In December 2013 I had a miscarriage. It wasn’t my only miscarriage, but it’s the one that really screwed me up. I was six weeks pregnant and I had her whole life planned out.
One in four pregnancies end in miscarriage, yet, I still don’t feel entitled to grieve for my child properly because it ended so early. It had been ingrained in me that because it was so early on it should be treated as ‘just one of those things’. It’s because of this mind-set that I tried to bounce back to normality and get on with things. That plan didn’t work out so well and I ended up taking a nosedive into depression.
I know I’m not alone in this.
Women are meant to be stoic and get on with their lives and pretend that it’s silly to grieve for something that was barely there. There’s a time limit that you can be upset for (usually until you stop bleeding) and then anything more than that you’re just being dramatic.
Don’t get me wrong, my family never made me feel like that – I did. I pushed myself to forget that it even happened and concentrate on my son that was here, or even just try again. Simple, right?
The problem was I had already fallen in love with my baby that was the size of an orange, decided her name and was already mentally redecorating the nursery for her. I couldn’t just switch it off and I resented the fact that I ‘had’ to.
It didn’t go away when I fell pregnant with Oscar and it hasn’t gone away nearly five years later.
I’m still angry.
I’m angry that I have nothing to remember this little life by. I don’t have a grave to visit, a scan photo to look at or even the positive pregnancy test as proof she existed, even for those six short weeks.
All I have is the dull ache in my heart that comes back when I remember sitting in the A&E department, bleeding, waiting to see a doctor.
If I don’t think about her, then it really would be like she never existed and I refuse to do that. It’s bad enough that I felt ashamed to grieve for something that was never meant to be, I won’t let the memory of those few weeks be forgotten.
I don’t want to be embarrassed about still thinking about her, I want to acknowledge that this shitty, shitty thing happened and remember that for those six weeks she existed. I won’t let myself forget the little life I had forged for her and I’ll listen to P!nk! ‘Beam me up’ and remember that grief is brutal but there’s no time limit or right way to do it.
I wish there had been words of comfort from a doctor, when it happened, or any type of counselling that could have helped me feel justified in my upset, but there was neither. I guess the point of this post is: miscarriage is horrible at any stage; if you’ve gone through it I’m sorry for your loss. You are not alone and it’s ok to remember your baby. Even if you’re lucky enough to go on and have a healthy pregnancy and give birth, it still doesn’t make your loss disappear or any less relevant. It happened, feel it.
Her name was Lily, she was my daughter and she always will be.
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How havening changed my life
I’ve deliberated about writing this. I’ve started and stopped numerous times. When it comes to writing about my mental health and how I have previously dealt with my depression, it can leave me very antsy. It being the internet and all, I often worried that exposing myself to scrutiny will set in motion a spiral to a very negative place.
Thankfully, I have yet to receive anything other than kind comments and private messages with previous posts. With that in mind, I decided it was important to continue the conversation regarding mental health, even if it means risking the wrath of the dreaded internet troll.
After publishing my very smug post called: ‘Sertraline and Shame’, I was on a high about my new-found acceptance of the part antidepressants play in my day-to-day life. I felt that I could wear it like a badge of honour and have a ‘fuck you’ attitude towards anyone that thought less of me for needing them. That smugness lasted a week, tops. That’s when things started taking a turn for the worse.
I’m not going into details like I have done previously but basically things were bad. As in: threats-of-admission-to-hospital-for-my-safety bad; however, a compromise was made and Home Treatment was set up along with 24 hour supervision from my extended family.
Yet again I was at rock bottom, for the second time in four years. I went through the motions, I did as I was told (for fear of the hospital admission threat becoming a reality) and I waited for the fog to lift – but it didn’t. A week went by, then two and I was no nearer to getting back up off the floor. I’m not afraid to admit: I was scared. I was referred to the local resources centre who I had previously worked with on CBT but I found out they no longer offered it on a one-to-one basis. My options were limited and the thought of having to share what I was going through in a group session put the fear of God in me.
