Keep Your Head Up, Keep Your Heart Strong

It is no secret to some people who know me that this last year has been very hard for me. This time a year ago, in the run up to Christmas, I could only feel dread at the thought of trimming up and getting into the Christmas spirit. I could only feel sadness at all the change that had come about in my life and the unknowns I had yet to face.  And worst of all, I felt insufferable guilt that came with not being able to cope. With the difficulties in holding my hands up and saying “I have made mistakes, I would like some help.”

Christmas is so joyous, you see, you forget that it’s still a very real day that can be infiltrated by your very real problems. Problems I saw reflected in every bauble and strewn along the floor with the left-over tinsel. For some people, Christmas is a time to forget and to forgive. For me it has always been a time of painful remembrance and evaluation. It always reinforced that my life had the propensity to be very different to other peoples.  What was even worse was that my confusion had gotten to a point where I knew that I needed to do something, and do it quickly, I just couldn’t see my way through the tack to evaluate exactly what. So I trooped on to January.

By this point I was plagued with anxiety. With that constant thick, churning feeling of dread. Racing heart, sweaty palms. Brain cycling so fast that it’s all you can do to focus on your mundane tasks and not freak out about things. Anyone who’s ever suffered with anxiety will relate perfectly to that crushing weight that you carry round all the time, like a sinister accessory. You’re almost convinced people can see it all over you, like a sickness. You have three moods; so low you think the world is ending, that mid-line of numb and nothingness and then, worst of all (for me), the mania. The days you’re overcompensating so hard for your confusion and depression that you’re talking to anyone who’ll listen about pretty much everything – and always at 90mph. The days you struggle to keep your dinner down and your tea in your cup because you’re vibrating faster than a guy with who’s just hopped on a road digger and you're popping Bach’s herbal remedies like Smarties.  It’s absolutely exhausting.

I think a very real turning point for me was helping a friend prepare for her beautiful wedding and being so overwrought with emotion that I had a breakdown sat on the edge of her bath. I’m sure she thoroughly enjoyed being soggy, and the bathroom was a good a place as any.  It wasn’t the fact that I cried that was the eye-opener (Crying wasn’t a particularly novel behaviour of mine). It was the fact that after she’d listened to me caterwaul for a good half an hour, lamenting about my life like an absolute drama queen, she breathed a sigh of relief and said “Well, that’s the first time I’ve seen Amy in a while.”

I think that was what broke the seal for me in the end. That even strung out and emotional I was better, healthier, facing my emotions head on than wandering round like an android nodding and saying “yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir.” So I decided, with the help and support of anyone I’d spoken to that I was going to take back control of my life. I would not let anxiety control me. I realised that there was no point waiting for some miraculous sign that was going to point me in the right direction. I had to sit down and listen to the little voice in my head almost smothered by my inherent ranting and take a breath. Start again.

So slowly – ever so slowly - I started to go about cleaning up my life. I was cruel to be kind to myself, and I had to uproot myself from situations I had run to as a false comfort. It was not plain sailing in any way shape or form. It was difficult to trust myself and my new found self-confidence. But my one powering thought was that I deserved to be happy.  At my lowest point, I felt incapable of love, undeserving of it almost. I was afraid of hurting others and afraid of hurting myself, because it was love that I had been wounded by and used to wound deeply. I learned, as I pieced myself back together, that in fact, it was quite the opposite. That for me, even if my life was falling apart around me, what I had always had was love. Numerous loves, in fact. A constant, supporting love that never wavered, only took a back seat. The love of good friends and family, who stood by and let me make my own mistakes and my decisions without judgement, only support.

So instead of focusing on the minuscule discrepancies in my life, and the unchangeable factors, I focused on my constant. And as soon as I accepted that I began to learn to love myself again, mistakes and all; forgiving myself was a major part in my road back to normality. Accepting that I could not change the past, but could look only toward the future.

