12 years, 1 month and 5 days

I am recovering from my daughter's 12th birthday Pamper Party last night. I gave 6 facials, 6 mini pedis/manis, 6 shoulder/head massages.  They devoured 7 pizzas, countless fruit kebabs & fresh juice mocktails. They ate all the banana & maple syrup cupcakes (more about those later).

Every single one of those girls said please and thank you. They were helpful and gracious. They showered her with the most thoughtful gifts including a home made friendship token booklet which included "coupons" to redeem for "hugs" and "a shoulder to cry on". I honestly could not have been more touched by the incredible friendship these girls showed to my daughter.

 

It has always been difficult for my daughter at her birthday.  First off, her birthday is Christmas Eve.  No one wants to come to a birthday party on Christmas Eve.  I have tried.  Then her brother became a chorister and even her family party had to be squeezed in between his singing responsibilities.  We tried to fit her party in between everything else that was going on but we were never that successful.  She hasn't really complained about it all that much.

We don't have much money.  If I could find 2 pennies to rub together, I'd be rich.  So the prospect of trying to fund a birthday party seemed just out of our reach.  But one morning at about 3 am (because that's when I get my best ideas) I had a brainwave to throw a small pamper party at our home with a few of Abigail's friends.  After all, I'm a Neal's Yard Remedies consultant.  I've got all the gear.  I've been trained on how to give a wonderfully effective facial.  I know how to paint nails.  I've got one of those Indian head massage thingymajigs.  I've even got one of those spa foot baths that takes up space in the spare bedroom. And I've got buckets and buckets of wonderfully natural and organic Neal's Yard Remedies products to use.  I could even possibly, maybe teach the girls a few tidbits about how important what we put in and on our bodies is.

Initially, I limited it to four girls.  Then it became 5.  A few days before the party it became 6, 7 if you include Abigail.  I had enlisted the help of a couple older girls we know who had volunteered to help.  I could do this.

That was a big commitment from me.  Struggling with my depression and anxiety there are few times when I feel strong enough to take a stand and say I can do something, especially something as big as a birthday party, which requires meticulous planning, a task I used to be able to do in spades but these days find all a bit overwhelming.  I made a list.  Then I made another list.  I tried to combine the lists.  I wrote up a carefully crafted time line of what I would need to do when.  I made more lists.

Still I experienced some hiccups along the way.  The girls who were going to help couldn't in the end.  They had some school commitments.  OK, no big deal.  I adjusted the plan.  I would just have to work more quickly and do things at the same time and maybe not do everything I had hoped.

 

I made the banana and maple syrup muffins and realised when I took them out of the oven that I used plain flour rather than self raising flour.  Oops.  Not a lot I could do about it so I just went with it.  Then I cooked the second batch a bit too long.  Like 10 minutes too long.  I made extra frosting and topped up their flatness and covered up their darkness with tons of icing sugar and butter and hoped the awesome flavour would compensate for their density and hardness.  

I got all the beauty equipment laid out in the lounge with stations for each treatment.  That's when I realised there wasn't adequate seating for 7 girls.  There was for 5, 6 at a push, but not for 7.  OK, well, they were going to have to figure that out.

 

Then my grocery delivery was late.  Not really late but just enough to cause me about 15 minutes of accelerated heart rate, shallow breathing, and curling up in a small ball.    

One of the girls came home with Abigail directly after school.  Thank goodness.  I put the girls to work on cutting up the fruit and putting it on to skewers for the fruits kebabs. 

Before I knew it, everyone was arriving.  Parties are fun.  First it was all quiet.  Next thing I knew I had 7 12 year old girls giggling away in the next room.  

They got their juice and kebabs.  One by one they got their facials, massages, manis, and pedis.  I don't think I got everyone's nails painted.  A couple of the massages were very short.  Everyone got an exquisite facial though.  One girl displayed an incredible talent for doing everyone's hair in a complex style.  We had fishtail plaits, we had inside out plaits, we had around the head and down the side plaits.  We had countless photos of the girls with cucumber slices on their eyes and they relaxed with their face masks on.  We had meditative music.  We had an exhaustive debate on the merits of music by Justin Beiber.  We sang with Taylor Swift at the top of our lungs.  I had a shockingly well informed discussion with one of the girls telling me all about why palm oil is so bad.  Inside I was rejoicing.

 

But I was running out of time.  In a state of panic, I had requisitioned the help of my husband to do some nail painting.  The girl looked horrified but Abigail assured her that her father was in fact must better at painting nails than her mother.  This is a true statement.  

 

The end came all too quickly.  I don't think I've ever said that about a child's birthday party before.  One girl wrapped her arms around my waist and gave me a proper hug when it was her turn to leave.  I almost burst into tears.

Abigail told me as we were tidying up that it was the best party ever.  Not just the best birthday party or her best party, but the best party she had ever seen in her life.  She went through all of the gifts she was given and marvelled at how thoughtful and how much effort must have went into the carefully chosen "just for Abigail" gifts were.  She told me she was very lucky to have these girls as her friends.  She told me how lucky she was to have me as her mum.  She put herself to bed and it wasn't even 8 pm.  She was exhausted.

I collapsed on the sofa with a glass of cider in hand.  I was exhausted.  It was worth every single moment.

Parents and Pyjamas

A headmistress at a school in the UK sent home a letter to parents telling them to stop wearing their pyjamas to school.  If you are in the UK, I am sure you have heard all about this.  If you are not, you can read a bit about it here.

I am outraged at the suggestion that the reason any school results are sagging is due to the fact that the parents are wearing pyjamas.  In fact, the mere suggestion that this is to blame for the schools failure points out to me that the true failure quite probably sits more with the headmistress.

How dare she judge those parents.  She doesn't know them.  She doesn't know the battles they may be waging every day.  Maybe they are struggling with depression, anxiety, or any other number of of mental illnesses.  Maybe they are suffering from the side effects of chemo therapy or MS or god knows what other physical illness.  Maybe they are struggling to make ends meet and working 2 or 3 or more jobs and only had a couple hours sleep.  Or maybe they are so worried about their ageing parents they didn't sleep a wink last night.  Or maybe they are fighting debilitating addictions and are doing the very best they can.

How dare that holier than thou woman who is supposed to be a role model for all the children in her charge stand up and rain down her judgement.