I spent a lot of time sitting in my mother’s giant chair in front of the fire pretending to sleep so I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about everyone sitting round making sure I was safe – I assume they were busy hiding the scissors when I actually was asleep (I joke). I was very much a passenger in this stage of the recovery. I had no enthusiasm or desire to get better, yes I felt guilty that everyone was taking time out of their lives to babysit a 32-year-old but even that didn’t shake me into grabbing the wheel and taking control of my own life again. The medication was upped, I slept days away, ignored my phone and the outside world altogether and waited to be told what I had to do next.
It didn’t take long for the real adults to come up with a solution: find private CBT sessions and hope that it worked as well as the last time. I was asked if I wanted to go ahead with this plan, I think I just about lifted my head from the chair and grunted then went back to faking sleep.
The appointment was made and I was taken to meet the newest person I had to spill my guts out to. It’s exhausting to do these initial meetings, at this stage I can just about rattle off my backstory to complete strangers and wait for them to write parts down while I wonder if they are going to have me sectioned (they can’t FYI). On this particular day I had decided that hostility was the way to go. I was so bored of the same questions and that concerned look on people’s faces that I was ready to scream and who better to take this out on than the woman who was trying to help me? Obviously.
She asked why I was there and despite my kneejerk reaction to say something incredibly sarcastic, I behaved and told her what had been going on. I told her about the previous success I had with CBT and I was basically looking for a refresher course, but she wasn’t sold on this plan of action.
Instead she wanted me to talk through my life from childhood up until now. This was by far the last thing I wanted to do but again, I did as I was told. When I finished she highlighted a total of five traumas that had happened in the past and she believed that CBT was only going to work as a ‘sticking plaster’ solution. She recommended Havening, to decode the trauma and take away the pain from it.
Now, at this point I need to stress I am a sceptic of holistic therapies. I believe there’s good in some practices such as: mindfulness, yoga, meditation and even Reiki but I don’t think they cure anything. I feel it’s more of a ‘help your mood’ solution more than anything else.
If you look up havening on the internet you get a lot of Daily Mail articles and videos featuring Paul McKenna who is a big advocate of this but it’s all very vague and it doesn’t really explain what happens. The best way I have been able to explain it is: decoding a specific traumatic incident. This is done by using simple methods to distract your brain – through things like: touch, visualisation, humming (or singing) and word association – in turn, it eases the pain associated with the memory.
I am forever grateful that I did not look up anything about Havening before this appointment because I would never have shown up. I was suicidal and this woman wanted me to hum? No thanks, whack-job.
I identified one trauma that was a 10/10 for pain and she told me she was going to take it away. I spent the next half hour with her doing as I was told and when she was finished she asked me how I felt – I said it was a 6/10 (I was trying to be nice, she had really spent a lot of time already with me but I knew this was never going to work). I straightened up and got ready to leave but she told me that we were going to work some more on it as that number was too high.
The whole appointment lasted 90 minutes and by the end of it the pain was gone. Nothing remained of it. When she told me to open my eyes I felt physically lighter, it felt as though all the cells in my body were vibrating violently in a way that made me feel utterly invincible. We had visualised an impenetrable bubble that was around me and nothing negative or harmful could get through. This was done at the start of December and now, in February, the vibrations may have stopped but the bubble remains.
Before I left, I asked if I would need to come back and deal with the other traumas we had highlighted but she assured me confidently that I wouldn’t need to. I believed her. I left her office feeling like a completely different person. In 90 minutes she had taken away pain I had carried with me daily for over ten years. My family were speechless.
This next part I don’t say lightly: havening has cured my depression.
I have waited until now to talk about it because I didn’t want to jump the gun and, honestly, I’ve been waiting for the effects to wear off so I can be proved right about holistic healing – but they haven’t. I suspect my family have also been waiting for the other shoe to drop but even they can’t deny the changed person that is in front of them.
I’ve worried that saying something like is irresponsible but because I have struggled with depression since I was 16 and have tried every avenue available to me in order to try and deal with it, I stand by that verdict. All I can say with complete certainty is: I did this, and now I’m free from depression for the first time in 16 years.
I’m currently in the process of weaning my body off Sertraline and I’m not remotely worried about it. The hideous disease that has plagued my life has finally gone. Sometimes I test it by going back to the trauma and see if the pain is reforming, but it’s not; not even a little. It’s a memory but it holds no power over me anymore.