As soon as I came to this conclusion, my life immediately began to look up, almost like someone was looking down on me and had set every traffic light to green. My university work fell together, I stopped worrying about what other people thought of me and focused on what I thought of myself and what I wanted other people to think of me. I could talk about my mother and my memories of her with a smile, instead of being racked by grief. I graduated with a first from my degree. I got into medicine at my first choice university. I moved away to embark on the career of my dreams. But most of all, I held steadfast to the thing that grounded me: love and support. I had  peace of mind, and better still, I was able to be calm and strong for other people again. Like the old me.  For the first time in an age the other night, I was laying in bed with my boyfriend and we joked about outer space and how if a meteor hit us right now there wasn’t a lot we could do. And I could cringe with the soppiness of it, and the cheese factor (This is a cheddar +5) but I honestly could have cried right there in the bed,  in my horrendously disorganised room (No-one said I had to spring clean that as well as my brain), because I was HAPPY. It was flashing in my brain like a neon sign with red fluffy edges and bows like a little trollop.  If I got hit by a freakish outer space rock of alarming proportions, I would have been the happiest little meteor squished human.

There are many tests for us all in this life, I believe that. But the greatest test is our loyalty to ourselves and the courage to say “I deserve happiness”.  No-one is going to hand it to you on a plate, but it is there for the taking, ripe for the picking with the right attitude. I will never forget the kindness and support I have been shown and I am grateful for the challenges I have come across that seek to make me a stronger person. A person better equipped to help others through. For those of you going through a difficult time, or battling with anxiety, please hang in there. Be the boss of your brain, and not the other way around :) You go Glen Coco! Kick life's ass. 

Musician Love

So recently, I moved to Swansea to start my career as a medical professional (God help you all). My blogs are usually quite serious and centred around me having the emotional equivalent of a bitch fit. The idea for this – more light hearted one – popped into my head this morning mid debate with the boyf. I’ve had an inkling for years that he’s a strange ol’ egg  (Let's face it, he's got to be mental to be going out with me), but he continuously confirms for me that his brain is wired so very differently to us normal folk. Specifically people like me; the academics. So here’s a heads up on what to expect if you ever find yourself going out with a musician.

1)      You will be ignored for their instrument of choice at some point.

We have all been there. When they walk through the door with that bright eyed, expectant look and you think DAYMN it is on, and then he walks towards you and…oh. Nope. That look was actually reserved for their Fender. Bugger.

2)      When he is in ‘the zone’ you’d best find yourself an interesting hobby

Never in my whole life have I ever given myself a better pedicure.

3)      If they’re a good musician, they will probably mock you incessantly for one of your music loves.

My other half is a punk at heart. I am a massive R&B/hip hop fan. It doesn’t matter how he tries to hide it, when he sees me singing along to Usher I know a bit of love for me dies. That’s okay though. Please notice how this ‘music snobbery’ mysteriously disagrees when the subject of interest is Katy Perry in a PVC suit. There’s an allegory there somewhere about a cat and a hot tin roof, and yet, despite this…it’s okay, because she’s ‘putting on a show’.  Riiight.

4)      They will make offhand comments about their musical talent because they don’t appreciate how much of a skill they actually have.

“Hey babe how did you learn to play a guitar?”

*Barely looks up from playstation*

“Bought a Nirvana album, bought a guitar.”

OH RIGHT SAME TBH.

5)      They are very passionate, opinionated people.

You will lose every intellectual argument. Even when you’re really clever yourself. And they have this, this way of making you think everything they say is a good idea. Which leads me to points 6) and 7)

6)      They are like, REALLY clever.

This may be a personal opinion of mine, but I personally think creativity is one of the highest forms of intelligence. Particularly with music. That someone can pull ideas out of their head and formulate them into an all singing, all dancing number is a bit brain boggling to me. They just know where it all fits and that’s the end of that. Seriously cool.

7)      They know exactly what they think and why they think it.

Think it comes from being very self aware. They aren’t ever afraid to stand up for their beliefs because usually, it’s not just words and opinions they’ve garnered from someone else. Just like their music, when they invest in something, they really invest in it wholeheartedly (See 10)

8)      You will have to deal with women/men acting very weirdly around them and occasionally trying to molest them.                