I have struggled with depression.  Still do.  I struggle with anxiety every single moment of my waking life.  I don't sleep well.  I am a big fan of slippers and pyjamas.  There are many mornings where I forget to put on shoes when I leave the house.  Or decide it doesn't really matter what shoes I wear.  There are many a morning where I wear my pyjamas on the school run.  Go on judge me, if you want.

But let me tell you this:  I live for my children.  I would die for them.  One of the reasons I am in the state that I am is that I refused to give up fighting to give them the life I always dreamt of giving them until it almost killed me.  Literally.

In my pyjamas and my slippers I am doing a whole hell of a lot better teaching my children than this headmistress is at teaching her children.  What am I teaching them? 

I am teaching them that it doesn't matter what a person wears or looks like.  You don't judge a book by their cover.  It is what is inside their heart and their head that matters. 

I am teaching them that you don't judge at all.  Ever.  You have no right to judge anyone.  Ever.

Work hard.  Learn lots.  Be grateful.  Be kind.  Be honest.

What should this headmistress be teaching?

Reading.  Writing.  Arithmetic.  History.  Science.  Geography.

Instead she is blaming the parents for not getting dressed to her satisfaction.  She is teaching them that there is always someone's shortcoming to blame for your failures.

I think this headmistress needs to learn a few lessons herself.  In the meantime I may never get dressed again.

What Am I Doing?

I don't mean this question to be existential although I could write a whole different post on that topic.  The answer to this question is in response to several the question I get asked all the time by friends, acquaintances, job applications, and online forms.  I don't fit neatly into a box.  For years I did and it drove me crazy.  Literally.

And the answer is complicated.  So let me clear it up.

Before I begin, I must add a disclaimer.  All of this is subject to change.  At any moment.  That's the other thing I learned when I was more crazy than I am now.  Nothing is permanent.  If something isn't working for me, I have the power to change it.  I can quit doing something I'm currently doing without the fear of being judged or not living up to someone's expectations, mostly my own.  I am the only judge of how my life is working and the choices I am making.  

Life Modelling 

Yep, still doing that.  Yep, still loving it.  This year my career as a life model ramped up a notch when I contacted local independent and state schools in the area around me with Sixth Formers.  For non-UK readers, that's people who are getting ready to leave mandated schooling at age 18ish.  The art schools had changed their portfolio requirements for applicants and included life drawing as a required element.  Before now, most schools had avoided having life drawing in the school because of the, well, "naked person in school" thing.  I know some parents (although I must confess it is not many) who are horrified at the thought of their precious young girl (and yes, it is only the parents of girls) seeing a naked person.  Seriously.  

Thankfully, most of the schools I contacted recognised that it was time to make a change and I have been working with more than 10 schools since September.  It is a very rewarding experience.  Some of the schools are single gender and some are mixed gender.  I tend to model fortnightly (every two weeks) for a couple hours after school.  The students tend to be very nervous the first time but I do my very best to assure them they shouldn't be nervous.  They aren't the ones having to stand naked in front of anyone.  This makes them laugh.  Within a nanosecond of me dropping my dressing gown, they come to the same realisation that all individuals who have done life drawing do and that is that a life model is merely a bowl of fruit.  A most beautiful bowl of fruit but a bowl of fruit nonetheless.  The human body is made up of lines and shapes and forms and curves (in my case, lots of curves).

The most rewarding part of my job is witnessing artists emerge from the quivering fear of these students.  They experiment with colour and line and tone.  They take risks with paint and pastels and pen.  They stop being so critical of and precious with their work.  They grow in confidence.  It is truly a magical experience.

Many of them have applied to art schools around the UK.  I am in countless portfolios and there is a part of me wondering if the people who review these portfolios have noticed that my form appears in so many of them.  I do after all have a very distinct figure.  I've had people in art classes tell me they've seen a painting of me at a gallery or a show despite the fact that my name is rarely mentioned.

I am hopeful that my encounter with these individuals does a little bit in helping them get into and be succesful at art school.  That's their dream and it makes me so happy that I'm doing a tiny bit to help that dream come true.

To see some of the work that has been done of me check out my artistic services Facebook page, Larger Than Life Modelling .  If you'd like to book me, you can contact me through that page.

Art Break

In January I started up my very own life drawing class.  I was involved in a life drawing class held in Sunninghill for a bit and I model occassional for a class at The Firestation Arts Centre in Windsor.  But the Sunninghill class folded after the tutor could no longer continue and the class in Windsor is held at the very awkward time of Sunday evenings 5:30-7:30.  Not many people want to venture out on a Sunday at tea time so class attendance tends to be low.

I have read numerous articles about how life drawing has been shown to be uber effective at combating the effects of dementia, as well as a very useful tool for combating stress, depression, anxiety and encouraging mindfulness.  So I wanted the class to be as accessbile as possible to as many people as possible, regardless of age or ability.

Sure enough, the people coming to the class go up to age 80+.  They've told me they have the best night's sleep after doing life drawing for just 2 hours.  Some of them have never drawn before.  Others drew when they were young but life got in the way.

It is currently held at various venues around Old Windsor, where I live.  Each week I have a different art tutor drawn from my experiences as a life model.  Some weeks are untutored.  Each week  also has a different model, male, female, young, old, big, small, every colour of the rainbow.  Occassionally, I even model.  The classes are held most Wednesday evenings, 7:30-9:30 pm.  You can get more information about who the tutor and/or model is, as well as location details on the Facebook page Art Break.  If you'd like to tutor, model, and/or attend, please get in contact via the Facebook page.  There's no need to book.  Just come along and enjoy the great soundtrack!

In May I plan on holding a life modelling class for individuals who would like to become a life model or existing life models who would like to enhance their current skills. 

In June I hope to host a half day workshop for a large number of artists to have access to a large number of models all at once.

Stay tuned to the Facebook page for all the details.

Neal's Yard Remedies Consultant

In July I became an independent seller of Neal's Yard Remedies products.  Initially I did this because I am wholly committed to doing my bit to do no more harm to the planet and make responsible choices about what I put in and on my body and the bodies of my family.  

My children have hit puberty and with that has come the acne.  I didn't want to be handing them skincare products full of microbeads and toxic chemicals.  I started educating myself about the effects my shampoo and conditioner was having on the water supply.  I learned about the dangers associated with cooking with certain oils.  I became obssessed with the destruction of the nutrients in our soil and ultimately in our food through the destruction of our ecosystems through the use of pesticides and insecticides.  My heart is breaking over the plight of the bees.  I have gained an intense appreciation in the value of using natural and organic plant based products to provide a healthier and more sustainable lifestyle for my family and my world.