I hope by my sharing this experience that even one person can see there is hope against the darkness within – even if the answer for them isn’t havening – because if I can permanently close the book on depression with certainty and without fear of it returning, than anyone can.
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Accepting help for my wonky brain
Funny story – well, it’s funny now and my sister doesn’t come across too well but fuck it (sorry, Rachael).
On St Patrick’s Day, this year I was in the local shopping centre to watch my niece do some Irish dancing. It was packed, as it always is on that day and I was boiling. It was a long wait and after the first watch of the performance I told my sister I wasn’t feeling well and had to leave. She was not pleased. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I had to wait until the next performance to take a video of my niece dancing – because apparently Rachael had lost the use of her hands. I mean, she hadn’t but I blame her for my humiliation so let’s pretend she’s as mean as I’m letting on here.
After that I can remember thinking: “Oh, God I’m going to vomit in the middle of the shopping centre and this is going to be the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Oh, how wrong I was.
As I struggled to find my sister’s handbag to vomit in, as retribution for making me stay in this hell hole, I started to get dizzy and that’s the last thing I remember. I woke up to the sound of a very loud Belfast accent asking me about drugs.
I was completely and utterly confused as to where I was and why the hell there was a man asking me for drugs. He wasn’t of course, it was a paramedic asking was I on any (I wasn’t, mum). I hadn’t vomited; I had fainted in the middle of the damn shopping centre and now was being wheeled out of the place on one of the busiest days of the year in Newry. This was a whole new level of embarrassment and I wholeheartedly blame my sister for this and will do until my dying day.
Turns out, I’m anaemic. No big deal, I have to take an iron tablet every day or I’ll end up on my ass again. It’s necessary and not something I’m remotely ashamed about, although I could stand to eat more spinach now and again. So, why is it that, up until about a week ago, I was still very ashamed to admit that I was taking daily antidepressants?
I mean it’s very simple: the chemicals in my brain are a bit skewed and this sorts it out. I’ve been very forthcoming with my battle against depression. When it comes to the worst times I’ve been through because of this disease, you can find it rather quickly on this website but as for the day-to-day reality of living with it I shy away from admitting things.
I was getting into bed and taking the iron tablet and the Sertraline (my not-so-secret-shame drug of choice) and something just clicked. What’s the big deal here? I have been on these tablets for 15 months; I quite literally need them to keep things on the level and I’ve worked damn hard to get to a place where I can accept these ‘failings’ in my brain.
Don’t get me wrong, they don’t solve everything – not by a long shot – and that’s where CBT comes in. I still have depressive episodes but the difference is I know there’s an end to it and I can bounce back a lot quicker than I would be able to do if I was going without them. I want to have complete transparency with my children when it comes to all things mental health related, especially because I am terrified of the hereditary nature of the disease. I can’t do much about that, but I can be a positive role model on how they can deal with it.
The conversation about anxiety and depression is much more open one these days but I was still ashamed to admit that I needed help of the pharmaceutical variety. I’m not anymore. I’ve just accepted that I need a little help, be it medication or practising the skills I learned through CBT.
I’ve no intention of going off them anytime soon in order to prove to myself that I can do without the cushioning they provide, why would I?
My point is: if you’re reading this and are worried about having to take the step and get help for dealing with this disease, don’t be. Fuck it, nobody is getting any medals for doing without.
I’m not ashamed of being on prescribed antidepressants in a fight against a disease that is literally trying to kill me, should I let it get on top of me again.
I’m not ashamed of who I am, not anymore – and neither should you be.
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52 Days Later
For the last 52 days I’ve been trying to avoid writing this. To be fair for the last 52 days I’ve been avoiding a hell of a lot. I’ve been living in this bizarre limbo where everyone is very nice and has very sympathetic looks on their face when I see them and no one really knows what to say – but I don’t know what to say to them either. I’m terrible at small talk. I guess I missed the lessons at birth because, unfortunately, I tend to tell the absolute truth and end up bumming people out.
Example A:
Well-meaning sympathiser: “So, how are you doing? Kids doing well?”
