Sometimes it’s okay to be sad

It's okay - really...

There has been a lot in the press over the past week about Mental Health. Princes William and Harry gave their support to Heads Together - a MIND campaign, and the chosen charity of this year’s London Marathon. Much has been made of Harry’s revealing his difficulties with dealing with his mother’s death, and there is no doubt that the British ‘stiff upper lip’ did not help him at all. The fact is, sometimes it is okay to be sad. If somebody close to you dies, in whatever circumstances, of course you are going to be upset and grieve. It is our response to this grief that is crucial in how we then come out of the other side.

Always someone missing...

I’ve told you before about my sister dying at the age of ten(My Lifelong Relationship with Guilt). I wasn't born until two years later but her loss has continued to affect my family, especially my other sister, to this day.

My parents’ response to her death was to refuse to allow any other family member to go to the funeral and, other than visiting her grave every Sunday, we never talked about her. My husband asked the other day whether my older brother remembers her and I have no idea, because it was never talked about. 

Still someone missing

Nowadays the whole family would have had counselling from Nelson's Journey, or a  similar bereavement charity, but sixty years ago they didn't exist. My parents clearly found it too difficult to discuss, but sometimes as parents, you need to put your feelings to one side. That is not a criticism of them - their grief knew no bounds, and they did the best that they could. I didn’t learn from this. When my lovely Dad died, I told my six year old son that Grandad wouldn't want him to be sad and cry. I thought I was protecting him. How wrong I was. So much did he love his Grandad, and so determined was he to fulfil his wish, he didn't allow himself to cry, so his hair started to fall out. That trite, throwaway ‘don’t be sad’ comment caused him weeks of misery that he couldn't talk about. 

Oh how he loved his Grandad!

He only started to recover when a seemingly trivial incident of a small toy getting washed down the plughole provided a catalyst for the flood gates to open. He cried about that plastic spoon for about eight hours! (And I’m crying about it now - idiot!)

I’ve written before about my struggles with depression (Depression Sucks!), and it continues to impact on my life. Who knows why - I always think that it is past experiences, stress, guilt - but in reality, given that it is as real as a physical illness, it could have just randomly happened to me, in the same way as my knackered thyroid and my arthritic fingers. Certainly the way I have responded to past experiences have not always helped - internalising things and constantly revisiting them is not healthy - but I have been lucky enough to have gained support through counselling, hypnotherapy, my lovely family and, I have to say, access to appropriate medication. At the weekend I was practically catatonic, worrying my husband to death, and with no motivation to do anything - I spent Monday morning on the sofa, under a blanket, eating a tub of Haagen-Daas and watching a DVD - but I have my family to talk to and to care about me enough to leave me alone until I come to them, and that really helps.

Home comforts always help

Slowly I am emerging from the other side of this ‘episode’ but it has made me wonder about those people who can’t afford ice-cream, and don't have a comfy sofa and a family for support. Who helps them?

On Friday, on the way to a football match (another post, another time!) I was given a flyer about a march protesting about the cuts to funding for mental health support in the local area. I was talking to the woman who gave me the leaflet who is terrified that a close family member will come to real harm because the professional support network has been and is being eroded by lack of funds. For every depressive like me - able to blog about my feelings, loved and supported in a comfortable home - there are many who have been forced to move away from their families, whose conditions are catastrophic without the right medication / counselling / therapy. 

Potential catastrophe

Nearly every week there are reports of cases of tragedies related to mental health issues happening because of mistakes or shortfalls in the service provided. How can young men who are clearly mentally ill be allowed to electrocute themselves in prison(link here), or die following restraint, having been left in limbo without their medication(link here)? Neither of those events got the press coverage that Harry talking about his feelings did, but if it goes some way to raising the profile of charities like MIND, then so be it. But some people, for example those with schizophrenia or bipolar disorder,are beyond the reach of campaigns - they need fundamental, effective and professional support from the Health Service. 

I’m not a campaigner, but this is my way of raising awareness of this issue. If someone knocks on your door in the next few weeks, asking for your vote, maybe ask where they stand on funding for the mental health service. 