Then I decided to tell everyone I knew about it.  Relentlessly.  I hope those of you who have bought the Neal's Yard Rememdies products from me have realised the benefits.  Once you try our products you never leave.  You can currently get 20% off all natural health remedies.  Visit my website to purchase.

If you haven't yet had a chance to talk to me about what you can do to make your lifestyle healthier, more sustainable and natural, please do get in touch by leaving a comment here or sending me a message on Facebook.  I would be honoured to host a Wellness Seminar for you and any number of your friends.  There is absolutely no pressure to buy.  I am merely there to inform.  And there are exclusive free gifts available if you do host a seminar.

If you think you might be interested in joining my little revolution, there is currently an amazing deal on becoming a consultant.  There is no pressure to sell.  At all.  Ever.  There is lots of motivation to spread the word about how what we eat, drink, and put on our face/bodies and the planet can change to encourage health and wellbeing.  Get in touch with me here or my Facebook page.

Wild Side Social Media

And I have the little sideline (ahem) of running a small social media consulting company.  The company helps small businesses harness the power of social media to grow their business.  If you are the owner of a small business and find the world of websites, blogs, Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Pinterest, Instagram, et al baffling, do get in touch.  I can make it easy.  Well, easier.

So tell me, should I be checking the full time, part time, or unemployed box?

Unexpected Outpouring of Generosity for Nepal

It all started with a simple idea.  Instead of a whole bunch of people driving to Aldershot, I would combine efforts and collect a few things from local people who had things to donate and drive it all to the Army base for Ghurkas.  It would save time and petrol.  And it meant I could finally do a little something for the people of Nepal who had lost everything in the horrible earthquake that hit last week.  It was only a small gesture.

After arranging to use our local village hall in Old Windsor as a drop off point and enlisting the help of a fellow resident, we discovered that the containers going to Nepal from Aldershot were already full.  I had committed to people that their donations would go to Nepal so I needed to make sure that happened.  But how?

In a Twitter storm, I initially received a vague commitment from the British Red Cross that they would take our donations.  It later transpired that what they meant was they would take our donations and sell them in their shops for cash.  I was unhappy with that arrangement as many of our items would be unsuitable for resale in the UK as they had been specifically chosen with the survivors of the disaster in mind. 

Having filled my car with the donations from that day and due to demand, we secured the hall for a further drop off slot for the following evening. I spent the night looking for an organisation that would sort and ship the goods for us.  Purely by chance, Twitter came to my rescue.

I spotted a tweet by the Leader of the Royal Borough of Greenwich, Councillor Denis Hyland, 

@CllrDHyland.  The tweet was a photograph of a flyer attached to a lamp post indicating that goods donations being taken at Eltham Leisure Centre and Woolwich Town Hall would be shipped to Nepal supporting the local Nepalese community.  Greenwich apparently has the largest Nepalese community in Great Britain.  The next morning I set off to Eltham.

The Leisure Centre was shocked by the quantity of goods we donated.  I indicated that I would be returning the next day with the same again.  I returned to Old Windsor just in time to open the doors of our village hall for the next donations.

What happened next was beyond my wildest dreams.  The room started to fill up.  Within the first 15 minutes, we had surpassed the volume of goods donated the day before.  The parking lot was full.  People were arriving with cars filled with bags.  People brought tents.  We received over 15 tents.  We received sleeping bags, some used, some brand new with the tags still on them.  We received baby nappies and food and wipes and clothes.  We received shoes and boots and slippers.  We received blankets, probably 100s of blankets.  We received coats, hats, scarves, gloves, mittens.

As we neared the end of the three hour collection window, it became abundantly clear that I wouldn't fit it all in my car since it was already full.  We had run out of room in the hall.  We had filled my car and people were leaving bags just outside the door.

Once again the power of social media swung into action.  With more than a little from from my friends, we secured a small truck courtesy of Frontline Logistics, to meet me and a few others at the hall at 8 am on Friday morning.  We loaded the truck FULL and headed off towards Eltham.

Mid journey I received a tweet from a member of the Nepalese community asking if we would deliver to Woolwich Town Hall as the sorting and packing centre was located there.  We modified our destination and continued round the M25.  

Arriving at just after 10 am, we were greeted at the door by a member of the borough.  With the help of the countless volunteers, we set to unloading the truck.  I was shown to the sorting room where a large number of Ghurka widows were sorting items and boxing it up.  It was an incredible operation.  Every box had to be labelled with contents itemised and weighed.  The room was full of goods and volunteers.  What initially looked like chaos was, upon careful inspection, a fine oiled machine.

I hand delivered a bag of baby shoes that one woman had handed to me saying that they were her children's baby shoes and had been kept carefully preserved in her loft all these years.  She was donating them because the children of Nepal needed those shoes more than she needed those memories.

I also hand delivered a lovely 100% wool blanket that must have cost a fortune.  It was given to me by a woman who told me it was her mother's who had passed away.  She could still smell the scent of her mother on the blanket.  Again, she felt the people of Nepal needed that blanket more than she did.

I wept at every story.  

I was introduced to the leaders of the Nepal community and they were touched by these stories. They were overcome with gratitude at the volume of goods we had come so far to deliver.

I was lucky to meet these leaders.  Notably, I met Sonia and Fatta Thappa, who run Skills and Care, a dynamic, community-led, Nepalese social enterprise organisation.  Fatta was the individual I was exchanging tweets with.  I also met Sushila Karki of Nepalese Nurses, who have already sent doctors, nurses, and goods to Nepal and were planning to send more over the next few days.

I was satisfied that our community's donations would make it to the survivors of the earthquake.  On Saturday, 2 May, 500 kg was shipped and 1600 kg will be shipped tomorrow, 5 May.  

Our job is not done.  Due to our overwhelming response, funds are needed to pay the cargo.  You can help our goods get to Nepal by donating HERE.

I would like to personally thank Sarah Wants who helped me collect goods at the hall both days, even on the day of her son's 6th birthday and helped load the truck.  Also, a big thanks to Chris at Frontline Logistics who donated the use of his truck and Fiaz who did the driving and loading/unloading at both ends.  Also, thank you to the Old Windsor Memorial Hall who donated the use of the village hall and committee room on both days.

