Living Under The Cloud

Mental health isn’t straightforward. Sadly, it’s not something you work on, get better, and then never have to think about again. There’s no one cure, and it can be a constant battle between what your mind and body tell you and what you know to be true.

At the age of 33, I’ve spent more time in my life learning about mental health than I haven’t! But, knowing this information isn’t enough; it needs to be something practical too: an everyday exercise to help you hold the evidence that things can, and will, get better.

When it comes to trauma, from the outside looking in, the traumatic event may be perceived as the worst part, and I’m not going to lie, it most certainly wasn’t nice. However, I don’t think anyone really understands the hardship of getting better, or God-forbid, feeling happy again.

The trauma, the survival, the healing; it’s all so hard and for very different reasons.

I am pleased to say I am through my trauma; it is safely something that is now in the past, but like anything that damages your body, it leaves a scar, and saying ‘I’m happy’ is something that makes my scar burn.

Getting here has been a lot of hard work, mentally and physically. It’s been rewarding, but no matter what I do, I can’t help but have this lingering feeling that everything I love will be gone again in a flash, and the horror of that worry is exhausting.

I have a job I love, a boyfriend I love, friends and family I love, a house and 2 cats that I love, a car I love, hobbies that I love; I am surrounded by things and people that make me feel happy and safe, yet I have this black cloud that lingers over it all, threatening to pour on it all and wash it away like none of it even happened.

It’s hard to live under the cloud.

I try to ignore it, but recently it’s getting too big to ignore. I can hear thunder rolling around in it, and from time to time feel spots of rain, but I know the thunder isn’t actually coming from the cloud; it’s coming from the fear that lives inside of me.

Honestly? I love my life now more than I’ve loved any other time in my life. I have so much of the stuff, actually, I have all the stuff I’ve worked so hard for, and on top of that, I have new parts of my life that never existed before! Parts that make me feel excited in my chest: a feeling I don’t think I’ve felt in my adult life.

Which to a mind without scars would be a dream, but my mind tells me that if I barely survived losing my old life, a life that felt disingenuous and like squeezing into a mould that didn’t fit me, then how would I survive losing my new life, one that genuinely brings me so much joy? If it was that hard to fall from a false high, I don’t think I’d survive a fall from a true high.

The looming cloud of loss and grief is always there, whether I’m in control of it or not, and although living under it is often loud, scary, and very dark, I think it’s something I’m going to have to learn to live with. I need to live with the cloud and learn that even though it looms, it’s not necessarily going to wash everything away. I can’t live in fear.

I want to learn how to put up my emotional umbrella and plod through the fear, as crippling as it feels most days. I need to remind myself that the fear of the rain isn’t enough of a reason to not leave the house.

Love with nowhere to go

I’ve not been feeling well recently, and not in the physical way; in more of an emotional way. I’ve not been feeling up to participating in life, my joy in anything and everything has been dwindling, my eyes have been feeling that bit more watery and I’ve had a seething anger burning at the back of my throat, threatening to scream at anyone that even vaguely gets on my nerves.

I knew there must be a reason, but I had no idea. Did I just not want to go back to work next week? I like my job, and I don’t mind too much whether I’m there or not; it can’t be that.
Is it because I’m tired? I’m not sure I’m feeling that tired, just the regular amount (whatever that is)
Nothing seemed to match my emotions, nothing seemed linked. ‘Maybe I’m getting ill, coming down with something, maybe I’ll feel better for a sleep-in, or maybe if I do some meditation’

I knew Mother’s Day was coming, how could I not? There are cards, gift ideas, and advertisements for afternoon tea’s left-right-and-center, but it all kind of felt light and lacey, because I wasn’t looking at it properly – I was only ever kind of looking at it in my periphery. Then while wondering why my mood was on the floor, the lace quickly became a weighted blanket, and it floored me.

It’s like certain parts of my years are stained in sadness, a stain that marks a giant hole in my life, and Mother’s Day sits in one of them stains.

In 2020, I lost my baby. I found out I was losing her around the end of March/start of April, I lost her in July, her funeral in August, her due date in October, then add in Christmas and Mother’s Day, and my years start to feel like fields of land mines I’m trying to walk through.