And remember, sometimes it’s okay to be sad…

Tradition...tradition!

My patchwork family - anything but traditional!

Although Springtime is widely regarded as a time of rebirth, it can be a difficult time for me and my siblings, as we lost both our parents at this time of year. We each remember them in a variety of ways, but one of my favourites is through the continuation of family traditions (Is it just me who instantly thinks of Fiddler on the Roof when I hear the word ‘tradition’?)

This year's Hot Cross buns - odd shape, but delicious!

Every Easter, when I was a child, I woke to the smell of Hot Cross buns being baked on Good Friday. My Dad worked in a bakery, so Mum could easily have bought them, but she chose to make them instead, getting up at the crack of dawn, so that they would be ready for breakfast - I always had special ones without dried fruit! When I married and left home, I continued this tradition - sometimes more successfully than others - and still miss ringing my mum on Good Friday morning to tell her if my buns turned out okay. The years have passed, but I still get up early to make Hot Cross Buns, and now my daughter does too. 

My daughter's Instagram version - far more stylish!

Instead of phone calls, we compare notes on Facebook and Instagram, but the tradition continues and forges a link to our family's past.

Boiled eggs, 2016...

Another Easter tradition for us has been boiled eggs for breakfast on Easter Sunday, complete with silly faces - another thing my daughter has continued. I don't know how or why this bonkers idea came about, but we always do it on Easter Sunday. 

Boiled eggs 2017...no discernible difference!

The other thing we have to do, of course, is turn the egg shell upside down when we have finished, pretend we haven't eaten our egg, then smash it with a spoon! Hilarious, right?! Probably not, but part of our family heritage.

He's been, but can you spot the cherries?

Christmas is another time redolent with customs and traditions - as many as there are families on this earth, I should think. Marrying them together when families merge can be quite tricky, but they tend to evolve and change into new traditions. One of the first Christmas presents my Dad bought for my Mum was a dress with cherries attached to it. Mum said that the seams quickly split on the dress itself, but the cherries adorned their Christmas tree every year. After Mum died, I became the keeper of the cherries, and each year I reminisce as I put them next to the fairy at the top, thinking about Christmasses past. 

Hideous Christmas Rodney!

There are other ornaments that mean a lot too - my son always insists on putting up the ‘rodneys’ which are hideous gorillas but which remind him of his childhood festive times, while I continue to hang onto pipe cleaner santas and toilet roll snowmen that the children made at school.

Family traditions are wonderful things - they provide a link to the past and a bridge to the future. When my children were small, I would put them to bed and say, “Night, night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite” to which they would reply, “Ants in your pants!” I have absolutely no idea why, and neither do they, but I really hope that, when they have children, they will all say the same thing, and think of me when they do! 

Why? Tradition, tradition!

   

Self Deprecation Came Back to Bite Me!

Not wanting to sound big headed, but logic tells me that I am a reasonable human being. I have never been in trouble with the law, I had a successful teaching career and as a helpful workmate told me, when I had been stood up in my teens, I’m not pretty but ‘I keep myself well’! Nevertheless, it is human nature to question our self worth and if you suffer with depression it is inevitable that these feelings occur on a monotonously regular basis. My default setting when I wake up feeling rubbish is to tell the people that love me that I am rubbish, so that they can tell me that I’m not…

Am I really as lardy as this?

God I look hideous - No you don’t, you’re lovely!

Ugh, I’m so fat - Don’t be daft, of course you’re not!

I’m a bad mum - No you’re not, you’re amazing!

You get the picture - I have mastered the art of self deprecation. I’m not alone in fishing for compliments. I don’t suppose anyone ever asked, ‘Does my arse look big in this?’ expecting the response, ‘Well yes my dear, it looks like the size of a small country!’ (In the words of The Divine Comedy) We all seek reassurance about our appearance, our intellectual ability, our success at work and we often do this by putting ourselves down, confidently assuming we will be contradicted. 

You're rubbish Nanny, aren't you...

