Today I’m Alive

This blog post is going to be one of the hardest I’ve written since the death of my son, and may perhaps be too difficult for those who know me well to read. I am going to be open and honest as I believe we should not shy away from mental illness. People need to hear about its horror, but if you know me well and don’t want to know any more, then you should stop reading at this point.

For the past few weeks, I’ve had an overwhelming sense of guilt – guilt for letting my little boy go without me on that fateful day; guilt for not being the one there to hold him when he was so badly hurt and dying; guilt for being such a bad mother. It doesn’t matter how many times or how many people tell me it wasn’t my fault, that there was nothing I could do, that I’ve done nothing wrong, it won’t make a difference. The guilt won’t go away until my mind is ready to let it go. It has been termed ‘delusional guilt’ by my psychiatrist. Whatever it’s called, it’s real, it hurts so much and it haunts me every day.

This delusional guilt has told me that I deserve to be hurt too. I let my little boy get so badly hurt therefore what right do I have not to be hurt. And so I’ve been hurting myself. I won’t go into too much detail, but cutting my skin has been one way. The other, which has made me loathe myself, has been to overeat to the point of feeling sick, then making myself vomit.

Whichever method I choose though, it isn’t enough. It’s not enough to take away that feeling of guilt. It doesn’t equal the suffering my little boy had to endure. It has made me feel a desperation so real and horrifying that I’ve wanted to tear myself out of my skin. How can I be called a mother if I wasn’t there when my little boy needed me the most? If Ned had to die (and I’ll never understand why he had to be taken), then he should have been in my arms, not a stranger’s. I was robbed of that. Robbed of the chance to hush and soothe my little boy and tell him that everything was going to be ok. Robbed of the chance to say Mam’s here.

That’s how I decided. The only way I could do that was if I died and Ned was placed with me, wrapped tightly in my arms, safe for ever, with Mam.

So I went to Ned’s grave and took a vast amount of tablets which made me vomit before becoming very drowsy. My husband suspected something was wrong and phoned the ambulance. The ambulance came and I was taken to hospital.

Needless to say, I survived. And I know I have to be here for Tomi and Cai who I love with all my heart. I know I have to be here for my husband. I know I have to be here for my close friends who have been with me every step of this horrifying journey. And I know that people will say how could she do that? She has her family who need her. How can she be so selfish?

But that’s what mental illness does. It takes away your rational thoughts. It takes over your whole body until you have no control. It is so powerful and so frightening that you must ask for help if you’re suffering in any way. It starts like a seed and it grows, its roots take hold, your mind flowers into what the illness wants. No one else can see it. You can hide it away. Your secret. But you can’t hide from it. It will follow you wherever you go. You can’t run away.

The incident I’ve written about happened at the weekend – merely days ago. My sons know nothing of what happened and I would never allow them to know the extent of my illness. But I do want to talk openly about my experiences because they are so terrifying and so difficult to comprehend, I hope that someone will read my blog and find some form of relief from reading it.

And I’m here to say that self-harming doesn’t work. I did it to cause myself pain but what was actually happening was the opposite. It was numbing my pain. The pain of losing my little boy. That pain will never go away. How can it? To bear that pain daily is an immense battle. It is a pain like no other and unless you’ve experienced it yourself, you can’t even begin to imagine, even if you think you can.

When I got up this morning I made two decisions. First and foremost I will try to keep myself alive for my two precious boys who need me now more than they ever have. Secondly, I will write my second book – I’ll write it for me and I’ll write it for Tomi, Ned and Cai. For my three boys.

I have daily care to support me. But for all the support I get, I am the only one who can control what happens. If I want to live, then I have to fight the battle in order to do so. I have to live with the pain. The pain I carry is worse than any pain you could ever imagine. It’s physical, emotional and mental. It is all-consuming.

But today I’ve battled it. Today I’m alive.

6 Months Gone …

It has been a little over six months since my little Ned died – 6 months, 14 days, 3 hours and 40 minutes to be exact. Yet it still feels like yesterday. Only everyone else has moved on, as life does, but I can’t. I don’t think I ever will.