I thought time would make it better, and on normal days it does feel better I guess, but on them special dates, it feels just as heartbreaking as it always did. I don’t actually think it’ll ever get completely better.

Something I’ve noticed over the last four years is how my grief holds hands with anger. They’re best friends, they’re always hanging out together, I never see one without the other! So my anger should have been the first giveaway that what I was feeling was grief.

Whether it’s been my bedroom feeling too cluttered, my duvet not sitting in the right position while I’m asleep, a man cutting grass outside while I’m trying to sleep, or a man not hearing me say ‘excuse me’ and not getting out of my way at the self-scan in Tesco: it’s not genuine anger (okay, maybe the guy clogging up the self scans was a bit genuine), it’s grief.

And it’s grief I’m still trying to figure out. I’m still new to this.

It just feels so heavy sometimes, it’s too heavy for me to hold, but nobody else can hold it – it doesn’t exist for anyone else. Everyone has their own version of grief and no one has the same one, none of us get dealt the same grief pack! That’s the most frustrating part: my grief is mine and mine alone.

When it comes to grief, one of the main things I’ve learned is you’ve got to feel the feelings and do what you’ve got to do to get through. Acknowledging the emotions is hard, and a lot of the time it doesn’t make much sense, but if you ignore them, them awful feelings will build up and erupt into something much worse.

Once I realised what I was feeling, I indulged in it. I allowed myself to wallow for a while, I let myself be angry, I let myself cry, and convinced myself I was going to stay indoors all day away from everyone. Then after a while, I found the strength to put on my makeup, brush my hair, and listen to Ariana Grande’s new album (which is beautiful by the way) then I felt strong enough for a little trip to the shops.

I still felt rubbish, and my head still felt as if it had an elastic band tightened around it while wearing a headache in the shape of an eye mask, but I didn’t feel as if I was drowning anymore; merely bobbing in the water with a life jacket on, waiting until I had enough energy to swim back to shore.

Grief isn’t a one-size-fits-all, no version of grief has the same rules, and while mine had be tamed by a good cry, a shout, and a trip to the shop, that might not be the same for anyone else, or even the next time I get slapped in the face by it. What I think is important to remember is that it must be felt in whatever way feels best at that time.

And it’s even though it’s a lonely thing to experience, we should all take comfort in knowing we’re not the only ones experiencing some type of grief; after all, as a quote I read at the start of my grief journey said – ‘grief is simply love with nowhere to go.’

The Happy Checklist

Over the last year or so I’ve not been writing as much. For a long time, I used writing as an escape and a way to cope with feeling the most depressed I had ever been. Even though writing helped me more than anything, it most certainly wasn’t healthy. I needed to take a break from it to remember how to be happy in my own life again, rather than only feeling happiness through the lives of fictional characters.

Taking a break was essential and even though I’ve still been taking a break from writing my blog, I’ve been venturing off into the world of fiction again over the last few months, which has been hard, I’m not going to lie, but it feels as if I’ve returned home.

My slow journey back to the land of creativity has been something I’ve spoken about out loud, and as with everything in life, my phone knows what I’m up to, (why do they listen so intently?) and now I’m writing again, my TikTok algorithm as thrown me into the writers/readers/book side of Tiktok. Now my FYP is filled with other writers, authors, and book lovers. I always thought this side of the app existed, I’d just never actually seen it, but I have now arrived – woohoo!

I assumed this side of TikTok would be fun, that it would be a creative community that shares and helps each other out, but since I’ve found myself there I’ve come to feel quite overwhelmed; it feels like all I seem to be seeing is endless videos telling me all about the things I’m doing wrong!

‘Don’t say this’ ‘Your story has to have this’ ‘If you don’t do this you will never be published’ ‘It needs to have three main parts’ ‘Getting published is near impossible, you’ll never do it’ ‘I rewrote my novel from scratch three times’ ‘It needs to have four main parts’ …please tell me this seems overwhelming to you too?