But it doesn't always work. Children don’t understand or play by the rules. I jokingly said I was rubbish to my grand-daughter while we were cooking one day. It was meant to be an encouragement to her to help me, but she took it as read that I was rubbish, and I have heard it back from her ever since. And in a multitude of contexts! There are any number of things she thinks I can’t do because I’m rubbish. She even told me once that her mummy and daddy don’t like her saying that I’m rubbish, but because I said it, it was true. I can not tell you how painful it is, hearing your self deprecating put downs spoken back to you by a small person that you love more than life itself. And it’s made me really think about how the tendency to put myself down has affected me. 

We know that positive mantras have a life affirming impact, and that the power of the mind can help our self belief - ‘I can do it, I can, I know I can.’

It therefore follows that constantly believing the worst of yourself will become a self-fulfilling prophecy, ‘I think I’m rubbish, so I must be rubbish.’ 

I'm not rubbish - I'm marvellous!

But it is a difficult habit to break. My go to response to any setback is that it has happened because I’m rubbish, but, having heard it spoken back to me, I am trying to at least not say it aloud. My recent blog ‘Fit for Purpose’ talked about how I am more accepting of my physical appearance, and now I need to work on other areas of wellbeing and think more positive thoughts. It’s not easy. This morning I woke up feeling down in the dumps, but I have resisted saying this to my husband - I know from experience that it makes him feel bad too. In my heart, I know I’m not rubbish and I need to reverse years of negative thinking. I’m setting myself an easily achievable target - one positive thought about myself each day! As I said, nobody likes a big head, but I’m telling you - I’m pretty marvellous!

The Point of Grandchildren!

Happy Christmas!

In the interest of reducing the amount of ‘stuff’ they seem to have accumulated, last Christmas we gifted my stepson and his family a trip to Legoland. This, of course, included us. It is, after all, the purpose of grandchildren - providing opportunities for old people to have fun!

So after months of waiting, this weekend saw the day finally dawn. My grand-daughter was, in her Mum’s words, ‘ridiculously excited’. So much so that, when she arrived she was completely overawed and spent the first hour or so sitting in her brother’s buggy! My grand-son spent that first hour sitting on his Dad’s shoulders saying, ‘I want to go to Legoland!’, completely oblivious to the fact that he was actually there!

Slowly but surely, with gentle encouragement (we didn't pick them both up and stick them on a ride, honestly) they came out of their shells and started to take in their surroundings. And what surroundings they were. At this point I should tell you that both my stepson and his wife are real Lego geeks, and were almost as ridiculously excited as the girlie, and would happily have spent much of their time in the shops looking at all the bricks! 

Amazing models

It’s a very long time since I have been to a big theme park - probably sixteen years - and I was quite anxious about the crowds, the queues, what to expect and all the other things that I contrive to worry about. But, it was fine - better than fine. The staff were all so friendly, and seemed genuinely interested in whether we were enjoying ourselves. I never once sensed gritted teeth in their enquiries! The park itself was lovely, well maintained, with the right balance of big rides, play areas and amazing Lego models to admire. The children started to explore, look around and express wishes to go on different rides. I did have ‘I don’t like it Nanny’ from the two year old on a whizzy roller coaster, but they coped and posed for a million photos to prove that they were there and enjoying themselves! Some of the queues were just too long, but, because we were there for two days we could move onto something less popular and know we could revisit the next day. 

Thank goodness for the pink flowers!

In truth, on the first day, both children enjoyed the freedom of the play areas, being able to explore at will. It was, however, at this point that I was left alone with both of them and had to decide which one to follow when they ran off in opposite directions! How did I ever cope with taking out groups of special needs children?! I opted for the two year old, but picking out a five year old from a million similarly dressed other five year olds caused me momentary panic! She was there - I just couldn't see her! Thank goodness for her sun hat with outrageously pink flowers on it!

Random Maclaren!

We enjoyed an overnight stay in a nearby hotel, which thrilled the children nearly as much as Legoland! Randomly there was a Formula 1 racing car in the foyer, and all those long corridors to run down! They only took out three suited business people in their excitement! The only stressful points of the trip were that my stepson got lost on the way to the hotel, and my grand-daughter threw up on the way back to Legoland the following morning! Another benefit of grandchildren - it wasn't in our car!