Yes, hello. I see you eye-raping him. He is very nice, I agree. That’s why you are not allowed. DESIST. This is particularly exacerbated if they also sing in addition to playing their musical instrument. In particular, their talent is a good opening point to conversations for all manner of sexual predators. My particular favourite is your 40 year old who thinks it is appropriate to giggle “Ooh, you could be my son!” whilst subtly dribbling over her Strongbow can.

9)      You will get embarrassingly proud.

There will be many times where you look up at them doing their thing and you just get this little niggle in your chest because they absolutely LOVE what they’re doing. And then that niggle turns into a bit of a chest puff and then you’re a bit close to crying because it’s all a bit much and NO THAT IS JUST SOMETHING IN MY EYE GOD I HATE IT WHEN THAT HAPPENS. You will also get a tad enthusiastic. You won’t like every piece of music they ever produce, that’s impossible. But you will find yourself unintentionally plugging them to, well. Everyone.  You’ll also really really get to like the “Oh, my other half’s a musician” card in a world full of nurse, teacher and business manager hubbies.  That card is pretty swaheeet.

And finally, the most important one.

10)   Musician love is good love.

The thing is, these bloody musicians, they’re really REALLY good at making you feel like you’re super important. And the best part is, they really think it. If they do love you it is an absolutely incredible and beautiful thing. Sometimes, it will be really difficult. Especially coming to terms with the fact that their work schedule is untraditional, that they could have to do the thing they love a hundred miles away from you for weeks or more. That aside, they are incredibly loyal, loving and beautiful creatures with very sensitive hearts. So if you got one, love them good, squeeze ‘em tight. And get some earplugs for the 2am sing-a-longs.

Where There is Light, There Must Always Be Shade

This last year has not been easy for me emotionally or mentally.  This is not a ‘silver-lining’ kind of blog. I admit that some situations for some people are genuinely too horrific to ever find justification in. Instead, it is a blog about the greatest balancing act of all.

I have always been a very optimistic person, even from a young age. I was always quick to see the good in people, or to seek explanation for bad behaviour in past occurrences and life experiences. Up to this point in life I had always been in a particularly positive place where it was very easy to brush aside those who appeared to destroy my happy go lucky attitude. I had never been bullied or made to feel littler than someone, because I was always in such a good place that I was able to avoid feelings of belittlement.  

Unfortunately, I became vulnerable. I allowed myself to enter a very, very sad mind state and I kept myself there with all my sad songs and my poor judgement and my bad decisions. Not deliberately, you understand, but an accidental sadness. You see, when you are in a position like I was in, sad is familiar. It is easier to keep yourself there than to entertain other emotions that you don’t understand, nor are you ready to process.  I was suddenly very, very influenced by what people thought of me. I could no longer validate myself, or support my own statements. Because I was such a shadow of myself that I didn’t even believe in me.  During this time period, I made some decisions that ended up hurting people I never set out to hurt at all. I also attracted some unsavoury attention which highlighted just how dangerous the wrong information and assumptions can be. This was particularly distressing for me, simply because I have never been a talked about commodity and I have never much cared for people’s thoughts on me. This awareness was new. I allowed these assumptions to shape my emotions, my feelings and - worst of all - my anxiety, because of this stage in my life that I was in. I sat down for hours, trying to work out why I was stuck here in this rut where I allowed people to keep me in the dark.  

It took me a very long time to come to the end of my proverbial tunnel. Whilst the negative influence did drive me back into the darkness momentarily, I realised I had to make a decision. It came to me very suddenly;  I could let life get the better of me, or I could get better at life. So I chose light. My light. I realised that my light in particular was surrounded by a whole lot of shade, and that I would have to fight to get to it.  Most of all, I realised to illuminate the darkness I had to burn brighter, not cower further into the corner.