I easily get caught up in it all and begin telling myself I have to scrap my story and start again, ‘Maybe I say said too many times? Maybe my story doesn’t have three, or four, or how-ever-many-that-other-person-said parts to it? I’m not entirely sure what my story’s trope is, what am I doing?’ My mind rapidly spirals out of control, feeling as if I need to be taking notes and confirming to TikTok’s checklist to be classed as a writer.

Then I take a step back and remind myself to breathe.

I understand if I want to be published I might have to have a checklist, and it might have to fit some kind of mold, but right now, I’m writing for fun, and fun doesn’t need a checklist! My story is my canvas and I’ll paint it how I want.

I never made the decision to write, I never sat down and brainstormed what I could write about- it just happened. I never thought ‘I want to write a romance story, how do I do that?’ I just did it, and I think conforming to a list of rules I’ve found on TikTok would take out the magic.

If I actually break it down, my novel does have four main parts, it has a nice conclusion, it’s a solid stand-alone story, but has potential for another two follow-up stories. I don’t say ‘said’ all the time, and even though I’m still unsure what trope it fits, I know it’s a romance novel, with humour and music intertwined, but most importantly, I know it’s special to me, and right now, that’s all that matters.

This isn’t me saying I won’t take helpful tips on board, I absolutely will, but what I am saying is I don’t think that writing is a one-size-fits-all hobby or career. Each writer is different, much like every reader is different; we’re all looking for something different in everything we write or read and I think that’s the most beautiful thing about writing!

I don’t think there’s a wrong or right way to write; it’s art, it’s diverse and it’s all subject to personal taste. I whole-heartedly believe we all should just write in whichever way makes us happy, and read books that are enjoyable for us to read.

Write happy, and read happy – now there’s a checklist I can follow!

Maybe it’s time

I have 3500 images in my camera file on my phone, which is every bit as chaotic as it sounds! Every once in a while I’ll go through and sort a few hundred images into different files, to make it easier when I’m wanting to look through them.

When swiping through them today, I found a photo I took of my scruffy handwriting in a notebook I dedicated to extra scribblings for my book, and on one of the pages i had scribbled:

“An escape wrapped in love and music – whether it’s Aimee’s strength, Adam’s fame, Leon’s loyalty, or Finn’s confidence, there’s something for everyone to escape in.”

When I was faced with the mamoth task of trying to figure out how to explain my book in as little words as possible, to then send to publishers and agents, I took to my notebook to write down my key points and anything I felt might be helpful, and this was one of them things.

The truth is, it’s been a long time since I’ve thought about my book, I’ve been so busy in the real world I seem to have pushed aside the fantasy world I lived in for so long.

In November 2021 I left a long term relationship and moved back home with my Mam and since then my book, and writing in general, has taken a back seat. I’ve been busy adjusting to life at home, trying to sell the house I lived in, I started a new job with lots or learning and training involved, and on top of that I’ve been learning how to be in a healthy, happy relationship with my new boyfriend; writing has been the last thing on my mind.

Seeing a photo of that scribble in my book makes me miss my story and characters and it gives me such a bittersweet feeling – I don’t need to escape anymore because I love every area of my life, but I miss escaping and living in another world.

Looking back, I was probably (definitely) borderline (way beyond the line) obsessive with my writing when my mental health was at its worst. I would fill every spare second I had with writing; and anytime I wasn’t writing, I’d be thinking about it, or be listening to music to add to my playlists that run alongside the stories.

Writing was my life, and although I see now how maybe that was probably a tad unhealthy, I do miss it.

If I’m completely honest, I think maybe a bit of trauma clings to my story as it was my home when I was at my worst, and going back there brings me a side of sadness – but I am so immensely proud of what I created, it feels so wrong just leaving it to gather dust in my mind.

My boyfriend often tells me to mentally rewrite things that take me to the past – visiting places and doing things that have bad feelings attached to them to then attach new, better feelings to them, and maybe that’s what I need to do with my writing?

I don’t need to escape anymore, but just because it’s not a necessity, doesn’t mean I can’t do it anymore, or that I should leave it aside.

It might soon be the right time to open that door again and leave it open, even if I don’t step inside just yet. Time to enter that world and take a happy visit, instead of entering, locking the door and living in there.

Maybe it’s time.

