try to repeat Scripture. I try to sing worship songs on loop, meaning every single world. Praying I will believe it's true and will deafening the demons. I take various concoctions. It's not just simple antidepressants. I allow myself to be drugged with poison that gives me dry mouth, hideous night sweats and hot flushes.  Drugs which despite not breastfeeding for 3 years cause me to lactate. Drugs which make me ravenous and have caused me to go from a size 8 to a 16.  Drugs which cause constipation, high blood pressure and diabetes. Even though my diagnosis

I am a should person. A should person is generally quite miserable. A should person is also loyal, honest, hard working and usually quite productive. A should person has a good sense of morals. They know how people should behave. They know the rules and they follow them. They set themselves rules and boundaries too and follow them meticulously. You know a job will be done well with a should person. A should person is their own biggest critic. They believe that they should and can manage anything. They do not do failure well. A should person will always be sorry for letting someone down. Should people are generally in demand because they feel they should help others. They are often very servant hearted. A should person also has rules she believes others should keep too. These can be rules that diminish someone else's responsibility. That others shouldn't be expected to do as much work, shouldn't be expected to manage alone, shouldn't be sad, shouldn't miss out.

God! What are you trying to teach me through this trial? When will my suffering end? I pour out my heart to you.  I know and love you. I desperately want to use my gifts from you to bring you glory.  I read your word when I am troubled. I then know I'm not alone. I need someone on earth to carry me sometimes. Please forgive me for trying to decide without you. Please rid me of the demons in my head. I see my home in heaven. I pray for this to end. Either by taking me home or helping me resolve difficulties I'm having on earth. I ask these things in Jesus name. Amen

I took too much. I did call for help before I began. They will get back to you as soon as they can. This half life I live in is too much to bear. The feeling betrayed, useless and that nobody cares. I hid behind the door when a friend came by.  I was alone having a cry. I'm broken I'm broken what more can I say?  Life is a challenge everyday. A huge sense of loss seems to ache in my chest. I miss you, I miss me. I failed the test. I don't see a future. The outlook seems bleak. I miss my my old life and that's what I seek. Alone by my own choice. But lonely and nobody listens to my voice. .

There is a place in this world that only you can fill; and when you do not take this place it will always remain empty from the beginning to the end. You are not for nothing in this world! You are a building stone of the universe! It depends on you! You must be there!   PAUL KLEE {1939 } My counsellor shared these words with me today. I've decided to share them as it is World Poetry Day. A me shaped hole. I've often heard of the God shaped hole in a person's life. I'm sure some of my Christian associates believe this is true about me. I've not thought of a me shaped hole. I've pictured the world without me, but never as a gap. I've thought about being a missing mum. That was a mum shaped hole, not a me shaped hole. You are not for nothing in this world. I'm not sure I have left any mark on the world. My counsellor is so gentle. She very sensitively asked me to consider what my expectations of dying were. It was strange to hear such harsh soundi

Oh how I wish I could have celebrated today better. Oh how I long to feel happy. Feel content. Tonight I have tried. I've searched for pictures to sum up my happiness. Looking for memories. Looking for those things that make me smile. My son's first smile. My daughter on a bouncy castle. My son with a potty on his head. My children kissing me.  They do make me smile. Fond smiles. Smiles don't mean happiness though. Happiness is situational. Depression removes it. Spending international day of happiness a year into a suicidal depression is not funny. I was happy once.

I can't say the words out loud. I can usually type them, and if the right question is asked they tumble out of my mouth quickly once I've started. I can't just say "help me" or "I'm scared". Even when asked it is difficult to get started. The past few days I have been texting the samaritans. It's quicker than emailing but easier for me than phoning and also more private for me too. It takes around an hour for a reply, sometimes less. This is useful for me as my most helpful strategy is delaying action. The straight forward question threw me last night. Even by text I had not actually used the words. I had explained how I had planned. How pointless and hopeless I was feeling. A few hours in I received a simple reply. Do you want to end your life? Not "have you had thoughts of harming yourself?" or "do you have a plan to harm yourself?  I'm not sure that it was that plainly asked ever before. I struggled to answer. The ques