Socially awkward weirdo: “Oh, yeah totally fine – although I have got this overwhelming sense that there’s no meaning in the universe and my heart has been ripped out of my chest. Yep, kids are great.”
The good news is I’ve had a lot of practise with this conversation over the last 52 days and I’ve managed get it down to the first four words of that sentence. Sorry to anyone who didn’t get the abridged version.
See, the thing is I don’t really know who I am anymore. I had a best friend one day and then she was gone the next. Just like that, and what’s left is this shell of a person who is blindly trying to make it through one day to the next.
I’m not sure if you know this but grief is not like it is in the movies. No, really. I’ve yet to look out a window while rain falls with a moving musical montage swelling in the background. I’m meant to be sad until the key changes then I’ll go rollerblading or something and I’ll be happy again. That’s what’s meant to happen.
However, there are many reasons for why this hasn’t occured:
- I have wonky ankles, can’t stand up on rollerblades or ice skates to save my life.
- No one rollerblades unless they’re in a tampon advert
- I’m beginning to accept my life is not an elaborate ‘Truman Show’ style documentary
Alas, that means I have to grieve like the rest of you plebs and it’s FUCKING AWFUL. I have two little people depending on me and I can’t just fall into a hole – which is unimaginably attractive to me. Also, I don’t know how to get in touch with Hans Zimmer and convince him to compose anything for my breakdown so it seems pointless to have one now.
I suspect when people think of their best friends they think they had the world’s most unique and close friendship, I won’t burst your bubble but screw you, you’re wrong. I did.
For 16 years I had the fiercest, funniest and most loyal friend. She pushed me to write, to run, to love and to have fun. She had flaws, like the rest of us, but it made up part of who she was. There’s nothing I can say here that hasn’t been said, and said better, by others already touched by the loss. I know what we meant to each other and that’s the one thing that will give me comfort in the next 52 days and far beyond.
I look at photos of us, I reread messages with her voice in my head, I chat to her when I’m cooking dinner and I tell my husband stories about her for the 100th time – even though he was there when they happened.
Although my close family have been walking on eggshells around me since it happened I don’t think I’ve caused too much trouble – until three weeks ago.
Three weeks ago I brought home a puppy.
Firstly, I am not a dog person; can’t stand them really. I think they’re yappy, needy creatures so you can imagine my family’s surprise when this tiny little canine – about the size of a small rabbit – came sauntering into the house.
I named him Dougal and I’ve fallen in love. He goes where I go and I have become slightly obsessed with taking him into the garden 40 times a day in an attempt to save my living room mat from his pee.
He’s driving everyone mad: husband hates dogs, youngest hates all animals and eldest is being tortured with his ‘playful’ nips. Yet, I’m in love.
Every evening he sits on my chest on top of my bruised and broken heart and sleeps. It’s the most satisfying comfort I’ve felt since all this began. I talk to him when I’m lonely and tell him about my friend, the animal lover, who he’ll never get to meet.
I don’t know what the next 52 days will turn into but I’m hoping this little pocket-sized pooch will get me outside and running again. Something I’ve dreaded even considering without her. I’m aware he’s so ridiculously small I’ll end up carrying him but you never know. Perhaps I was mis-sold this tiny dog and he’ll keep growing into a Great Dane.
The moral of the story is: grief is shite, dogs are ok and if anyone has contact details for Hans Zimmer please send them this way.
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Slimming Shenanigans Week 239
I have a little over four months until my 30th birthday and with it comes my deadline to reach target at Slimming World.
I’m half way there and I should be feeling pretty good about things but I’m not, I’m just fed up.
I haven’t been to class in weeks and I’ll have to officially rejoin tomorrow. Truthfully, I’ve lost count of the amount of take-aways I’ve had over recent days – it’s not looking good.
The only difference this time is: I’m not giving up. I’ll go back tomorow and stand on the scales of shame – my name for them not the group’s – and I’ll dust myself off and try and remember why I’m doing this.
At this stage, I don’t really remember. I’ve asked the ridiculous amount of cheese in the fridge the same question and it’s less than helpful; it just keeps saying things like: “What the hell do I know? I’m cheese.” and “Have you taken your tablets today?”