My life is passing me by. I can’t remember where summer went. How can it be autumn with its fallen leaves, russets and misty mornings? Surely the pain becomes bearable over time, some say. Time heals. No. Time doesn’t heal because you can’t turn back time.

This week, I learnt the true meaning of the word ‘unbearable’. On Thursday, the pain of losing my little boy was so overwhelming that I collapsed outside the school and fell unconscious. An ambulance was called and I woke up in A&E. My body had been physically and emotionally unable to bear the pain of losing Ned. It is simply unbearable.

I have weekly bereavement counselling, weekly sessions with a mental health nurse who tells me her role is to keep me alive, regular appointments with a psychiatrist and my GP. I have been referred to the psychologist. My medication is continually increased so that I can function on a day-to-day basis. I carry many labels – depression, anxiety, delusional, post traumatic stress disorder and grief. They are the frighteningly real ingredients that make up me now.

You may have seen me smile the other day. You may even have heard me chuckle because I’m getting better at it. At functioning. Outwardly at least. Inside I’m screaming. I’m screaming so loudly yet it feels like I’m six-feet under because no one can hear me. If you can see the smile, why can’t you see the pain? If you can hear the chuckle, why can’t you hear the scream?

That’s the trouble with mental health. It’s hidden from sight. It’s a whispered secret. It’s a covered wound. But it’s real and it’s terrifying and it hurts. It’s a lurking darkness that smothers and suffocates. Some days it has complete control over me. I overdosed again three weeks ago, not an attempt to end my life, but to end the pain and darkness, just for a while; to stop the endless stream of questions that churn in my stomach and painfully pull at my heart – Why Ned? Why take a happy little boy with such love for life? My little boy. My little boy who wanted to learn to ride his bike with no stabilisers; my little boy who couldn’t wait to start his Stage 3 swimming lessons; my little boy who wanted ‘Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer’ sung to him every night; my little boy who would throw his arms around me and hold on so tightly I would have to prise his little hands off; my little boy who every night would say that he wanted to feel my kiss on his cheek all night till morning; my little boy who didn’t deserve to die.

And there are the images that haunt me when I’m cursed with being awake, yet too bone-tired to get out of bed. Two cars colliding, the noise of squealing tyres, metal crushing metal.

Then morning comes, another day. I get up exhausted and go through the motions. Today could be an ok day where I can share a coffee with a friend and smile. I might make it to evening without being floored by the pain. Then I sit at my son’s graveside and I cry silent tears. I drag myself back home and crawl into bed, relief flooding through me that I’ve lived another day. I’ve breathed through the darkness and made it to the other end. But then come the long night hours with their nightmares until dawn once again breaks on the horizon and a new battle begins.

This is life with grief and mental illness. It’s a life I grip onto with the very tips of my fingers as I dangle temptingly over the edge of the precipice. I am so fortunate to have a handful of people in my life who are my safety net. They have been there when I have let go in my search for release.

So here I am. Not a second of a day passes without I think of my little angel. Not a second of the day passes without I fight to stay alive. I fight because I want people to remember my special little boy – the little boy with the dimples and the sticky-up hair; the little boy who lit up a room instantly; the little boy who touched so many hearts in his short life. I must stay here to tell his story, to share his memory because I am so very proud to have been his Mam.

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Grace-Ella: Spells for Beginners (dedicated to my little boy lost)

Available to order on Amazon

Available to order from

Available to buy at a bookshop near you (hopefully!)




I am your angel

When darkness must fall

And sleep will disobey,

I’ll lie awake

And hear you say…


‘I am your angel

Right here with you,

Holding you tight

The whole night through.

I’m by your side

Wherever you go,

Holding your hand

I’ll never let go.

I’ll be right there

Tucked in your heart,

Safe and happy

We’ll never part.

I’ll never leave

I’ll be right here,

Throughout your life

I’ll always be near.

You’re never alone

For I’m always here,

To wipe away

That guilt-filled tear.

I am your angel

Right here with you,

Each step you take

I’ll take it too.’