The second day was much more relaxed and less crowded. My grand-daughter suddenly seemed to see the point of it all and was much more adventurous, happily laughing her way around the raft ride while her brother tried to soak us!

Sometimes traditional is fun!

We went in a submarine and saw sharks, we went on spinny-round helicopters and any number of roundabouts. Their grand-dad and I embarrassed ourselves by going on a surf ride - the only adults on there without an accompanying small person! But we had such fun, and who cares!

You can't have too many Lego dogs!

While we were eating lunch, my grand-daughter watched people getting soaked on the log flume from the restaurant window. When we had finished, she said she wanted to go on it. So I took her. The queue was 50 minutes - the longest we’d waited for anything - but she was adamant. I must have asked her twenty times if she was sure - yes, she really was! I have to say that she waited so patiently and as we got closer to the front, other people were getting togged up in waterproof ponchos, which we did not have…and yet she was still sure she wanted to have a turn!

As we got into out ‘log’ I wrapped my legs around her and told her to hold on tight. Initially it was lovely - a gentle ride around the back of the park, with lots of Lego pirates to admire and then we got to the bit where they hoist you up above the crowds. The more I said I’d changed my mind, the more my brave five year old giggled, and when we were released down the slope into the water at the bottom, we both shrieked and laughed and swallowed / snorted bug infested water! 

I look terrified!

I can honestly say I can’t remember the last time I laughed so long and hard! I even bought key rings with the photo of us - one each! I’m hoping that, when I’m too decrepit to do things like that any more, she will always remember the day she got soaked with Nanny!

Not sure who enjoyed it the most! (Me, definitely me!)

We did loads in the two days, but the log flume is my stand out memory. Legoland was exciting, exhausting and huge fun, but spending two whole days in the company of family was what made it really special, and I’m sure that we will relive it many times by looking at the photos and videos again and again. You don't have to go to a theme park to appreciate time with your family, but sometimes a big trip like this serves to remind us how lucky we are and maybe makes us appreciate it a little bit more!

Time with family is precious

Ageing Doesn't Mean Getting Old!

So last time I posted, I claimed, foolishly, that my body was ‘fit for purpose’. With this in mind, we embarked on a number of garden projects, which involved enthusiastic digging on my part. So, I’ve crocked my knee. I’m not sure if it’s housemaid’s knee, clergyman’s knee or just old person’s knee, but its curtailed not only my gardening but any other physical activity for the time being. I’m reduced to trying to figure out garden planning software so I know what to tell my other half to do!

Lots of digging = knackered knee!

I’m sure it will soon sort itself out if I’m sensible (not my forte!) but it’s reminded me of the problems my Mum had with her knees, and made me feel, well, old… About three years ago my son bought me a book for Mother’s Day. He fully admits that he bought it because he liked the cover, but what it turned out to be was a book about ageing. Thanks, son! I think it's supposed to be heartening and reassuring but, although I tried to read it, I couldn’t get on with it. It was sitting on my bedside table so I thought that, being officially old, I would have another go. Maybe it’s because it’s translated from French, or because its tackling a topic that I would rather ignore, but I’ve given up again — it was so depressing. It’s called ‘The Warmth of the Heart Prevents the Body from Rusting’ by Marie de Hennezel, and while I admire the sentiment, I simply found it so difficult to think about. Maybe I was reading it wrong! If you would like to give it a try, I may know of a copy you can borrow!

Available on loan!

I prefer to think about people I know or admire that are ageing well. In a previous post I wrote about my patchwork family (here). As part of that family I am lucky enough to have two amazing aunties. 

Bridesmaids to my Mum and Dad, August 5th 1939

One, Lily, is my  late Dad’s youngest sister and the other, Maisie, is my late Mum’s youngest sister. Both grew up as part of a large family,  and both have now had to mourn all their siblings. But they are incredible role models for anyone who fears or thinks that decrepitude is an inevitable part of growing old.