And lastly a big thank you to all of you who responded by opening your hearts and giving.

Disgusted with Charity

The earthquake in Nepal has hit me hard.  I can't watch the television or read the newspapers without ending up in floods of tears.  I feel so utterly helpless.

These people have so little and we have so much and then the earth literally moves under their feet and what little they have is taken away from them.  They have lost their friends, families, homes, jobs, everything in just a few minutes.  They are sleeping in the open.  They are living in constant fear and they are grieving.

Charities race into action.  My television, my email, my phone is flooded for requests for donations.  They all want money.  Money. Money. Money.  I get told that it is easier and cheaper to source goods locally than to transport second hand goods.  I get told they don't have warehouses and sorting centres.  I get told it's too hard for them to take goods to disaster zones.  I'm told to donate the goods to the local charity shop who will sell them for MONEY.  I'm told that transportation costs are too high (and yet flights are still arriving in Nepal).

I find this disgusting for so many reasons.

1. Not everyone has money to give but everyone has the capacity to give something.
2. A charity which aims to help people in need are unwilling to tackle the difficulties involved.
3. When offered donated goods, charities turn their noses up.

Yesterday I collected bag after bag of badly needed supplies to help the people in Nepal in just a few hours.  People like me who didn't have money to give, or maybe had already given money as well, took it upon themselves to give their belongings.  We received things badly needed in Nepal like sleeping bags, tents, blankets, coats, shoes, hats, scarves, children's clothing, kitchen utensils, dry food.  I was so touched by people's generosity that I found myself on the verge of tears all day.

We have another collection scheduled for today.  But now I'm not sure what I am going to do with the goods.

Originally, these goods were destined for a British Army collection in Aldershot but the outpouring of generosity meant that these containers filled up very quickly and by mid morning they were full.

My car is full of these goods because as of this morning I have no where to take them.  The British Red Cross initially agreed to the transportation and distribution of the goods.  What they were really agreeing to was for me to drop these things off at one of their shops so they could resell it. 

I've spoken to DEC only to find that all they want is MONEY.

Global Hands can't help me because I'm not an official organisation.

Age UK, Oxfam, British Red Cross, and the lot only want my goods for resale in their charity shops.

I am trying to contact the Ghurka division of the British Army to see if they are interested.

NEWS BULLETIN:  No one in the UK needs a second hand wooden spoon.  Thousands in Nepal need wooden spoons to stir their meagre rice being cooked over an open flame in the outdoor in a crowded tent camp.

I have been in contact with the Nepal Youth Foundation who help thousands of children in Nepal.  They are desperate for our goods.

I was warned this might be difficult.  When we first communicated our desire to collect goods, there were a couple people who warned us not to do it.  We dismissed those naysayers because it was the right thing to do.  I still think what we are doing is the right thing to do.

But I need your help.  If anyone out there knows how we can get these items to Nepal, please contact me urgently.

Me versus the Depression

For a long time I thought the depression was going to win and here's the thing:  when you are depressed you always think the depression is going to win.  But here's the other thing:  it doesn't if you keep fighting.

When I was first diagnosed I wanted to know when I would get better, how long is the recovery period?  Like when I broke my ankle, I knew I would be in a cast for 3 weeks, then physio for 6 weeks and then I would be almost good as new.  For the most part, this was true, give or take a few weeks.

With depression, there is no defined recovery period.  I have seen people bounce back after a 3 month dose of citrolapram and never look back.  I've seen people who have fought all their lives against this insidious illness.

In the early days, my psychiatrist assured me I would get better.  I asked him how long that would take.  He said something vague like "a while".  When I pressed him for something more concrete, he was unable to provide any time frames.  At the time I thought he must not be very good at his job.  But now I can see that there really isn't any way to predict recovery.

The effectiveness of medication changes over time.  The effectiveness of therapy is wildly variable.  What happens in life is outside a clinical study and therefore cannot be factored into a recovery timetable.  In other words, you just have to ride it out and have faith that eventually you will get better.

But if you think that getting better means going back to the same person you were before you were ill, you are in for a big surprise.  You never come out of depression the same person you were going in.  Many of the behaviours and thoughts you had before were the very things making you ill.  It's like drinking poison, recovering, and expecting to stay better but going back to drinking the poison.

Everyone comes out of depression fundamentally different than when they went in.  Same as when cancer survivors come through but their lives are fundamentally changed thereafter.

Here are some of the things that have helped me recover to the point where I am today:

1. Take the prescribed medication as and when your psychiatrist prescribed it.  Don't mess with that.  If you think you might be ready to make a change, discuss these with your psychiatrist and agree a plan.  Follow that plan to the letter.  Trust me.  I once took myself off my meds because I thought they were making me worse.  That was simply put, one of the worst decisions I have ever made in my life and probably set my recovery back a year, perhaps more.
2. Get a tribe.  You will need to be surrounded with people who get you and get your disease.  You will need people who will allow you the freedom to discover a new you.  You will need people who will love you unconditionally.  You will need people who will come to you even when you tell them to go away.  This tribe will consist of some old friends and some new friends.  Family may not or may not be included.  My children get it better than my husband does.  Maybe that's because children generally get unconditional love better than adults.  I have lost a few people I thought were my friends along the way but I have more than gained in the overall friendship sweepstakes.  Ask that tribe for help when you can.  Give back to that tribe.  They are invaluable and deserve your investment.
3. Find contentment in the present moment.  Don't strive for happiness.  It is fleeting and impossible to sustain.  Instead be at peace with what is happening, good or bad, in the present, right here, right now.  When the shit hits the fan, feel free to duck and cover but be at peace with the exercise.  Know that this too will pass.
4. Invest in yourself.  Increase your self awareness.  Change your habits if you don't like them or just accept them as part of your rich tapestry as a human being.  Be as kind to yourself as you are to others.  Forgive yourself and those around you.  Embrace yourself as a totally unique individual that has limitless potential.  Sounds new agey and hippy groovy, but when you stop having expectations and judgements of yourself and others, you will start to feel contentment in the moment.  Avoid drama.  Not your monkeys, not your circus.
5. Breathe.  When all else fails, breathe.  I know this sounds stupid and I've lost count of the number of times I've rolled my eyes when someone tells me this.  But it works.  When you think you can't face another moment, stop.  Stop thinking.  Stop moving.  Just stop everything.  And breathe.  In slowly.  Out slowly.  And again.  All day if you have to. 