When I did, I realised that my light had never really gone away at all. It had just been masked by a gigantic, multi-factorial rain cloud. And it was really as simple as making a decision and sticking with it. A friend of mine offered me some very basic, sound advice in a light hearted chat. “Protect your assets”, she said. “People should learn to protect their assets”.  I have already told her that I don’t think she’ll ever know exactly what chain of events this activated, but I adopted it as my motto; my mantra, even. I realised that my greatest asset was my piece of mind, and my well being.  Life does not exist as a series of positive events. Rather, it is a yin and yang existence that we require for balance. 

We all exist as individuals, but we make conscious choices to cast our shadows on others, or to shed light to help them find the way.  Along the way, learn that in order to forgive we must see both sides of the coin. For that, I am grateful for my own shadows. They have taught me to appreciate that the darkest of night gives rise to the day.

Accept your own darkness and your own light. Accept that you must find your own balance and your own understanding before you make choices that will influence other people, but know also that other people will seek to keep you in their shadow.  Never forget, but do not wallow.

For you see, without the lows, how would we ever know when we hit the highs?

My Other Mothers

Mothers day 2014 is approaching. My first ever mothers day without my mam. A lot of people may think I would be incredibly sad around this time, and in some ways I am. But it is a different kind of sadness to what I have been through in the last year. It is not a crippling, disabling sadness but an appreciative sadness.  This blog post is less about remembering my own mother, and more about other people’s mams. The mams that have helped me through.

I can say with resounding faith that this mothers day will undoubtedly be better than last year. Mothers day 2013 was when it all really sunk in for me, and I think for my mam too. Mothers day 2013 was the first time I saw my mother sedated. That in itself was terrifying. I spent the day alternating between pleadingly circling the bed, throwing up in the toilet and crying my eyes out begging her “Please not on mother’s day mam, please don’t go today”. It was a selfish association of course, and I can almost laugh now that looking back I was so fraught that my biggest concern was that if she died on mothers day, it would be ruined forever.  Whilst that was understandably a devastating time for me, it was also a complete eye-opener. Because I began to take notice of the tribe of wonderful women that I like to call my ‘other mothers’.

These same women who stood around my mother’s bedside, and indeed, around me, formed a strange sort of shield during my most difficult times. They held me up when I could no longer hold myself, and they stepped in when I was just too tired to be positive for my own mam anymore. Together, we mothered each other, and I learned so much more about my mam in her final months from precious stories and memories of her. Memories I would never have. First came the ‘officials’. Sisters of my mother who were always there for every visit, who lumped my washing back and forth their houses, ironed bedding upon bedding, and did the simple things like forcibly restraining me to shove sandwiches or some form of sustenance into my mouth.  They held strong even though it was their baby sister, a sister they’d nursed in her earlier life and ironically had to learn to care for again. Now, after her death, “the professional” or, Auntie Kath continues to be one of my main supporters.  In my mother’s absence, she has become my confidant. If I have a decision to be made, I can always go to her. I know she will listen to me with respect and give me the best guidance she can with no judgement. I am never afraid to be myself or to tell her my feelings, because she has never shown anything other than 100% faith in me. We limp along, she and I, and we lift each other on the days we’re not quite ourselves.

Then there’s “the crazy”.  Not meant in any way offensively, but anyone who knows my Auntie Chris knows I speak the truth. Auntie Kath is a bit more reserved than her, and if there’s one thing my mother wasn’t, it’s reserved (Ha!). And so, on the days when I need a crazy flavour, that wonderfully wild streak that my mother had, I go to Auntie Chris, and her daughter,  Joanna. I may not see them as much, but I do not need to live in their pockets to know that I always have a welcome and a best friend in both of them.  Wherever my officials are, I have a home, and I don’t feel quite so much like an orphan anymore.