You're never too old for a paddle

Auntie Maisie is 86. She is a widow, who still lives in her own house, continues to drive and, get this, teaches yoga classes every week! She is as sparky and funny as she has ever been, and looks so much younger than her years. Although I don’t see her as often as I should, my sister takes her youngest grand-daughter, also called Maisie, to visit her every week. Little Maisie adores Big Maisie - they play silly games together, go to the beach, or simply enjoy each others’ company. Big Maisie has far more patience with Little Maisie than many other people! I love that she provides a continuing connection to my Mum and is so vibrant and wonderful.

Never too old too party, either!

Auntie Lily has just turned 90. Also a widow, she has endured losing both her son and her grandson to hideous illnesses, but she is amazing in her resilience. She has a sharp wit and real sense of style - I’ve never seen her without her hair ‘set’! She also lives in her own home, although she has promised her daughter she won’t climb on a chair to clean the curtain rails any more, and does admit to having a gardener - no knackered knees for her! At her recent birthday party, she was regaling us with tales of her childhood - telling us about how kind my Dad was to her when she was little, and sharing ancient family scandals! Although she doesn’t drive, she catches the bus into town each week to do her shopping - she had an argument with someone recently, because she wouldn’t give up her seat for an old lady!! Yes, she looks that good!

So rather than reading about how to accept ageing by slowing down and planning for a care home, I’ll look to my wonderful aunties - my  last connection to my parents’ generation - and living proof that ageing doesn't mean getting old!

Fit for Purpose!

For as long as I can remember I have thought of myself as fat. As an adult I have yo-yo’d between less fat and more fat, but always fat.

Last week I was looking through my Mum’s old photos and found loads of me as a teenager, at a variety of family weddings. While my first thoughts were, ‘Whatever possessed me to wear THAT!’, the other thing that struck me was I was thin. Really thin. How could this be? I have always been fat.

Cool outfit, right?

As with many other things in life, its about self-perception. I believed myself to be fat, therefore I was fat. One incident from my childhood sticks in my mind. I had been to a choir event, where we had to wear school uniform including ankle socks. As I walked back into class, a boy (who I could name and shame, but won’t) said to his mate, ‘Look at her legs - they’re like cart-horses!’ I was mortified, and didn’t wear a skirt from choice for many, many years. Who knows how many other times my peers made similar comments. These, alongside photos of the beautiful people in my teen mags, mean that I went through my teens feeling as if my body was letting me down, not good enough and this continued into adulthood.

Not fat - really not fat!

Last week I also had a pre-diabetic check. The good news was my blood test came back as normal and my blood pressure was fine, so I have obviously wrested my body back from the brink of diabetes, which is where it was last April. Despite this, I have also put on weight. Bugger. 

The thing is I love food. For me it is a joyous part of my life, one that I share with all my family. My daughter and I share recipes, ideas and photos of food all the time. My son is a brilliant cook, who makes amazing pies, cookies and brownies. My husband is also an amazing cook and we share the cooking duties pretty equally now I have retired. For me food is more than something to stop hunger, it is about nurturing, nourishing and showing that I care. I love feeding people. I also love eating…

I just love food!

Those of you that don’t know me personally are probably imagining an enormous blob with a keyboard propped on their quivering belly. I can assure you this is not the case. I’m not thin, but I have finally come to realise that I am not fat either. Yes, I have ‘muffin tops’ that I would prefer weren’t there, and I have a section of my wardrobe that I don't visit very often, but in the main I am happier with my body now than I have ever been. I’ve been slimmer but I’ve also been bigger. I have size 12, size 14 and size 16 clothes that all fit me - what’s that about?! I recently bought my first ever pair of Levis, and because they just have a random waist size I have no idea what UK size that equates to - I just know that they fit, they are comfy and so, so cool!

I just love them...