You don’t even want to know what that sexy bitch ‘chocolate’ is saying. The temptress.
Running is also a nonstarter. I’ve been on two runs in the last two weeks and they were less than entusiastically undertaken.
In an attempt to add some glamour to the exercise I decided to ramp up the inspirational music. Shuffle landed on the ever-annoying ‘Let it go’ and I went with it (don’t judge me).
I was getting to my big finale when I got caught up in the moment and flailed my arms out for my Elsa pose, hitting an unsuspecting dog walker in the face in the process.
NO GOOD COMES FROM ME EXERCISING!!!
So tomorrow I’ll head back to class in the hope that I’ll get my mojo back, but tonight I will eat all the chocolate in the house while looking at inspirational intagram quotes and cry, Any takers? Your loss.
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Time to Say ‘Goodbye’
It’s a Sunday morning and instead of indulging in my hangover anxiety I’ve decided to make a change.
Anxiety goes hand-in-hand with depression for me. At it’s worst it can stop me functioning or even from putting my head above the covers, and this week I could feel its grubby little hands tightening around my throat.
My palms were getting sweaty at the thought of having to leave the house, I was getting stressed out being left in charge of two small children and with Conor working late I was allowing myself to indulge in the isolation and letting it breed and grow.
The only thing that can anchor me back to reality when I can feel it rising is to curl myself up onto Conor’s lap. It’s like a safety net and gives me the opportunity to slow my breathing down.
Anyway, this isn’t meant to be a post about anxiety. This is about me deciding to fight it.
I’m ready to take it all on. It’s the first time since all this has started that I finally believe I can do it. I can take it all on and, most importantly, win.
I’m ready to really put my all into CBT and properly see doctors to tame this once and for all (I’m not stupid enough to think this can be eradicated, but I will conquer it).
I went out last night and had a fantastic time laughing and dancing and drinking with my family. The morning after nights out are normally spent nursing a hangover and is loaded with the usual personal character assassination of the most brutal kind: you’re a horrible wife, a useless mother, a rubbish friend etc etc – but not this morning.
This morning, I went into my kitchen I put on some loud music (Sia – how freaking amazing is she?) and I danced barefoot around the table. I danced like no one was watching, because know one was. It was just me, letting go and being happy in the moment.
It was fantastic and inspiring and it helped me take this step. The veil dropped and I’m ready to be the best version of myself that I can be.
I know I can be a better wife, a fun mum and a supportive friend. I’m going to be a better runner, writer and housewife. I’m going to dance barefoot in my kitchen with my children and enjoy their childhood. I’m going to leave the toys on the living room floor because they’re not meant to live in a box. I’m going to kiss my husband just because I can. I’m going to hold his hand when we are sitting on the sofa doing nothing but looking at tv and enjoy it because we’re lucky to have each other. I’m going to enjoy spending time with my family and friends because I love them. Each and every annoying, mentally imbalanced one of them.
So right here and now I’m making a promise: I’m going to beat this.
It’s not for my husband, my children or my friends it’s simply for me.
I may fall, I may falter but I will not fail because in the words of my very wise friend Lasairiona: “I’m a fucking gladiator.”
Bring it on.
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Slimming Shenanigans: Week 1
A week after Bosco came screaming into the world I found myself, once again, standing in a room full of strangers and about to brave an instrument of torture: scales.
I rejoined the local Slimming World group and decided to start taking my ‘Fit for Thirty’ pledge seriously. Although I hadn’t put on a massive amount of weight this time around – I was two-and-a-half stone lighter compared to when I was pregnant with Bear – I wanted to get back to where I was pre-pregnancy as soon as possible.
As running is out of the equation until six weeks after the section, my only way to get there is in the kitchen. I’m in no way a domestic goddess (my old work colleagues can vouch for my miserable attempt at soup) but I do enjoy cooking with my music up full blast. I sort of just make things up as I go along.
I’ve followed the plan before and found it really accessible – and more importantly: it worked for me! I didn’t feel deprived and there are a lot of recipes and ideas online. The best place to find support though is from my friend Emma. She is is so close to target and great at keeping you focused, especially on days when you really can’t be bothered.