I am certain my journey has not ended.  The shower (& bath) proves to be an ongoing nemesis.  I find contentment when once in I'm there but getting there is a major struggle every day. So I've changed what it means to be ready to face they day.  That may or may not include, as is more often the case, a clean and fresh smelling me.  My tribe loves me regardless.  Social situations are challenging but I am taking them one at a time and engaging more often than not these days.

But the proof is in the results.

1. I am writing again!  This is the biggest achievement so far.  I abandoned my first novel as it had me in knots.  I started a whole new one that had been assembling itself in my brain for a few years and in just 10 days over 110,000 words came out of my head through my fingers and hit the keyboard.  I hit save.  I'm actively sending it out to potential agents every day and have some interest.
2. My life modelling becomes a bigger and bigger part of my life.  I model nearly every week at least once and most weeks more than 3 times.  It helps me to be still, physically literally and mentally in practise.  I use the time for positive affirmations, meditating, and breathing.  It also helps me to accept the beauty (both inside and out) of who and what I am in that moment.  I can't envision how I would have recovered without it.
3. I don't listen to others thoughts on how or what I should or should not be doing unless they are part of my tribe.  Even those in my tribe, know that whilst I may take their advice under consideration, I am free to choose what I feel is best for me.  And they love me still.

Near as I can tell I am winning, 1-0.

 

A Work of Art

Since dipping my toe in the water of life modelling back in October 2012, I think it would be fair to say that I have whole heatedly embraced it as a career.

I am now modelling several times a week most weeks.  A few weeks ago I modelled 7 days in a row and some days had 2 assignments per day.  Those days I am exhausted and by the end of that week my body ached.

You may ask yourself what is so hard about sitting still for 3 hours.  I dare you to try it and not be sore.

Some weeks I have no gigs scheduled, like last week.  That give me some time to rest and recuperate.

I have some regular groups that I model for and some people have been drawing me for years now.  Others are thrilled to the first time to discover that I am a curvy model who is proud of her bulges and scars and stretch marks.

The artists are very complimentary of my ability to sit perfectly still for long periods of time.  One once accused me of not breathing or blinking.  Rest assured.  I am breathing.  And I think I blink.  They also often ask me what I think about when I sit there.  To be honest, I'm not sure.

Most times I think of nothing.  Nothing at all.  What a glorious feeling it is not to be worrying about something or someone, or making a grocery list, or remembering a phone call I need to make or an email I need to write, or tidying the house, or unloading the dishwasher, or nagging the children to do their musical instrument practise or my husband to clean out the garage (ahem!).

Modelling is the time where I allow myself to simply be.  To be still and quiet while having your body turned into glorious pieces of artwork that is as unique and beautiful as each artist is an inspiring opportunity.  They all see me differently.  They all have different abilities and tools.  They all produce art in their own individual styles.

I'm proud of my work as a life model.  You should try it!  If you want an opportunity, just leave me a comment.

A Week in Cornwall

A week in Cornwall can work miracles, at least that is how it appears to me.

As many of you will know, I have been suffering from the debilitating effects of depression and anxiety for several years now.  I have been hospitalised on 3 different occasions.  I take no less than 13 pills every single day to keep the chemicals in my brain finely balanced.

The good news is, they appear to be working finally.

I remember when this all started asking my psychiatrist how long it would be until I was better.  He said "A long time."  I thought he meant 6 months, maybe a year on the outside.  I had no idea that it would take several years and several tweaks of the medication, several more years of psychotherapy, and even more time just trying to overcome the demons that ranted inside my head.

For now, the demons are quiet.  They aren't completely silent.  I can tell when I've missed taking my medication.  So can my friends and family.  I leave the house regularly now without the pit of dread tightening in my stomach.  I still find social situations uncomfortable which is annoying because that isn't how I see myself or how I used to be.  

But the demons have reduced their screeching to a mere whisper.  And some days, I don't hear them at all.

In mid-February, a very generous friend offered us the use of their seaside cottage down in St Ives in that gorgeous southwest corner of England known as Cornwall.  The cottage is absolutely delightful and exceeded every one of our expectations.  We took my daughter's best friend and her mother with us.  It was an eventful few days to say the least.

On the first day we were there, our one-year-old black Labrador puppy, Guinness, decided to take a flying leap (literally) off a sea wall.  I have that moment of her suspended in midair between her jumping and her falling etched into my mind's eye.  She looks like a cartoon.  She fell 30 feet to the rocks and grass below.  I ran to see her landing on her rear haunches, yelp, and try to stand.  She struggled and whimpered.

My husband managed to get down to her.  He tried to get her to walk but it was clear she was hurting and had a minor cut on her knee.  She was shaking and her heart was racing.  She was going into shock.  My husband carried her down the hill and went to get the car.  We raced to the vet.

Fortunately, after several hours at the vets on a fluid drip, antibiotics, opiates, and tranquilisers, she made a full recovery and was just sore for a couple days.  Talk about stressful!

The next night we were informed that a combination of spring tides (when the tides are at their highest) and rough seas caused by the gale winds and torrential overnight rains would mean that the sea was likely to breach the seawall at the harbour in St Ives.  Our cottage was perfectly placed just a few doors up from the seawall at the harbour which was a great location until that warning was issued.  

Every few hours we made our way the few steps down the street to evaluate the threat.  It was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure as the waves crashed over the wall and into the buildings on the seafront.   In the end, this also passed without any real danger posed to man or beast.

We spent the days walking on the beaches (there are no fewer than 5 beaches around St Ives) and walking around the town exploring galleries and art museums and used book stores and odd little shops.  We ate out.  We cooked in.  I even got breakfast in bed one morning delivered by my daughter and her friend.  What a treat!

I was surrounded by positivity and tranquillity on the trip. When I returned home I felt as if a fog had lifted.  I started writing.  At first it was just in my head.  A story had taken hold of me and was busy organising itself.  Then 2 weeks ago it felt like the harbour wall had collapsed and the sea of words was rushing to get out.

I sat at my computer every day, some days for more than 14 hours.  I managed to write over 110,000 in 10 days.  It was emotional.  One day I started crying about 5 pm and kept crying through the night until about noon the next day.  The tears lasted on and off until I was finally able to finish that chapter.