Feeling is Healing

I’ve written many blog posts that haven’t made it to the Internet. Infact, I have a folder bursting with them on my phone! I forget I’ve even written most of them as I’ve once deemed them not good enough, and I only rediscover them when I get bored and scroll through my notes app.

One I never managed to quite forget was one titled Feeling is healing, which I wrote at the beginning of the year about adapting to a healty relationship after being in a not-so-healthy-one:

‘Once you let the wrong people go, it’s easier to see who’s right, and finding someone right feels like not only one jigsaw piece fitting in, but instead the entire picture falling into place in one go. Like every piece you pick up slots perfectly into the last.

I’m beginning to learn that love shouldn’t feel scary. It should feel slightly nerve-wracking – those ‘should I send that text’ or ‘I hope we have plenty to talk about’ worries, but it shouldn’t feel like diving into the unknown, it should feel like diving into comfort. Less like jumping off a cliff with a blindfold on, and more like willingly jumping onto the most marshmallow like pile of cushions you’ve ever felt.

Feeling was once the fear, but feeling becomes the dream, and feeling becomes healing.’

It’s funny really, because the pile of marshmallow cushions I emotionally fell in to with a smile on my face, ended up holding me while I ugly cried about that relationship coming to an end.

When I thought about that blog post, at first I felt stupid – feeling is healing, what an idiot! – but in hindsight, despite ending up with a broken heart, I was still able to heal a large part of my previous trauma because despite the pain, I discovered that I can trust once again.

Trust has always been an issue for me. Never quite knowing people’s intentions, having friends that have turned on me, and boyfriends that have cheat and hurt me. Trust is hard for me, and after my most recent serious relationship, I was worried I would never trust again.

Yet there I was: trusting someone new.

It took a while but it ended up being easier than I thought, maybe because they were, at the time, the right person to trust. I believed what they told me, they made me feel safe and I felt myself begin to fall out of the tight grip my trust issues had me in.

Of course I wasn’t cured over night, trust is still something that takes time and needs to be earned, but even though that short relationship ended, I still learned that I can not only trust someone else, but I can trust myself too.

My original ‘Feeling is Healing‘ post was about healing from sadness and learning that life goes on and inevitably things heal and get better; only now I’d like to add to that sentiment. Things often go well, things can seem like they’re meant for you and make you feel pure happiness, but that doesn’t mean that’s how it will always be, and that’s okay.

Putting your feelings out into the world is scary, and it does help heal them old wounds, but it’s important to remember that if that happiness vanishes one day, that doesn’t mean all the healing leaves too.

Self-Destruction Hotel

Silence is heavy and suffocating. My peace is always found in noise; the television I’m not watching, music playing I’m not listening to, or hearing people around me chattering, while I remain quiet – even if I’m not engaging in the noise, it helps me feel less alone.

On a regular day, my mind shouts a constant checklist at me to keep me on track, it wonders about people I’ve not seen in a while, and it sometimes resides in a fantasy land of its own, all while two or three songs play at the same time – it’s not a quiet place, my mind!

And when silence is forced on me, my mind gets much louder.

I used to be able to sit in silence and it felt okay, but after being subject to the silent treatment one too many times, silence has become deafening, and it’s often accompanied by a heavy dose of self-loathing.

I need to fix the silence

Silence means I’m a bad person

I have done something wrong

I should have a warning plastered to my forehead, “When left in silence for too long, will self-destruct.” But then again, it’s not down to others to keep me in a state of permanent noise; it’s down to me to learn that silence isn’t always as jagged, rough, or spikey as it feels.

TikTok is my friend when I need noise, an app I can get lost in for hours; the only problem is my ‘for you page’ is currently going through a Tarot phase once again, (How does the algorithm know when my mental state is on the ground?) which inevitably adds petrol to the fire within my already burning mind.

“Come home to yourself!” one of the many Tiktok tarot readers told the screen, and in turn, told me too. I know they weren’t talking to me, but something struck me; come home to myself? Surely I should already be home, right? I live in my body; how can I not be home? But I think it struck me because they were right – I’m not currently at home. I’m away on some self-destructive holiday with a note stuck to my front door telling people to go away – keep your letters, parcels, and gym membership flyers out of my letterbox.