 And then of course, there were the “unofficials”, who may as well have moved in with me. My mother’s closest and most treasured friends; Anne, Debbie and Wendy, Auntie Jan and Auntie Adele.  These women showed me the strength of female friendship. When I consider now, what I would do if I were to see one of my closest and most treasured friends terminally ill, I don’t know how any of them ever came to my house or the hospital with a smile. But they always did. They showed me that my mother must have been a great friend in her time, because their dedication to her care was boundless. They always brought the sunshine into her little hospital rooms, and the sweets and the magazines (Integral to visits, of course). They had no obligation to my mother, or to her family, but they came anyway.  It would have been very easy for them to say “thanks very much, but I would rather keep the memories of your mam as I knew her when she was fit and well”.  My mother often spoke so fondly about her best friends, and even when she was very low she still had room to worry about them. “Something’s wrong with our Debbie”, she’d say, and do the ominous peer over her glasses which told everyone Anny-O was on the case, and don’t you forget it! And I see now that it was just one giant circle, and that when I was born, and my sister too, I was introduced into that circle. They loved me and supported me because I was a part of her.  So thank you ladies, for bringing the light.

Then of course, there are the people who I never expected to be my other mothers. Those who were not friends of my mothers from birth, but who came to know me and came to love me and think of me as their own.  There are two distinct women in this category for me, and both women have helped me in ways that they will never realise. Lynette, thank you for being everything a mammy should be.  Thank you for always checking that I was okay, for holding my hand and for always having that inner radar good mammies have for when I wasn’t exactly telling the truth about how I felt. You opened your home and your family to me, and you gave me stability in a time when I didn’t feel all that put together at all.

Secondly, Viv. I don’t know if you ever knew how much of a support you were to me, through my mother’s illness or through her death. I cannot count on one hand the times we sat in your kitchen, you supplied me with a glass of wine and let me rant about god knows what, just to get it all out.  You were there through it all, and your lovely house was my escape. It was always a haven of calm and comfort in my otherwise bonkers life.  I think my mam was even a bit jealous of you in the beginning, but in the end she was as endeared to you as I was, and she often said how grateful she was that she knew when I was out of my house and in someone else’s, I had a mammy number 2 who would make sure I was on the straight and narrow – without any messing! Sometimes I think we are a lot alike, you and I, and you have been a massive inspiration to me and an even bigger comfort. You are a brilliant example of how sometimes, life does not deal you the best cards, but that with the right attitude and the right support, you can come through something that really is very ugly. You gave me my ‘go get ‘em’ attitude. You never pressurised me to talk about my feelings but I always knew and still know now that you would be there in a shot if I had a problem. You showed me what it was to be a truly good person.

Last but not least, the person I never thought would have to be a mother to me: my lovely papa. Dad, when I think of how far you’ve come in the last year I could cry my eyes out. If anyone has had the most change thrust upon them, it has been you. When you married my mam, you married for life. You never expected to be on your own again mid 50s, and a single parent.  We’ve become so close you and I, and things that I once would never have dreamed about telling you about, now become so easy to talk about. We’re a team hen we get along. In the game of “parent a 15 year old”, we’ve become a bit of a duo. I hope when you look at me you’re really proud, because that’s all you ever make me want to do is show you how well you did and what a brilliant parent you are. Thank you for always being honest with me, even when it hurt, but for never really saying I told you so.  For just being there and knowing that I’m still not too old for a hug off my daddy.  Yes, I do still sit on your lap and I will continue to do so until my arse is too fat or your knees give way. Whichever comes first, really.  We’re only going to get closer Dad, and I can’t wait for you to get even grouchier as the years go on so I can antagonise you a bit more and we can laugh after we’ve had our 5 minute screaming argument and realised how similar we are.

And one more. Ellie. Ellie?! How can my little sister be a mother to me. Well, kiddo, I think it’s safe to say we mother each other, don’t we? Thank you mostly for being a precocious little bugger, because I don’t think anyone makes me laugh as much as you (Or cry with frustration, actually).  You make me laugh the most when you come home from school to find me sniffling in your bed, or when I creep into your room and you just roll your eyes and lift up the quilt in a way that says “get in loser”.  You’re my bestest friend in the whole wide world, you are. And I’m so proud of you every day.  Even when you leave my washing in the machine so it smells damp, and when you leave your glasses on the side and not in the…sorry. Got carried away.

Whoever you are and however you’ve mothered me. Thank you for showing me what it is to be a wonderful woman, friend, or parent.

You’re all wonderful creatures J