The book, All My Loves, is about a woman dying of a brain tumour.  She is in the hospital and in the final stages of dying.  She is revisited by the memories of the men she loved and those who loved her.  Some are good memories.  Some are excruciatingly painful memories.  Same are hilarious.  Woven into the story is also the love of her parents as they divorce and remarry, and the love of her grandmother towards her alcoholic husband who died with their youngest son in a drunken car crash.  It is about how love changes us, not always for the better.  It's a little bit saucy.  What book about love could possibly avoid sex?  It's sad but it is also hopeful, I think.

I am now in the editing phase.  I have edited the first three chapters with the help of a very dear friend of mine who is labouring away on the next 8 chapters.  The editing was more difficult than the writing.  Who would have guessed?

I am now looking for a literary agent.  I have someone who has expressed a possible interest which is very exciting but I'm not counting my chickens until a contract is on the table.

The road to publication is long and winding.  But the words are still flowing out of me.  So, I am back to blogging.  I also have an illustrated children's book that I completed a few years back with a very dear friend who did wonderful illustrations for me.  I've got to get that all gathered up and repeat the agent process for it.  I have several more ideas for novels inside my head.  I need to let those organise themselves but one is already starting to take form.  I might be back burning the midnight oil when that comes out of me.  Finally, I've got the novel I started before my depression took over my life.  I want to go back to it and see if I can do anything with it.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy my musings.

The A-Z of I Dislike.......

The A-Z of I Dislike

(Hate is too strong of a word)

I dislike………assholes, anxiety, Alzheimers, acne

I dislike………brussel sprouts, boasting, bullies, bills, basketball

I dislike………cancer, chauvinism

I dislike………dishonesty, depression

I dislike………emptiness, estrangement, extremists

I dislike………flies, falling, failing, fanatics, falsehood, farewells, frauds, football

I dislike………gerbils, greed, grief, genocide, gossip, guns

I dislike………haters, homophobia, homelessness, hamsters, hangovers, hypocrisy

I dislike………inequality, ignorance, intolerance, imbeciles, idiots

I dislike………jellyfish, jargon, jaundice, jealousy, jingoism, judgement

I dislike………knots, kidnappers

I dislike………lies, loss, loneliness

I dislike………misery, materialism, miscarriages, menopause, mortgage

I dislike………nausea, nightmares, necromancy

I dislike………ostentation, obstinacy, odium

I dislike………peas, pain, pretension, prejudice. Paranoia, parting, puberty, poverty

I dislike………quarrels, quitters

I dislike………racism, rapacity, rain, riots, rudeness

I dislike………snakes, spiders, strife, starvation, suffering, sorrow, sadness

I dislike………tardiness, tempers, tantrums, torture

I dislike………umbrage, unemployment

I dislike………vulgarity, vampires, villains, vivisection

I dislike………war, wastefulness, weapons

I dislike………xenophobia

I dislike………yobs

I dislike………zoos, zeros

The A-Z of I Love......

The A-Z of I Love.....

I love……….art, authors, Almond Roca, air, adrenalin, adventures, allotments

I love……….books, beaches, breathing, balloons, butterflies, blizzards, breakfast in bed, baseball, buxom bosoms

I love……….coffee, cats, camping, chimpanzees, chile rellenos, my children, Creed, curiosity, cake, cellos, cowboys, candles

I love……….dolphins, doctors, diamonds, daisies, Degas, diversity

I love……….elephants, electricity, eggs, entymology, excitement, equality, elastic

I love……….friends, fudge, Facebook, feathers, firefighters, fjords, fountain pens, feminism, feasts

I love……….giraffes, gardens, gowns, gallantry, our galaxy, gargoyles, gin, grace, giving

I love……….my husband, history, hot tubs, herbs, handwriting, honour, hammocks

I love……….Cherry Garcia ice cream, intelligence

I love……….jasmine, jugglers, jazz, jewellery, journals, justice, jumpers

I love……….knitting, kissing, kedgeree, kites, kudos, The Kite Runner, Kylie

I love……….lemons, laughter, Labradors, life modelling, lobster, letters, lilacs, levi 501s

I love……….the moon, Mexico, Matisse, Maroon 5, massages, mani/pedis, memories

I love……….neighbours, nachos, my nose, newborn babies, New York Times (Sunday edition)

I love……….oceans, orangutans, opera, owls, opportunity, One Direction

I love……….poker, the planets, Pinterest, pomegranates, platinum, pumpkin pie, Pimms, peace

I love……….quilting, quiet, quays

I love……….reading, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, rainbows, raffles, rapture, rodeos, The Ramones, reunions

I love……….snow, sunshine, scientists, my sister, slippers, silence, singing, stationary, serenity, satisfaction, Scotland, soldiers, stars, sex

I love……….telephones, toffee, trees, tea, tambourines, theatre, thimbles, thoroughbreds, thunder, Twitter, Taylor Swift, travel

I love……….unicorns, the universe, udders, ukeleles

I love……….volunteers, vacations, valentines, vaccinations, valet parking

I love……….whipped cream, writing, wind, waves, white burgundy wine, wonder, wisteria

I love……….x-rays, xylophones

I love……….yachts, yellow

I love……….zebras, zygotes

The A-Z of I Am.......

I am………..Amazing, Authentic, Awesome, Articulate, Anxious

I am………..Beautiful, Brilliant, Bewitching, Bodacious, Bookish

I am………..Cute, Clever, Considerate, Careful, Curvaceous, Creative, Curious

I am………..Dedicated, Diligent, Delicate

I am………..Elegant, Extravagant, Economical, Enthusiastic, Energetic, Eloquent

I am………..Fun, Funny, Fair, Friendly, Fabulous, Forgiving

I am………..Graceful, Grateful, Gracious, Glorious, Gentle, Genuine, Generous

I am………..Honest, Honourable, Handy, Happy, Helpful, Hilarious, Hopeful

I am………..Incredible, Imaginative, Idiomatic, Impressive, Inquisitive

I am………..Joyful, Joyous, Jaunty, Judicious

I am………..Kind, Knowledgeable

I am………..Loyal, Loving, Limber, Liberal, Lively, Luscious

I am………..Magnificent, Merciful, Mischievous

I am………..Nice, Neat, Nurturing, Nervous

I am………..Organised, Original

I am………..Polite, Prudent, Peaceful, Passionate, Pensive, Patient, Paranoid

I am………..Quick, Questioning

I am………..Resourceful, Reasonable, Remarkable, Resolute, Responsible

I am………..Successful, Supple, Super, Sensitive, Sentimental, Suspicious

I am………..Thrilling, Talented, Terrific, Thoughtful, Trusting

I am………..Unconventional, Unique, Understanding, Unpretentious, Useful

I am………..Visionary, Vibrant, Victorious, Vivacious

I am………..Wise, Warm, Welcoming, Wonderful, Worthy

I am………..not Xenophobic

I am………..Youthful

I am………..Zany, Zealous

Please Write

I didn’t send Christmas cards this year.  There.  I’ve said it.