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Living with my grief

Living with grief is hell. Absolute utter hell. It comes in waves; it hits you like a tidal wave when you least expect it. It doesn’t give a moment’s thought as to when it strikes. It doesn’t wait until I’m tucked up in bed, alone and hidden from view. The wave hits when I’m walking down the street, when I’m sitting in a cafe, when I’m playing with Tomi and Cai. And what I’ve learnt is that I can’t hide it. I am a mother who has lost a child. That is what it is. That is what it will always be.

I had clinical depression and anxiety before this tragic event in my life. I was slowly getting better. But the loss of my son has been so horrific that I will never now get better. It makes me bubble inside when people tell me, ‘Oh give it time, it’ll get easier, you’ll get better.’ No. No it won’t. Easier perhaps in that I learn to perfect my acting, but that’s about it.

As with my last blog post on my grief, I am writing this today as it has been a particularly tough week again. An assessment by my psychiatrist has given me a new label. My clinical depression has deteriorated and now includes elements of psychosis and delusional guilt; my anxiety has become severe. They are frightening labels to carry. But they are words, diagnoses. But they are diagnoses that people don’t understand; that people are scared of because they can’t see them. That’s the trouble with mental illness. That’s why I’m writing about it. It’s real and it’s terrifying.

The new diagnoses has meant my medication has been increased. Again, I know that people (even those close to me) worry that the medication is not allowing me to grieve fully. What I try to make them understand is that without the medication, I wouldn’t be here. But that’s too incomprehensible. Of course I’d be here. I have two sons who need me, a husband. I have my book to look forward to. I have a future. Believe me, I would not be here. I know it. 100%.

So that is why I take the medication, so that I can try to live. Because I have to. It’s either this, or taking the easy option; the option which haunts me, tempts me on a daily basis. But I am fighting it, day after day, night after night. I will not let the easy option win.

Next week, it will be 5 months since I lost my son. 5 months. How can that be possible because I’m still there, stuck on March the 25th, confused, hurting, lonely, trapped. And I now have a new weight to carry. Guilt. Guilt that is eating away at me. Why did I let my little boy go that day? Why did I not keep him safe? Why wasn’t I the one holding him when he was so badly hurt and needed his Mam?

These are the questions that feed on me, like vultures. They make me want to tear my hair out. They make my legs buckle. They make me physically sick. I let my boy down so badly and I will never forgive myself. People can shout at me that it wasn’t my fault and that I could never have known. It won’t make a difference. Nothing that anyone says will change it. It’s the guilt that I have to carry for the rest of my life. And it is so heavy that breathing for me has become a challenge. Getting out of bed in the morning is a challenge. Being is a challenge. Grief is a challenge.

I get angry. Why me? Why my little boy? What have I done that was so terrible that my little boy had to be taken from me? Why have I been robbed of the one thing that every mother does – to hold their child when they are hurt; to whisper soothing words to make the pain go away? I never got to do that. I never got to say, ‘Sh… Mam’s here, it’s ok,’ whilst I stroked his face. This tears me to pieces. It’s like someone ripping my heart out and jumping up and down on it.

This is my life. I’m being brutally honest because writing it as it is helps me a little. There is no softening it. It is how it is. It’s a vast ocean that I’ll swim in for the rest of my life. And this is why I grasp onto anything that will keep me afloat. My family. My close friends. My writing. Some days I’m drowning and am clinging onto these life rafts with the mere tips of my fingers. Some days I have a tight hold on them. Perhaps one day I’ll feel like I’m on a boat, safely sailing through my grief. Perhaps.

The next fortnight is going to be so incredibly difficult. We have the inquest to face – the cold, harsh, blunt reality of that fateful day. And so I must battle to cling on to my lifelines. That’s what I’m focusing on. That glimmer on the horizon. My debut book publishing. An achievement that I must try to be proud of. An achievement that my family is proud of. An achievement that Ned was proud of. And I owe that to my Ned. He wouldn’t want his Mam to give up. He’d say, ‘Come on Mam, write another one now.’

So I’m saying, ‘Ok, Ned. I will. I’ll do it for you.’



A month to go …

In exactly one month’s time, my debut children’s book, ‘Grace-Ella: Spells for Beginners’ will be on the shelves in bookshops. How surreal! My dream a reality. Scary and thrilling at the same time. Exciting and deeply sad because of the loss of my little boy earlier this year.