TGIF everyone shouts. Weekends are great. No school, no work. Family together. Lazy mornings. There is also nobody around. The CMHT are closed. Even though they usually aren't much help, sometimes just knowing it's an option can be helpful. The GP surgery is shut. The two professionals who I feel listen to me. The two people who have made me feel that I am worth saving are enjoying a well earned rest. The hospital is run on skeleton staff. The thought of being admitted at a weekend fills me with dread. No leave, no consultant, no groups. No visitors. Long, long, lonely days of nothing. Of course there's the crisis team. Someone different every day. They know they can't help. They know I don't trust them. They don't see the point and neither do I. You can't be mad at a weekend. Take your pills and try not to kill yourself, OK? We will help you again on Monday. OK brain. It's Friday. Shut the F*** up and wait until Monday. The support probably won&

I cannot say the words. There are no words. I don't want to phone. I don't know what to say. I don't want to waste anyone's time or you to think I am seeking attention. If I did phone I'm afraid of what might happen. What you will do. Who you will call. Who it will hurt. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to say apart from help. Take this from me. Make it so everything is normal. So I don't want to leave. So I don't feel alone. So I am not judged, wasting time, making everyone unhappy. Help me. Please help me. It hurts. I don't know how I can live anymore. I don't see a future. Although I have made plans, they are things to love and serve people. Activities for the children. Lifts for relatives. They fill me with dread. I even applied for a job but the interview offer sits unanswered. Scared of facing more rejection, or worse failing at something again. I've got the time. I've got the resources. For me there is no concer

You have done all the right things. Susanna commented today how lovely it was to meet you and see your care and concern for me. It obviously reassured her  that somebody loved me. You have said this isn't my fault. This isn't a choice. You have done the school run. Checked on me and left me to sleep and write in bed. Now you are tired. You are worried and you are weighed down. You are short with me and the children and you don't know what you are supposed to do or how you are supposed to feel. We are on our own with this. I am weighed down with the pain of watching your heartbreak. I am full of shame for my inactivity, my selfishness and the frustration I sometimes have when I don't know what to do or you become overwhelmed. We have been failed. I am sorry that you have had to endure this. I'm sorry I can't stop this. I'm sorry this isn't how it was supposed to be. This is not fair. It's not good enough. Don't you see this is why I feel I n

My counsellor shared a poem with me yesterday. Below is the ending. Hold on to life even when it is easier to let go. Letting go isn't easy. Letting go is hard. It seems easier than holding on. Some days I just feel so tired of holding on. So weak. Holding on isn't a long term solution. Think of holding onto a cliff edge.  You hold on and on and on. You don't want to go crashing into the rocks below. You are too weak to pull yourself up, or the shelf is too narrow or out of reach. Your only option is to be rescued. You cannot hold on forever. Your weight is too heavy for your arms to manage. If rescue doesn't come you will eventually have no choice but to let go. Just at that moment someone hears you call for help. They want to help. They don't want to see you fall. They stay with you and reassure you somebody will come and save you. They want to but they don't have a rope, or long enough arms. They do have a phone! They know someone who is really good at t

Just as when the care coordinator visits, looking at his watch and avoiding questions which may make more work for him, today we ran out of time. The new psychotherapist had not read my notes. She did not know I was married. She did not know my family composition. I said I had filled out paperwork. She said she could read it but she'd like me to tell her. 50 minutes is not enough to summarise 18 months. I started with the panic of yesterday. She didn't ask any more.  After 50 minutes halfway through a sentence describing how I feel my voice isn't heard she said, "sorry, times up, we will pick up same time next week". So that's it. The great rescue plan is a woman who can't even prepare herself by reading or even skimming notes, who is blind to someone saying they were in great distress and who interrupts someone part way through a sentence describing the frustration of not being heard. We have sat lamenting what is supposed to happen now. Who do we tur

So ....your GP informs you he has spoken to a lovely, sensible lady who wants to come up with a decent plan to support you. They will phone you to discuss. Midnight arrives and you hear a hammering at your door as 2 people turn up unannounced and don't listen to anything you say. They've read your notes and assume your children are on a child protection plan and that you are having group therapy. Neither are true and are judgements based on documentation that is disputed by other professionals. They do not seem to believe that nothing recently has triggered this and seem to think it's some whim and you've now changed your mind. There is nothing they can offer. Phone if you need to. They repeat the same over and over. Go into therapy with an open mind. Call us and we will help you. Followed by that  there is nothing they can do to help you. You tell them you have missed your opportunity for now. You are tired. You are fed up of being judged and belittled. You agree t