Finally, after 61 years, I have accepted my body for what it is. I will probably lose a bit of weight with the spring and summer as I consume more salads than dumplings, but that could well be balanced out with increased Pimms consumption! None of my family and friends judge me for my looks, but I have long judged myself - harshly on many occasions - as a result of throwaway comments in my past and unrealistic images of how I felt I was supposed to look. We need to be so careful how we talk to our children and teenagers. We may think we are being flippant and funny, but I know, from bitter experience, the impact comments like ‘chubby chops’ can have. Children need to know that people come in all shapes and sizes - the valuable bit is what's inside.

My chops may be chubby, but don't keep telling me!

Whatever shape it is, my body seems to be fit for purpose. It allows me to play tennis, garden and chase around after my grandchildren. I think I manage to look stylish too, and hopefully will continue to do so into my dotage!

Stylish, and fit for purpose!

My Lifelong Relationship with Guilt

I have ‘blogger’s block’. Its been over three weeks since I posted anything and I am not happy about it. I’ve been unwell - nothing major, just a virus, but its left me low and lacking in energy. This means I have reverted to daytime telly and comfort eating. Which also means that I feel lazy, fat and useless. And guilty. Guilty that I have kept my husband awake with my coughing. Guilty that I haven't done anything productive. Guilty that I have put on weight. Guilty that I have let my tennis buddies down. Guilty that I haven't blogged. Guilty that I cant even think of anything to blog about.

Comfort or guilt inducing?

I googled the definition of ‘guilt’ and Collins Dictionary gives this: Guilt is an unhappy feeling that you have because you have done something wrong or think that you have done something wrong.

There you have it - ‘think that you have done something wrong’. I constantly think that I have done something wrong, or could / should have done something better.

Born guilty!

This is not a new feeling for me. I was born guilty on 17th February 1956…because two years earlier, on 17th February 1954, my sister died. She was ten, and had leukaemia. I was born on the one day my Mum didn't want me to be born. Typical. It wasn't even my due date. 1956 being a leap year, I could've contrived to be born on 29th February. Maybe then I would've felt special rather than guilty. 

Now logically I know that babies have absolutely no control over when they arrive, but this really has blighted me for the past 61 years. My parents were amazing, and would have been horrified if they had known how I felt, but odd comments about me being born on the wrong day, and them feeling that they would never be able to have birthday parties for me resonated far more with me than the ones about me being the most wanted child ever (don’t know how that made my siblings feel - oh God, something else to feel guilty about). Thinking back, they probably over compensated. I had amazing parties and birthday presents and I was truly loved. I’m not really sure if this feeling of guilt was a conscious one, but as an adult, during a hypnotherapy session, I suddenly found myself staring at my sister’s gravestone, crying because it had my birthday etched onto it. So each year, on birthday, I also reflect on how my parents and my older brother and my sister felt on that day two years before I was born. I can not, and do not really want to imagine how they felt.

Reason to celebrate or reflect?

While this sort of explains why guilt is not alien to me, the feeling doesn't seem to serve me any purpose. The logical, intelligent and reasonable me understands that it is a wasted emotion and that I am not responsible for everything that happens, but the under confident, anxious and low mood me still feels this to be true. All my life I have felt as if I should be able to change things for the better and that not being able to is my fault.

Ridiculous I know, but that’s how I roll! It’s all part of this complex maelstrom that is ‘mental health’. I save my most miserable self for my closest friends and family (aren’t they the lucky ones!), presenting a more balanced front to people who would be mortified to be confronted with my guilt ridden presence. But then I feel guilty that I am making the people I care about the most miserable too. I’m buggered, basically!

But, for those of you who live with someone like me, someone who is able put a brave face on to the outside world, but needs to retreat to how they really feel in the safety of their own home, don’t get sucked in by us. My lovely hubby said this morning that he feels that he is failing, because he should be able to make me happy. This simply isn't true. Someone once told me that, to help someone in a hole, the worst thing you can do is jump in the hole with them. Offer support, a helping hand and eventually they’ll get out - they may even be able to climb out on their own! Patience is probably the key, in the face of the most frustrating of circumstances.

It weighs some of us down

Sorry - this has been a cathartic, stream of consciousness rant. But at least I don’t feel guilty about not blogging any more!