So, this week I did my best to stick to plan. It was going well until Sunday dinner ended up being a charred mess and I settled for a 12 syn lunch of two glasses of wine. I’m not going to lie, it was pretty tasty.
I know my main downfall is going to be my return to alcohol. Despite having a lovely repaired liver thanks to pregnancy, I’m very much looking forward to falling spectacularly off the sobriety wagon. I’m not lucky enough to actually enjoy drunk people’s company; I’m in the ‘if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em’ camp.
Yesterday was my first official weigh in back on plan and it was a shocker. I had 11lbs off. Clearly quite a lot of that is still pregnancy fluid but it was nice to hear none-the-less! I got my 1/2 stone award and I’ve already brokered a deal with Conor that I get a new Pandora charm for every stone I loose. He’s feeling pretty cheated right now.
Looking at the week ahead, I had a day off plan for an early Valentine’s Day (there was a lot of chocolate consumed) and we have a wedding on Saturday – I can feel the hangover already. It’s going to be a difficult one but it would be so good to get those 3lbs…
Any words of wisdom are welcome!
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Run, Mummy, Run!
Dear Oliver,
In an attempt to get the aul mental health back on track your Mum decided to take up a new hobby.
Hobby is a stretch. Hobby suggests that I enjoy doing it.
It’s probably best to rephrase it as: Mummy decided to take up a pastime that hurts, makes her cry and sets her lungs on fire.
In short, I decided to to run.
This all started when Sarah from work grabbed me at a weak moment and had me agree to do a 10K in Dublin 14 weeks away.
For reasons unknown I decided to go along with it.
When I told your Dad, he laughed – a reaction I haven’t let him forget.
Not cool.
I then rang your Granny Betty, she laughed.
I told your Aunty Jenny, she laughed – hard.
I was beginning to see a pattern.
By the time I told the only real athletic person I know, Aunty Ciara, I could predict the reaction.
After she finished laughing and reminding me that the only time she ever saw me run was for cookies at the canteen at break time in school, she decided to help.
Just as a side note, in my defense these cookies were out of this world.
If I could sneak into St Louis now without looking like a creepy weirdo every break time for these cookies, I would.
What was I talking about?
Right, running.
Well thankfully another honorary aunt of yours – Hannah Louise – was busy training for the London Marathon and was able to provide us with some helpful hints.
Such as: remember to breathe.
I still have trouble with this advice; for reasons unknown as soon as I start running I automatically forget how to breathe and I mimic that of a dirty old man creeping someone out down the phone with heavy breathing.
Thankfully, I have earphones in so I don’t actually hear any of this but I’m sure it’s super attractive to those around me.
Like most things for me, training didn’t go exactly smoothly.
I decided the first ‘run’ would be to the outer boundary of the village. Easy, sure we drive there in less than five minutes.
I dug out the one pair of tracksuit bottoms I own, runners that were at least seven years old and had my motivational music to hand.
I was all over this.
So, that lasted for the first thir
ty seconds before my lungs caught fire, my heart felt like it was about to break out of my chest and a blister began to form almost instantaneously.
How do people LIKE this??
I decided that I couldn’t turn back after thirty seconds so I limped on – please remember I hadn’t made it out of our estate yet.
The only saving grace was that it was early on a Saturday morning so there weren’t many people around to see my shame.
I suddenly remembered: hydration.
Those bloody Lucozade adverts must have been on about something so I thought water would be the key to sorting out the inferno in my lungs.
Not only did I forget how to breathe, I forgot how to drink and I just ended up looking like a dribbling mess.
BUT by this stage I’d reached the end of the estate.
Destiny’s Child were warbling something about being a ‘survivor’ and I just wanted to strangle the smug b*tches.
The rest of my first outing didn’t get much better.
I’m not going to lie, by the time I reached the Square there was a dry-heaving incident in front of a family.
It wasn’t my proudest moment to date.
The point is, I kept at it.
Your Dad nagged me every night I didn’t want to go out until I eventually relented and hobbled out the door, Ciara kept me motivated and was always looking up races that we could do before Dublin and Hannah Louise was always at the end of the phone sending us messages of encouragement.