It’s possibly less of a holiday and more of an enforced retreat to stop myself from self-destructing within my own walls; if I go somewhere else, I can’t tear down walls or rip off wallpaper, leaving more to be fixed when I come back.

Well, I’ve had a few months’ holiday at Self-Destruction Hotel and I think I’m nearly ready to come home.

Something I’ve learned over the last few years is that it’s essential to feel your feelings. It sounds so obvious; feel your feelings? What else can you do with them? But I think we’re all pretty skilled in ignoring our feelings and powering through – whether that’s in the Self-Destruction Hotel or in our own walls.

I believe I’ve found my way back home by doing things with just myself; I’ve been spending less time online and more time writing, playing games, and picking up cross-stitch patterns I’ve had sat around for years. I lost myself for a while and completely hated myself, and although I’m still not my own biggest fan, I’m learning to spend time with myself again and enjoy it.

Often I chose to exist only in the eyes of others, and when they stop looking, I check into Self-Destruction Hotel. I wish I could just exist for myself and have that be enough, but I’m willing to learn how to be enough for myself. I need to treat myself with kindness and compassion and give myself a break for reacting to pain in a way that’s helped me survive in the past.

I think now seems as good a time as any to make friends with myself; better late than never, right?

The date I held on to

I awoke the morning of 24th January 2020 from a near sleepless night. Every dream I had was that I had slept in, and each dream more believable than the last. I had two plans that morning: head to a nearby town to meet my friends for a coffee, and the other was to buy tickets. I bet you can’t guess which plan I was having nightmares about?

Applying my makeup, I felt sick with anxiety, knowing that between then and seeing my friends, there was a great hurdle for me to jump over, as that day was the day My Chemical Romance released tickets for, what was meant to be, a one off show in Milton Keynes.

I had prepared for this day since My Chemical Romance announced their reunion on Halloween the year prior. I had worked extra hours to ensure I’d have enough money to buy the tickets I so desperately needed. With my laptop set up in front of me, with a phone either side, all on Ticketmaster’s website: I was ready.

Ticketmaster had rarely been my friend in the past, so when 9:30am struck, I refreshed all my pages hoping for the best, but expecting the worst.

I was in a queue.
Tickets flashed up on my screen. I didn’t check where they were; it didn’t matter.
I held my breath while I typed in my details, not letting myself get excited; there was still time for it all to go wrong.
The page loaded.
‘You’re in! You’re going to see My Chemical Romance’ appeared on my screen.
“I’VE GOT THE TICKETS!” I screamed, while tears rolled down my face. I ran around the house screaming like an excited child. My cat had no idea what was happening and ran upstairs to hide, while I’m certain my neighbours pressed their ears to the wall, to ensure no suspected murder was happening.

With tears still down my face, I grabbed my handbag, car keys and a My Chemical Romance CD to play in the car, and I headed out to go meet my friends. I opened my front door and fell out of it – the use of my legs had gone! I suppose the part of my brain that controls the legs, was now replaced with the thought of seeing My Chemical Romance once again.

After a few deep breaths, I set off to see my friends. Approaching the town, I had to stop for a passing train. Usually something like this would annoy me, “I’m going to be late! Why does the train always come when I’m coming through?!” Is what I would usually think, but I was already late, and why? Because I had MCR tickets, and that was enough for me to stop be caring all together.

It was an oddly warm January day, and so my windows were wound down, and I turned up my already loud music, and blasted Welcome To The Black Parade as loudly as my ears could handle. I imagined everyone around me would hear the song and instantly know I had the tickets, but in reality, I know I was just an annoying woman who’s music was far too loud; but I enjoyed thinking the first option was true.

Two months later, the UK went into lockdown.

2020 was a terrible year for most, and for me, I think it was the worst year of my life. A year filled with heartbreak and betrayal, grief and loss of all kinds; both my life and mind very dark.

I knew one day, things would get better, one day all this pain would be over, and life wouldn’t seem as bad anymore. I needed one day to hang on to, one day to reach out and hold on to, while time dragged me through the trauma and took me to that day.

That day was 21st May 2022.