Therapeutic touch is an interesting subject. As a paediatric nursing student we did discuss it. We talked about massage in palliative care. We talked about holding distressed babies. Holding the hand of a parent was second nature as they sat outside resus waiting for news of their seriously ill child. Off the ward it seemed less acceptable. Had times changed or was it just a different environment? Often Health visitors were referred to as a hands off profession. Parents picked babies up and put on the scales. The official line seemed to be we weren't to sit and have a cuddle. It always felt naughty when a parent thrust their child into my arms whilst they went to make a bottle or get the red book! I would sometimes think of all those babies I rocked and sang to during night shifts and how it would have been wrong not to do that. Sometimes I would want to reach out and hold a hand. I never did. It seemed too much. Crossing boundaries. Today I realised something. I have often jus

My lovely children have made a huge effort today. Waking up early and dressing themselves without being asked. Making me breakfast, luckily asking whether sugar was in the pink or blue condiment shaker (neither: they are salt and pepper)! Flowers and chocolates and handmade cards. One including a line drawing of me in bed being jumped on by a child. Church, as for every mothers day I have been a mother.  My children presented my son's godmother with a card. There was prayer for grandparents, for those not yet mothers, for parents bringing up young children, for those whose mothers have died, for the spiritual mothers, those who lead Sunday groups. Private prayer offered, for those who find today difficult. Those without their mums. Those with fertility troubles or who have lost pregnancies or children. It seems a bad day to discuss and lament on the grief of having a physically present but emotionally distant parent. The grief of no longer being 'a spiritual mother' to

I am so sick of being cast as the Bad guy around here. I'm trying so hard to fight against having the view that I am an awful person who is unworthy of love, recognition or kindness. It sucks when your automatic view is to blame yourself and convince yourself of responsibility for all the sadness in the world. Some people just can't help piling on more evidence that these beliefs are in fact true. I didn't always feel I was bad. I used to think I had to be good and I had to be kind and do what I was told, and put in 100% and never fail. I had high standards but although I felt I always could do more I felt that most the time I was almost there, that at least I tried to do the right thing and generally was a good intentioned person. I am very much the bad guy at the moment. My family expect me to carry things for them, if I can't, or I disagree, I am publicly berated on Facebook, or abusive or passive aggressive messages are sent to me. I am the bad guy in my friends

Flat, deflated, fed up. Going through the motions. With the children I do what's needed. Clothes are clean, if not always put away. They get fed. Sometimes I try and make a memory for them by making lunch a face. They do homework and reading most nights. I break up fights. They get to school on time. It is just going through the motions. I love them. I am proud of them both. I'd rather be in bed, or under my duvet in the chair. Alone. The pets get fed and cleaned out when they smell. They are some company to me. They don't expect anything more of me than feeding them and ensuring they have somewhere to poo. I can manage that. I'm becoming more sluggish. I just pause and can't get started. I don't know what to do. I try to do a little more in the house, to relieve the burden on my husband and my sense of guilt. My motivation is poor. I do not leave the house unless it's for the children or for an appointment. Even for appointments I some times rehears

On Instagram I have been attempting to do a lent photo challenge with prompts from The Bible Society. Each day the prompt is a word connected with the gospel. Sometimes my photos are gospel related, sometimes they aren't particularly. I am finding reading the bible hard just now. I don't have the hunger I had a few months ago. I can't really remember the last time I opened my bible. I snatch little bits via online studies when I remember but this challenge is opening my mind up to what God has to say about things. Today the prompt was family. I have a large family. One day my a practice teacher challenged how I could understand poverty, suffering, different lifestyles as an educated married white christian woman with 2 reasonably spaced and visibly 'normal' children. Apart from the fact my circumstances in no way predict my empathy. I know some very good midwives who aren't mothers. Some very good health visitors who aren't mothers, or who aren't poo

I love call the midwife. It joins together call my loves babies, motherhood, nursing, faith and history. I love it. I've just caught up on last nights episode. A couple of series ago they dealt with a Ruth and Naomi relationship. An older and younger friend. Drawn together by situation (working together) but a deeper fondness occurring over time until you realise they are inseparable. They are true, if unlikely friends, Last week Phyllis offered to nurse a flu stricken Barbara to give Barbara's sweet husband a break. It wasn't flu. Barbara had meningitis and septicaemia. This week it looked like Barbara may pull through, although there was grief as she realised her lifelong dream of being a midwife, her career and vocation would be ripped away from her due to loosing feeling in her fingers. Yeah, a little close to home. My circulation in my fingers remains in tact but the scars left from the past year are almost certainly going to have an impact on the only career