All my blog posts over the past four months have centred on that tragic loss. My grief has been all-consuming and the pain that I’ve been in every day has been unbearable. I worried about how I would be able to look forward to my book being published. But my book has turned into a lifeline – something that has given me focus and direction. No, the pain of the loss of my little Ned hasn’t lessened, but it means that I’ve had something to grab onto as grief leaves you feeling like you’re adrift at sea, alone and frightened.

I started writing five years ago, after Ned contracted meningitis at six weeks old. Once he recovered I realised how precious life was. How it can be snatched away in the blink of an eye. As I was off work on maternity leave, I decided to sit down and write a short story. I thought to myself, ‘Right enough of this one day I’ll write a book nonsense. I’m going to sit down and actually give it a go.’

My first short story was called ‘Waiting for Light’ (it’s posted on this blog) and I was thrilled that after writing it, I entered it into a competition with Writers’ Forum magazine, and it was placed second. That was the boost I needed. I wrote several short stories over the following months and won or was placed in many. But deep down I knew that I wanted to write for children. And I wanted to write a book.

I returned to work and fell into a downward spiral of depression and anxiety – yet writing was that one thing that I could hold onto. I started writing ‘Grace-Ella’ in the early hours before I had to go to work. A year later I had finished. I had written a book. A children’s book. And despite the depression having taken a real hold of me, I felt a little something – pride I suppose.

After pondering over what to do with my book and reading countless articles on publishing and researching agents and publishers, quite by chance I came across Firefly Press. A Wales based publisher that wanted to publish books for children aged 7-9 that were based in Wales. My story fit the criteria so I sent it off, convinced that it would be rejected and would stop me from pursuing this ridiculous dream. I mean, I had read that it was virtually impossible to get published without an agent, and even more impossible to get an agent without being published.

Three months later came an email for a full manuscript request. Fast forward another month and I was sitting with the publisher and editor of Firefly Press drinking coffee and discussing the real possibility of my book being published. I don’t think I have to say that I floated home that day.

Editing was done and my story was put forward for a book grant with the Welsh Books Council. Then came the waiting … and waiting … and waiting. During this time I was diagnosed with clinical depression and anxiety and started taking antidepressants. It was such a relief to know that it wasn’t just me being stupid and weak – I had an actual illness that needed treating.

Then came the email that my book had been given the grant and an offer of publication from Firefly Press. Well, I squealed and leapt about and did the conga around the house with Tomi and Ned. I had done it. Despite the depression and anxiety, I had worked hard and achieved my dream.

That was last year. I knew that I had to give up teaching as it was the primary cause of my illness, so made the decision at the end of last year, when I had to go off on sick leave to have a hysterectomy, to give up teaching. It wasn’t an easy decision to make. I had three little boys to raise, bills to pay, a fairly crippling mortgage. But I was also severely depressed and had to get better.

As soon as I posted my resignation letter something lifted off my shoulders. I could breathe a little easier. Everything seemed that little bit brighter. I was able to give my full attention to my boys and my writing. I was able to take them to school and pick them up every day. Whilst they were at school I wrote. I could take them to swimming, football … the countless clubs that they attended. I had time for reading and homework in the evenings without having to rush them to bed so that I could get on with marking and preparation for school. For the first time in a very long time, I was happy. Really happy. I had my writing and I had my boys.

Then it was all snatched away from me on the 25th of March. My little Ned, only 5 years old, set off with his grandmother to an Easter Egg Hunt and I never saw him alive again. My world was shattered.

I’ve blogged in detail about my journey through grief so I’m not going to go into it here. I know that I’ll never be the same person as I was before. I’ll never again experience true happiness. I’ll never again wake up without that heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’ll never again have a day when I don’t cry.

But, because of Ned, my dream of being an author has come true. I have a book that will be out there for children to read. Ned loved reading. He was reading well above his age, devouring three or four books a night. He was so excited about Mam being an author. And so every day, I get out of bed because I have two other little boys who need their Mam. And I know, deep in my heart, that Ned would want me to continue to pursue my dream. He wasn’t a giver-up. He would try till he got things right. So I won’t disappoint him. I’ll make him proud by writing down the stories that drift into my head.