Milton Keynes is a three and a half hour drive from where I live. I was dressed up in my finest emo-get-up from early in the morning, to get the coach that was going to take us to the stadium to see My Chemical Romance.

In honesty, my emo-get-up was actually not the finest it’s ever been; I couldn’t wear my boots because it was too long of a journey to wear uncomfortable footwear (Yes, I’m at that age now where comfort is more important that looks!), my hair is now blonde, which is an instant emo faux-pas. I was, however, wearing an MCR t-shirt, thanks to my boyfriend! My old merch is either lost or no longer fits me, as I once used to buy womens fit t-shirts (Who willingly does that!?)

I knew I was on a coach to Milton Keynes. I knew I was going to the stadium to see My Chemical Romance. But none of it felt real until I entered the stadium, clutching a tour tshirt in one hand, and my ticket in the other; I was finally here!

I felt like I was home, surrounded by people like myself. Listening to music, and all clapping when Enter Shikari’s Sorry Youre Not a Winner played over the speakers; I’d forgotten what it felt like to be at an My Chemical Romance show. The comfort, the happiness, the feeling that you and everyone around you can be unapologetically themselves – I had missed this feeling.

If you’ve read my past post ‘It will never be so long or goodnight’ you will know how important the song Famous Last Words is to me (click the link to read). I knew they would be playing this song, I had saw videos of them playing it online, videos that made me so emotional that my eyes leaked, and so I thought it was certain I was going to cry when they played it – but I didn’t.

Instead, I stood with the biggest smile on my face, singing the words that I have tattooed on my arm. I felt the song in my chest; this was the moment I had clung on to for the last two years. My life jacket, my anti-depressant, my lighthouse that guided me out of danger and got me home safe – this was it.

I was right, back in 2020, I had faith that when this day came, things would be better, and the pain I felt would be a memory. I was so right.
I closed my eyes while myself and thousands of other fans sang along to the final chorus of Famous Last Words, and thought about how lucky I am to be here, not only at the gig, but in the moment I had held to for so long.

The pain is over and the trauma is a memory, I am exactly where I wanted and longed to be in life; happy and free.

It’s strange to think about really. I’ve listened to My Chemical Romance since I was twelve years old, and in every bad part of my life they’ve been there like the scaffolding of my life; they hold me together when I’m about to fall apart. When times get hard, I’m still that little girl, laid on her bed, taking refuge in their music, and I always will be.

The difference between alone, and lonely

It had never occurred to me that there is a difference between being alone, and being lonely. Isn’t that strange? Alone always equalled lonely in my mind, and I can’t remember a time I didn’t believe that miscalculated equation. Alone and lonely felt the same to say out loud; they feel cold and sad. However, in reality, they’re as different as could be!

When I was a teenager, I used to be off school fairly often due to illness and anxiety, which meant I would find myself in the house on my own for a few hours a day when my parents were at work; and I loved it. I would sit in my room, listening to music and writing, and then I’d find myself back downstairs in front of the TV to watch The Jeremy Kyle Show (My ultimate guilty pleasure TV show back then)

Those days, despite being days I felt unwell, were some of the most wholesome feeling memories I have. The feeling of being able to be myself with no judgement was something I loved, however the feeling of needing to be something for someone else was always greater than that, and sadly that’s what I’ve spent most of my life doing.

To be alone is to have all pressure taken away from me. No thoughts or judgement from others. I can listen to whatever I want with no one saying, “Really? This album again?” I guess time alone was the only place I could be myself and not worry about what any outside influences had to say.

I think I’ve always seen myself as something to someone else, rather than whoever I am as an individual. I only ever spent time on my own when there was absolutely no one else I could be around – I was my own last resort, and in hindsight, that makes me feel sad.

Being my own last resort was all I knew and was a sentiment that followed me into my adult life too. It never struck me as a problem until the 2020 lockdown. Alone time was all I had, which was great, however, I found myself in a strange predicament: I was enjoying being alone, writing and listening to music like I always did, however, there was something very different this time around; there was judgement weighing on my back.