Yesterday's Lent Challenge Prompt was "still". This is what I came up with. Still: I've been thinking about the meaning of this one for a couple of days. The Hebrew root of "be still" is "let go". I've been drawn to a few verses. Psalm 37:7 Be still and wait patiently on the Lord. Oh how I struggle with this. Pretty much every word. Wait?? Patient?? Still? Currently I'm 1 year into my depression. 1 year. I'm very impatient. This isn't how it was meant to be. I started off being still. Letting go was what started this. I waited on the Lord, to begin with. My sense of timing and His are obviously out of sync! Psalm 46:10 "Be still and know that I am God" Let go, rest. God has it in hand. I don't often feel still. My body is often still. My mind never is. My mind is full of 'what if'. It's like I could do with reprograming. Getting rid of all the useless files and reloading with the simplest software. Jus

Pretty much exactly 5 months after my last church attendance I returned today. Since my last time I had only seen 3 people from the congregation face to face. People who live in my town. Who I've seen at least twice a week for years, I'd seen so few of them. Children had grown. Newborn babies now starting to move. Barely bumps now earth side. There were a few new faces too. We decided to go today because we had been invited for Sunday lunch by a couple from church. The sweet, kind hearted, godly doctor who was on duty the weekend I was first taken to hospital. I didn't give myself a choice this morning. I'd set up an excuse not to go for lunch already. Our car was broken. It was true, it was, but I knew it would be fixed in time to go. So I got up and we went. I'd spoken with my counsellor about not feeling it was my home any longer. That I wasn't part of the fellowship anymore. That physically I didn't know where to sit. Our usual seats, middle,front, with

They say when the going gets tough you find out who your friends are. I accepted that. I knew that some people. Some friends, acquaintances, colleagues, family members would not be supportive. I had confidence though that some people would certainly stay put. No doubt. Even if I had a little wobble, I would be quickly reassured that they loved me and weren't going anywhere. Anyone who has read the blog will know that this didn't last. That people who I was certain would get me through, for whatever reason, didn't. Most days it hurts my heart. However there are others. Others who if I was asked a year ago wouldn't have crossed my mind as those to be holding me. My cousin. My totally mental, loud, foul mouthed cousin. We were so different growing up. You were cleverer but I was more conscientious. I was angelic, you were full of trouble! I was polite. You were cheeky. I through myself into study, you took a different path. We grew up together until our early teens w

What will you remember? Will you remember story time. Cuddled up and funny voices. Will you remember sneaking into our bed and falling back to sleep. Will you remember singing songs when you were small. Doing all the actions? Will you remember me singing you to sleep whilst rubbing your back? Will you remember licking the bowl after baking. Dancing around the lounge. Will you remember walking home from school and talking about your day. Will you remember my smile at parents evenings, dance shows, the day you rode your bike? Will you remember being pushed high on the swings until you giggled? Will you remember nights when you were sick and we'd sleep on the sofa? Mummy holding you in hospital. Will you rather remember the times I shouted. The times I could do nothing but walk away. The times I joined in your chaos rather than calming it. Will you remember the times I missed. That I worked through your chicken pox. That I was in hospital for your 3rd operation? That you would wake

Today my psychologist noticed that I am polite, articulate and calm. She doesn't believe this reflects my feelings and I avoid answering her when she asks how I feel. We started in silence. After a while when even I, trained to include silence as a tool for listening, felt it had gone on too long. "What is happening for you?" she asked. I said I was ok. "What does OK mean for you?" I don't really know. I guess ok means I'm not imminently going to try and end my life. "Ahhh yes I wondered that". We ended up discussing my son saying he hated me this week. We discussed the reasons for being angry. She pointed out that he was angry and he was able to safely express his hurt, anger and yes, hate. Why am I not entitled to do this? Perhaps I need to learn from him. My psychologist seems to want me to be pissed of with her. She makes too much sense and now I wonder if she's slipping stuff in to try and get me angry. Like suggesting my children

This wasn't who I wanted to be. My only dream was to be a mother. When I finally was I wanted to be a better mother than I had. When my daughter was born I was that mum. Despite having postnatal depression, which looking back now was fairly minor, I played, I read books, breastfed. I was responsive. Even when she wouldn't settle I never felt angry. When she was a toddler I never shouted. I cried and I was anxious and tired but even when our son was born I was still patient and not at all shouty. Looking back I can pinpoint a change. It was a few months after going back to work from my 2nd maternity leave. I left the job I had been in for 5 years. We were a small and supportive team which had comprised of the same six people for 4 years. 5 women in their 40s and 22 year old me. Just weeks after returning I was persuaded (threatened my job was being phased out) to begin further study. It would result in the job I had wanted since my first year of nursing. It wasn't ideal t