Normally, I send well over 300 cards to just about every corner of the globe.  It costs us a small fortune in postage and is a huge effort.  Every year I struggle to get Marc and the children to sign them and very rarely do I manage to get them all done in time to get them to their final destination before the big day.

I don’t mind the cost.  Or the effort.  I don’t even mind that I receive less than 50% of that number back.  I am happy just knowing that I reached out and said hello.

But this year I wanted to do something more than just say hello.  This year I wanted to reward and recognise the effort that those of you made when they sent us a card/letter.

Since I usually manage little more than a scribbled, illegible note and our signatures, I have vowed to send a handwritten, personal, old fashioned letter to everyone who sent a holiday greeting card to our family.

My Grandmother was a great letter writer.  In fact, the entire family regarded her letters as an informal family newsletter.  She kept everyone up to date on what was happening with everyone else.  When my Grandmother died, I found great comfort in discovering the stacks of letters that had been written to her in response to letters she had written.  But most comforting (and painful in equal measure) were the stack of letters that I found I had written to her over the years.  Most of them span the timeframe from when I left university and moved abroad. 

The changes I underwent as I faced the challenges ahead of me make for some hilarious and some excruciating reading.  But then I brought those letters home and matched them up to the letters she wrote back to me.  Every single week.

They are an invaluable collection of advice and guidance given and taken.  They are filled with comfort and encouragement.  They are full of the tidbits of our lives as they were and reflect our growth.  They are the perfect picture of her and me.  They are my most valuable possession.

In that spirit, I embark on sending a proper letter complete with illegible handwriting and mundane details of the weather.  But also, I hope, a little bit of me and my family; a little bit of what happened and what lies ahead.  You will receive one of these letters if we received a card from you.  And if you failed to send a card, don’t worry.  I promise to reply back with a handwritten letter to every hand written letter we receive.

Facebook, tweets, emails and ecards don’t count.  Whilst I am a big fan of electronic communication tools, in fact I would be lost without them, I still believe in the pen and paper.  There will come a time when I will leave this world, much later than today one hopes.  When that time comes, it will prove next to impossible to recover the emails and ecards sent to me.  I doubt that anyone will even bother.  These digital records of our relationships will be lost along with our heartbeat.

But a soul lives on in the letters we write and send on paper.  They are tangible.  They are real.  You can take them with you on the long journey of life.  And I hope you do.

On my darkest days, and I have more than I would like to count, I reach into the box that contains my Grandmother’s letters, the cards from my mom and dad, my sister, my friends.  It is the ones that tell me what they have been doing and what they want for me that lift me up and help me to take the steps I need to continue to move forward.  Without these letters/cards I dread to think what would happen to me.

Please write.

Rough Music by Patrick Gale

My reading is far outpacing my writing and posting of reviews on this blog.  I refuse to apologise.  But I absolve to correct this imbalance of priorities and set myself the task of catching up.  No promises though!

Patrick Gale is quite simply one of my favourite authors.  I love everything he writes so it will come as no surprise when I tell you that I loved this novel.  I loved the way I got sucked into the idyllic setting and the idea of a perfect, happy childhood.  I was sucked into believing everything the characters believed.

Mr Gale writes clear exquisite detail without losing his readers in long wandering, aimless paragraphs of prose when your eyes glaze over.  Instead he skips the through his plots and before you know it you are fully engaged in the outcome.

Will invites his parents to join him on a beach holiday not realising that he is about to step into a hornet's nest of powerful memories.  His mother suffers dementia.  Will is having an affair with his brother-in-law which he has tried and failed to end.  This could so easily have become all a bit of a soap opera as we travel back and forth in time to Julian's (Will's childhood name) messy childhood and Will's messier adulthood.

But it doesn't become melodramatic in the least.  Instead the story reminds us that we all have a bit of a mess inside of us and lived messy lives at various times.

Julian (aka Will), as a character, is not all that easy to like.  I never quite trust people who tell me they had a perfect childhood and have a perfect life.  I suspected all along that the reality would be revealed in time.

I was mildly annoyed with the stereotypical representation of Americans but I let that wash over me.

I highly recommend reading this book and gave it a 4 out of 5 stars on Goodreads.

A Million Shades

The day begins one eye at a time.  

First I check the time.  Have I slept too much?  Too little?  Too late?  Do I care?

Then I check the weather.  Do I need to turn on my lumi light?  Will it make a damn bit of differene?  Will this rain ever stop?  Do I really need to turn on the heating in June?  The sun is shining so I am going to need to come up with a bloody good excuse to not go for a walk.

Finally, I ask myself the dreaded question:  HOW DO I FEEL TODAY?

Am I "fine"?  Unlikely.  In fact, I'm not entirely certain I remember what fine feels like.

Am I "shitty"?  Quite possibly but perhaps a wholly inappropriate response to a socially conventional question unless my desired outcome is to alienate those who care for and love me.

The trouble begins in the million shades of grey between "fine" and "shitty".

I close my eyes again wishing that everything was different.  Wishing that my battle with the darkness had never begun.  Wishing the war was won and that I had conquered that foreign land forever more.  A conventional happy ending.

Alas, I return to the fight everyday, sometimes donning my mask of armour to face the ignorance and cruelty of others and sometimes just my own anxieties.

Other times I can't bear putting on the armour and I remain metaphorically naked for the day unable to leave the security of my home or my head spending my times wandering around the rooms and wondering where the time  when I'm absent.

My armour is honestly a lousy garment for protection.  It doesn't stop my own thoughts from hurting me.  I recall the days when I felt invincible, strong, and happy; when I felt the future held such promise.  I didn't dread the sun rising.

Now I refuse to think about the future because it frightens the shit out of me.  I can't plan a party.  Or a holiday.  I can't plan what's for dinner.