Doing things I wanted, and things I enjoyed was met with questions at the end of each day. “Why is this not done?” and, “What have you been doing?” while the things that made up my life and happiness were being described as ‘excuses’. The best thing about being alone was there being no judgement, but now judgement had entered the room – and so did loneliness

I learned to separate my time between being who I had to be, and being who I wanted to be, and in the small time I made for myself I was still able to do exactly what I did as a teenager: listen to the same album on repeat all day, write and watch Keeping Up The The Kardashians (A step up from The Jeremy Kyle Show, don’t you think?) but still judgement screamed from the back of my mind. Asking me what I was doing, why wasn’t I doing other things, and questioning everything I enjoy.

Having the enjoyment of being alone snatched away from me, made me realise just how different ‘alone’ and ‘lonely’ really are.

I had never experienced loneliness until that time in my life, I was shocked by just how painful it can feel. Being lonely, even when you’re physically not alone, can be a crippling kind of pain; a pain I never want to experience again.

In recent months I’ve been able to enjoy being alone once again, and any judement I once had no longer applies. The only person to judge me now is myself! Even though I do find that voice in my mind screaming judging questions at me, I’m learning to tell it to pipe down, and it is beginning to subside as time goes on.

Where once I was my own last resort, I now make a priority of myself and the things that make me happy. Whether it is applying my makeup in the morning, a lovely bubble bath, or laying in my bed and listening to music late at night – they’re mine to enjoy.

The words ‘alone’ and ‘lonely’ no longer feel the same to me. Lonely feels abandoned and dark, whereas alone feels safe and warm. Time on my own, and whatever I choose to fill that time with, is my own choice, and that’s important to me

It’s just a shame I had to learn the difference the hard way.

Life Will Always Change

“Oh no!” I shouted as my lamp, and what seemed like a million other things, toppled from my dressing table to the floor. Pulling my phone from my pocket to shine the light behind my draws I saw my small, metal, jewellery box on the floor. It’s the tiniest jewellery box I’ve ever seen; when I saw it in a charity shop with a £1.49 price tag, I knew it had to come home with me.

Holding it, I imagined that it perhaps once lived on an old ladies dressing table; maybe she kept her antique rings and delicate necklaces within it. Sadly, I’ve never found anything special enough to put in it since I became its owner. Or so I thought, anyway.

As I picked up the open jewellery box from the floor, I noticed a small piece of paper had fallen out of it. Unravelling the piece of paper, I found it had once lived in a fortune cookie that I had got with one of my many Chinese takeaways.

‘Your life will be happy and peaceful’

“That’s just a generic fortune!” I hear you say? Yes, I agree wholeheartedly, but I remember cracking open the cookie that held that piece of paper, and laughing as I read it – happy and peaceful? What a joke!

I’m a sentimental person, and I keep all kinds of rubbish and, arguably, maybe I should have thrown this fortune away like the many that came before and after. But I guess despite the thought of a happy and peaceful life verging on the hilarious, I decided to keep it in hope that maybe, one day, it might come true.

Remembering what a preposterous idea a happy and peaceful life once was felt shocking to me! Back then, I couldn’t imagine a life that didn’t feel thick with depression and chaos, or a life that didn’t feel suffocating and as if I was being buried alive.

In hindsight, I find it far more absurd to imagine settling into a life filled with stifling depression. I would often think about how much I hated my life. Even writing that creates such a sorrowful feeling in my chest – how could I hate my life when it’s so beautiful? But I had no idea just how beautiful life could be.

Depression had me in a chokehold, and it’s true what they say, ‘You cannot heal in the same environment that made you sick’ I changed my environment, physically and mentally, and I’ve since found myself thinking about how much I love and appreciate my life; and coincidentally, just how happy and peaceful it feels.

Whether life feels good or bad, it will change at some point. It could be in a day, a week, or ten years – change happens whether we like it or not, and I think we forget about that when we’re in both extreme highs and heart-breaking lows.

Happiness sometimes becomes a fleeting emotion, which makes the moments it shows its lovely face in all that bit better. I am grateful for happiness, even in the smallest of doses. And equally, when the inevitable moments of depression wash over me, I acknowledge that it won’t be forever, even if it can feel similar to an giant avalanche.