‘Grace-Ella: Spells for Beginners’ will publish in a month’s time – September 15th. And I know that wherever Ned is, he’ll be shouting ‘Go Mam, you’re awesome.’


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Broken Souls

The pain cuts too deep

A vulture feeding on flesh

‘Till there’s nothing left

And bones crumple

To the ground.



Soaring, flying free

No pain for all eternity

Searching soul-filled skies

Until we meet

And our hearts beat.



The pain cuts too deep

For broken souls

As they search the sky

For the answer to why

A bitter hurt so deep.



I Am Gone

How can you not see

that there is no me

I am not here

I’m empty

and do not feel

your embrace

or your touching hand

on my tear-stained face

as day turns to night

and I fall weightless

into the dark abyss

free from wakefulness

as my eyes drift closed

and I am gone

and my heart beats happy

as I find my son.

No Tomorrow

I didn’t know that there’d be no time

to say I love you a million more times;

to stroke your hair and touch your face,

to wrap you up tight in a warm embrace.


I didn’t know that there’d never again be

a time to snuggle up with a bedtime story;

or sing your songs as we lay on your bed,

or tuck you up tight and kiss your sweet head.


I didn’t know as I waved you goodbye

that I’d never have you again by my side;

I didn’t know that you’d be taken from me,

so suddenly, so cruelly and so tragically.


I didn’t know that this is how it would be,

my little boy lost for eternity;

no years ahead to live and enjoy,

a life snatched away from my precious boy.


I didn’t know that there’d be no tomorrow

just endless days of pain and sorrow;

but for all the tears that I will cry,

I’ll never once whisper a final goodbye.





Learning to live with grief

In my previous blog posts about my grief following the sudden loss of my son four months ago, I’ve written about how it changed over the first three months. I’ve written openly about my desperate attempt to find a moment’s relief from the crippling pain that fills me all day every day. My last blog post ended with finding a ‘glimmer’ – the tiniest fluttering in the back of my mind that I can be strong enough to survive this for my three boys and that I can somehow live some form of life.

This is what it has been for the past month. Trying, with every last ounce of strength that I have, to live. And it has been hard; exhaustingly so. I started my bereavement counselling at this point and I am so fortunate to have a strong, understanding counsellor. I also have the continuing support from my GP and I am still on a cocktail of strong medication. Some will say the medication simply masks my feelings and is delaying the inevitable. That may be, but I honestly could not get out of bed and face each and every day without it. I couldn’t. One day I might be able to, or maybe I never will. My opinion is, if the medication is doing something to help me get through each day for my boys, then it’s doing its job.

The corner that I have turned means that I have come to accept that the heavy weight that sits in my stomach from the moment I wake up to the moment I fall asleep, is now a part of me, just like my beating heart. It’s there, it’s never going to go away, so I have no choice but to learn to live with it. The same goes for the tears I cry – night after night. They’ll never stop, but I have to accept that they’ll come, every night when I sit next to my Ned. And not just then – they come during the day when a memory hits me so hard my legs give beneath me. But they’re a part of me, just as breathing is.

None of this means that the overwhelming urge for a moment’s relief has gone. Most days I have to curl myself into a ball and fight against the urge to cut my skin or to swallow a handful of tablets. It’s a daily battle and it’s hard – bloody horrendous. But I battle it because I know that the moment’s relief on offer is nothing more than that. A moment. And the feelings of guilt and no self-worth that followed these incidents just intensified the pain of grief. I had to realise that myself before I could stop. The professionals told me, but I didn’t listen. You have to realise it for yourself.

Having self-worth has been key, this past month. If I don’t believe that I have a right to live and try to have happy moments, then I’ve lost the battle. I give up. I die. This is something I talk a lot about during my counselling sessions. One thing we’ve set up is that I have one day a week, without the boys, away from home, with my friend. This one day has kept me afloat over the last few weeks. We spend the days chatting, drinking coffee, browsing shops, walking – just being. I have a handful of close friends who have been with me every step of the way and I know, from the bottom of my heart, I wouldn’t be here writing this without them. I will never be able to find the words to thank them for their support and kindness.