My little entourage were there every step of the way.
Four weeks in, we (stupidly) decided to do a 10K race in Hilltown – just to see how far off we were.
Ciara showed up on race day, hungover and ate everything she could find in the house.
I decided to take things much more seriously and was keeping hydrated, not eating too close to the start; basically reading anything I could find on the internet.
Your Dad’s prep work involved one practice run and a halfhearted stretch at the start line.
Nervously, we took our positions and my stomach was located in my feet somewhere.
I was worried about being surrounded by seasoned athletes and how I would look compared to them.
I needed have worried.
Your Dad and I were quickly dead last and all sights and sounds of said athletes (including hungover Ciara) were well ahead.
I can’t stress how far behind we were. At the 2K mark I begged your Dad to let me stop and go home but he was having none of it.
He didn’t care if we were going to arrive four hours later, but we were crossing the finish line.
We reached several markers at the point of the stewards packing up to go home, but reach them we did.
One hour and 18 minutes later we crossed the finish line. Ciara was waiting, medal around her neck and eating her weight in Jaffa Cakes while we staggered in.
They had run out of medals by the time we got there but I was so delighted to have finished that I didn’t even care.
The next 10K, your Dad was suspiciously absent from but I had Ciara on-hand to spur me on when the self-doubt would rear it’s ugly head (usually at the 2K mark).
During this race she kept me going with: “Don’t be silly, you can do it.” However, it wasn’t until afterwards that she confessed that she was going to punch me if I kept it up.
Now, I’m blaming cheap Italian wine and holiday air that made me agree to doing a half marathon in Newry; but once I sent that text message to Ciara, I knew there was no getting out of it.
Training had to step up a gear but I was still pretty self conscious about running with people so I decided to take off by myself one Saturday afternoon to see how far I could go.
I was confident that this time would be different. No dry-heaving, I would remember exactly how to breathe, I could do this.
I set off with my motivational music and got in the zone.
I was free, no one could bother me.
I was unstoppable.
I needed to pee.
Christ, no one on this planet needed to pee more than I did right at that very moment.
I was beginning to wish I had done more pelvic floor exercises.
Then I felt it. A trickle.
Sheer panic washed over me. What the hell was I going to do?!
Don’t worry Oliver, I’m not actually telling you a story about how I peed myself in public.
Turns out I hadn’t actually tightened my water bottle properly and it was trickling down through my bumbag.
I’m not sure what’s more embarrassing. The fact that I thought I had wet myself or that I’m admitting on the internet I wear (and love) a bumbag.
Moving on…
Long story short, we did the half marathon and at the finish line we were met with friends and family who cheered us on.
I’m not too proud to admit I shed a tear as we hugged and crossed the finish line together.
It felt incredible and I braced myself for Ciara’s next suggestion which would inevitably be to tackle a full
marathon (I’m not convinced just yet).
After that, the original 10K in Dublin didn’t seem like such a daunting prospect after all.
If someone had told me in January that we would be planning a summer of running events I would have laughed in their face, took another glass of wine, had a nap, woke up and laughed some more.
But we are.
To be completely honest, we’ve been a bit lax since Dublin but we’ve events on the horizon that’s going involve me having to get up off the sofa again.
And truth be told, it’s not that bad.
Love always,
Mum
posted on by
Coming out of the fog
Dear Oliver,
You might have noticed I’ve had a break from writing your letters.
It’s not because there hasn’t been much going on.
You FINALLY have some teeth (two at the bottom, they’re very cute), we celebrated St Patrick’s Day, your Dad’s birthday, my first Mother’s Day and Easter.
You even went to the zoo.
When I say ‘went’, I mean you fell asleep through the majority of it.
Don’t worry, we took pictures.
Anyway, the reason it’s been quiet on the old letter front is because you’ve had something of an absent Mother.
I didn’t have a holiday or run off with Colin Firth; I’ve just not been very present.
There’s no point in sugarcoating these things, Oliver.
The truth is: Mummy went mad.
That sounds more dramatic than it is, lets go for ‘mentally interesting’.
For the last four months I’ve been fighting (and losing) a battle with depression.