I had been angry at myself for being so clumsy and knocking over my lamp, and sending a whole load of things flying, but if I hadn’t, I would have never known I had even kept that, maybe-not-so-silly, fortune. I would not have been reminded that life changes and that I am very grateful that it does!

My inner child

A while ago I wrote a couple of blogs around the work I did in therapy on ‘my backpack’. (My Backpack and I Was Lost) My backpack was filled with emotional trauma I had been clinging to throughout my life so far. I emptied the backpack, looked at every part, opened every zip, pocket, and tore away the inside of the fabric to see what was there. It was an awful experience, but rewarding never-the-less, and I gave the final, tumour filled part of my bag, back to its rightful owner.

Handing my backpack over, and turning my back on it felt good. I finally felt free! Or at least, I did until two weeks ago anyway. I realised a part of the backpack was still attached to me; a part I think I knew was there, but a part I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

In the true style of my counsellor, she pushed me to take a look at it. It felt as if she was beating me up with her words, telling me to take a look at it and recognise that it was there. However, picking up that part of the bag and opening it, it screamed at me like a howler from Harry Potter: “YOU’RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH!” It frightened me into silence for the rest of my session.

“Why aren’t I good enough?” I embodied the question that made my mind spin every time I thought about that time in my life.

I had a fantastic childhood. I had my family around me, I had friends, I grew up in the countryside and lived a life that I look back on fondly. But underneath that happy exterior was a desperate need to be good enough, and be something I wasn’t for the pleasure of those around me.

The way you see the world as a child, and the lessons you unconsciously learn seem to become ingrained in your being for the rest of your life. Well, until you’re ready to acknowledge that the lessons are often nonsense, and learn to rewrite your lessons that is.

I had amazing people around me. People that adored me, and accepted me for exactly who I was: The fun, wild, creative child, who underneath her puffy, party dresses, had scrapes and bruises on her knees from falling off her bike and climbing trees. A little girl that loved music, singing, and being silly. They all loved that little girl, but there was one person who that little girl was never good enough for, and that person was her Dad.

I was never good enough or accepted by him, and I went on to spend far too many years of my life attempting to be who he wanted me to be, or what I thought he wanted me to be. I pretended to be into motorbikes and cars, I pretended that I didn’t love girly things, I acted as if I loved the ugly trainers he bought me, and I moulded myself around what he wanted from me in hope that he would love me. However, it never worked, which left me wondering why I wasn’t good enough.

As a twenty-nine year old, I’m over my relationship with my Dad. If I never saw him again it would still feel too soon, but there is a child within me that is broken by the fact I was never seen, heard, or accepted by him; and it’s time to deal with that child.

“You need to go back and soothe her.” My counsellor told me.
“But I am her? I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that?”

The concept of healing my inner child was something I just couldn’t wrap my head around. Usually, I’m willing to dive headfirst into anything she tells me to do, but this, it just didn’t seem doable. I resisted it, but I knew it had to be done – don’t you just hate it when your counsellor is absolutely right?

I wrote myself a letter. I wrote to my inner child. It felt as stupid as it sounds, but it shifted something, that’s for sure. When I would look back at my inner child, I would see her trying to impress her Dad, trying to be who he wanted and enjoying any ounce of attention he would give her, but now she looks different. After talking to her, she’s away from him and she is safe at my Aunty and Uncle’s house. She’s no longer wearing stereotypical ‘boy’ clothes, she’s wearing a dress and gorgeous, girly trainers, and most of all, she looks happy.

Even though writing to her allowed me to pick her up and move her as if she was in one of them claw machines in an arcade, there’s still a lot of work left to do. Work that I no longer have the energy to take part in right now, but she’s safe and around people that accept her, which is half of the battle.

I wouldn’t willingly spend my time around negative people, I would remove myself from the situation and replace toxic people with nontoxic ones instead. So why have I been okay with leaving my inner child in a place that adult me wouldn’t spend more than five minutes in?

Coming to her rescue was well overdue, and now I’ve got my cape on I’m not willing to leave her alone to absorb any more feelings of not being good enough. I know I have always been good enough, from day one to now. Nearly thirty years later – there has never been a moment where I am have been anything other than good enough.

I just need to make sure my inner child knows this and that she never forgets it.