For me, the future is dark.  The future is frightening and I start cowering in the corners of the day when I first open my eyes.  Every day.

Does writing about my depression help me?

No.  Or at least, it doesn't feel like it does.

So, why do I do it?

Partly because I always write, if not on paper, then in my head.

Mostly, I do it for my friends and my family.  I do it to help them understand the torment inside my head.  Somehow it comes out better in words I write than when I speak.  Speaking is difficult.  I get lost in my thoughts and my words become all jumbled.  And sometimes when I get frustrated trying to express myself I start to stutter.  Then I get anxious and here we go on a downward spiral.

When I write it is all just a bit easier to make sense of it.  No one is looking at me.  No one is nodding their head.  No one is finishing my sentences for me.  No one is interrupting.

I also do it for others who know someone afflicted with this horrible illness.  Maybe if they read what I've written, it will give a tiny little insight into our spectrum of darkness.

Finally, I suppose I write it in the hope that it reaches out and touches someone who is struggling today and helps them take one step towards the light. 

Not Good Enough

The greatest gift my depressive illness has given me is that I don't really care what other people think of me so much any more.

I used to want to fit in so much.  I wanted to be liked by everybody, to be friends with everyone, be invited to all the dinner parties, coffee mornings, and after-work drinks.  The fact is I wasn't.  And I didn't fit in.

Maybe it was because I didn't have enough money to go on the spur of the moment girlie weekend trips to the spas or far flung trendy beaches.  Maybe it was because my body was too big and just doesn't look great in the trendy designer fashion (as if I could even afford that).  Maybe my sense of humour is a bit quirky.  Probably it's because when I get a few too many drinks in me I can be a bit loud. Even sober I can be a bit loud.

Don't get me wrong:  I have many, many friends who love me more than their luggage just the way I am.  But my mind always focuses on those few unfortunates that just didn't quite get me.  Then the paranoia sets in. The ones who don't quite get me are trying to convince those that did to not get me anymore when I reality if they ever did discuss me, my friends would have told them to fuck off.

In my mind I feel I am just simply not good enough.  I grew up thinking I wasn't good enough.  I've had a series of setbacks that told me I wasn't good enough.  It doesn't matter how many times I've been told that I am amazing, outstanding, interesting, extraordinary individual with a limitless capacity for compassion and generosity.  All of those fade into the background over the shouting of "not good enough".

In my depression, I cling to that like a self fulfilling prophecy.  I have every reasonable excuse to never ever be good enough again.

But if I focus on just this very moment, right now, and not a moment longer, I am good enough to write this and hope someone finds that they were good enough to read it and it helped.

Better than the Day Before

Yesterday I was better than the day before or the day before that but today I feel worse than I was yesterday.  And that's the only way to really measure any progress.  Or lack thereof.  One day at a time.

Yesterday morning I actually cared about whether the sun was shining.  I noticed the pretty flowers around the clinic grounds.  I moved to a new room which is very quiet with a wonderful view and lots of space.  I started to make eye contact with the other patients and learn their names.  Haven't really had the courage to say anything to them but I am starting to feeling a little less invisible.

I have slept well the last couple nights, in comparison to the first couple nights.  I can tell that I toss and turn because the sheet will be all bunched up and nearly off the bed.  The duvet was on the floor when I woke up this morning.  

But the last couple nights I didn't wake up even when the nurse delivered my early morning coffee.  I can't recall any of my dreams and I certainly don't remember screaming out at the various baddies that used to try to choke and smother me at night.

Last night I took a new drug to help with my fear and anxiety which lies at the root of my depression.  Ever since July 2011, I have been afraid of everything:  driving the car, leaving the house, attending social gatherings, cooking a meal, finding a new job, speaking to strangers, answering the phone, going to the supermarket, opening the post.  Everything.  Some rational.  Some completely irrational.  The point is one cannot avoid falling into depression when one is constantly in a heightened sense of fright of life itself.

Even here in the clinic I am afraid.  I am afraid I am more crazy than everyone else.  I am afraid that I will never recover.  I am afraid everyone is staring at me.  I am afraid I do the meditation wrong.  I am afraid that I don't say enough or that I say too much.  I am afraid that I think all wrong and that I will never have the right thoughts.  Or that I don't smile.  Or that I do.

To keep my adrenalin under control I take a drug 3 times a day which does a pretty good job keeping my anxiety from grabbing hold of me.  When my fear and anxiety begins to win against that particular medication, I take a little bit of a half a tranquiliser and I can usually muddle my way through.  Rarely, however, does one enjoy muddling through.

 

I spoke to my psychiatrist about this fear and constant anxiety.  He recommended a drug called Olanzapine. He said it was good for treating fear and anxiety and he would start with a very small dosage twice a day.  I thought, "Cool. why haven't they given this to me before?"

Within 20 minutes of taking this drug, I thought I was losing my mind.  My limbs, legs and particularly my right arm, began to move uncontrollably, like restless limb syndrome.  My balance was off.  I felt like I was on a rolling ship at sea in a huge storm.  I bumped into walls trying to get downstairs to get some help.  I was dizzy and kept thinking I was going to black out.  I was agitated and highly paranoid.  I was more afraid than I've ever been.

The nurses were cold comfort telling me that since I had already taken the pill, there was little more they could do.  I just had to ride out the storm.  They offered to have someone sit with me.  Well, what kind of help is that?

In the end, I fell into bed and fell into a very restless sleep very early in the evening.  I woke up confused several times during the night.  I reported this to my nurses this morning who assured me that when they looked in on me I appeared to be sleeping soundly.  Well, that's ok then, isn't it?  I was so out of it last night that I didn't even get my sleeping meds which I am sure made my situation even worse.

Today I await the visit from my psychiatrist for Plan B, or rather, Plan G.  None of these plans seems to be working.  I am angry.  I am frightened.  I feel so alone.

I have more voice mails, texts, phone calls, Facebook messages, tweets and visits from my army of friends than I can respond to.  It is genuinely a pity that depression strikes even those who are loved so very much.  If love could cure depression I wouldn't be paralysed with this fear, this anxiety and this sheer and absolute darkness.  Please don't be upset if I haven't replied.  Please don't think I don't love you.  Please know your message meant a lot to me and sometimes I just can't cope with the world right now.

I want it to get better but on days like today it doesn't seem like it ever will.