Things finally came to a head four weeks ago, and since then I’ve been trying to claw my way back home to you.
People describe depression and being under its influence in many different ways.
A dark cloud, a black dog, a dark passenger (that’s more Dexter than depression, to be fair).
For me, it’s like a poison.
It seeps into my consciousness so slowly and in such small amounts, I don’t really notice it’s there until it’s too late.
My usual self-deprecating humour starts to get a little sharper, the criticisms a little too harsh, the ability to get out of bed in the morning a little too hard.
The poison nestles nicely into place and a darkness takes over.
I become nothing more than a vessel for this poison.
Christ, I sound like a bad gothic writer. Emily Brontë can rest easy.
Anyway, despite my rubbish attempts to carry on as normal I had become saturated with my own particular brand of poison.
Sleep was the first to go, next was my ability to concentrate, then my memory and finally my drive to even fight the poison off.
I let it wash over me and to my surprise, things became easier.
There was no need to fight it anymore, this was who I was now.
To my shame, I started to avoid you.
I would hand you over to Daddy as soon as you were given to me and pretend I had to go upstairs to get something, or I had to make dinner, or I had to alphabetize the saucepans – my excuses got weak, fast.
It’s not that I didn’t want to spend the time with you, I couldn’t.
I thought if I held you for any length of time you’d somehow soak up my misery – like a chubby sponge.
I was terrified.
It didn’t take long for your Dad to notice that I had become the incredible disappearing Mummy, but he was at a loss as to why I was acting like this.
Even when he asked outright, ‘What’s wrong?’ I still couldn’t admit what was going on in my head.
What if I finally admitted that I couldn’t look after you and a random social worker walked passed the window and heard?
It’s a stretch, I grant you, but that was probably one of the saner things that went through my head at the time.
It didn’t take long for the crash to happen.
The facade of my normal life became too much of a burden and I came to an obvious decision: you and your Dad would be better off without this miserable stranger sucking the life out of those around her.
As soon as this realisation hit, my noisy head became very quiet.
The poisonous words that were on repeat, day and night for the last four months finally made sense.
There was a very simple solution and I just needed to be brave enough to take it.
I left one Thursday morning for work, with no intention of ever arriving.
**Spoiler Alert, I’m still here**
As I came closer to my chosen final destination, I began to think about you.
How I waited for years to see those two faint lines on a pregnancy test, how I smiled at those who were pregnant around me and I had no baby in my arms, how I saw the first grainy flutter of your heartbeat on a scan.
My noisy head began to awaken as it realised I was starting to put up a fight but the memories kept coming.
I remembered the first flutters of your first movements, how your Dad’s face looked when he felt you kick for the first time, how you loved when I drank orange juice first thing in the morning, how I sang to you in the shower every day and how your Dad read to you every night so you’d recognise his voice.
A fresh wave of poison hit me and once again I was floored.
There weren’t enough memories in the world that could make me change my mind.
I had to die, in order for you to live.
Live a proper, unburdened life – it was simple.
I didn’t want to go, but this was the only way.
I’ve never considered myself a particularly strong person but what happened next was the singularly strongest thing I’ve ever done.
I picked up my phone.
I rang your Father, I confessed my plan and he did what he has done so many times in the past: he saved me.
He told me to keep thinking of you and he was on his way.
As I sat in my car waiting for him to arrive, I thought of your smile, your infectious laugh, that mischievous look when you’re up to no good, the way you snore louder than an adult, how you look so smug after you sneeze, how you refuse any finger food (unless it’s something I’m about to eat).
I thought about every minute detail of you and as I lay in pieces I knew you were so much a part of who I was now, it was impossible for me to leave.
If I couldn’t keep myself safe for me, then I could do it for you.
It’s been a very difficult few weeks since that day.
Some good days, some bad.
People keep telling me to take it slowly; one day at a time and to be honest, that’s all I can do.
The best thing is: I’m in no way alone.
I’m surrounded by the most amazing, supportive family and friends who have helped pick up the shattered parts of me; and every time I get a text message, a phone call or a visit from any one of them they help to put that little piece of me back to where it belongs.
I can’t ask for anything more.
Love always,
Mum