This past week has been incredibly hard, with the start of the summer holidays. I have felt Ned’s absence so acutely, it literally takes my breath away. It was almost like I pretended he was at school before, but with the other two at home, I can’t pretend. This has brought with it a new pain, a new part to my grief. The realisation that Ned isn’t here. He never will be. But how do I begin to accept that? How do I begin to accept that I will never hold my little boy again? Never see his beautiful face or hold his little hand? Never hear his infectious laugh? Never feel his warm body cuddled up against me? The answer is that I never will. It’s too big. It’s too incomprehensible. That’s what I accept now. I accept that I’ll never accept Ned’s death because if I did, then my heart would stop beating and I would no longer be. And I can’t allow that to happen because my other two boys need me, and Ned needs me to keep his memory alive.

So this is the new me – the me who lives with my grief. Writing has helped me from the very start. I have written this today because the overwhelming sadness was clinging to me and I was pacing the house trying to breathe through it. Sitting myself down and writing this blog focused my mind, slowed my breathing and stopped my tears. I am in the middle of decorating our office space to be my ‘work’ space, as my job now is being an author. My youngest will be attending nursery school four mornings a week as of September – these will be my work hours. This is when I will get back into writing.

My debut book ‘Grace-Ella: Spells for Beginners’ will publish on the 15th of September with Firefly Press. The first book in a series – a series that I will write in my new office space. A series that will be written because slowly I am beginning to believe and accept that I should and need to be alive, and that I have the right to have happy moments. A series that will be written because Ned would have wanted it to be written. He was the one who inspired me to begin writing and he inspires me to continue to do so.

My eldest son, Tomi, found out that my book was available to pre-order on Amazon and said, ‘Mam, you’re on Amazon. That’s a bit cool.’ I’ll take that with a big smile on my face and I will follow my dream of being a children’s author to make my three sons proud.

Grieving for my little boy (Part 3)

Grief never goes away but it constantly changes – without warning. I had never experienced true grief until three months ago when my little boy died. Losing a child is the worst possible grief to experience. It’s all consuming. The pain I feel is unbearable. Some days it’s hard to stay upright. The pain is both physical and mental. It’s endless.

I started craving some form of release from this crippling pain, even if just for a few minutes, because it’s there, from the second I wake up to the second I pass out at night due to medication.

The first time I managed to feel a little release was unexpected, unplanned. I was sat next to my little boy’s grave crying and saying ‘sorry’ over and over again. As I held onto the grass I picked up a sharp-edged stone. Before I even knew what I was doing, I was scratching Ned’s name into my leg. I felt nothing. I paused. The anxiety wasn’t there. I actually felt nothing – for the first time in weeks I was numb. So I carried on. The scratching got deeper. Blood started to trickle. Still nothing and it was bliss.

Once Ned’s name was clear on my leg, smiling, I hid the stone under the little plaque of his name. It was our secret. Just Ned and me. As I walked home, the pain and anxiety hit me once again, but I clung onto that tiny glimmer that I had found a way to relieve the pain just for a few minutes.

So that’s what I did, as I sat next to Ned every night. I scratched away – always Ned’s name. My wrist, my ankles, my knees. But then it stopped. It stopped numbing my pain. It was making me angry. Angry that I was sitting there making a mess of myself. It was never going to bring Ned back. And that realisation stopped it from working. It no longer numbed my raw pain, it was adding to it. I had to stop. But I desperately needed something else, anything that would stop the awfulness for a few seconds.

Sadly, I found a new form of release in taking tablets. The first time it was just a handful more than I should. The second time, a few more. I ended up in A&E having overdosed six times in the space of three weeks. My intention was never to end my life. I have two other sons who I love with all my being and would never do anything to harm them in any form. But I was taking enough to knock me out because then I didn’t feel.

The last episode was only last week, but I’ve turned a corner since then which is why I am able to write about this. I lay awake all night and thought, ‘No, I have to stop this. I have to try and live some form of life, for my two boys and for Ned. I have to keep his memory alive.’ I cried and cried, but I felt something; something other than crippling pain. It’s a tiny glimmer, this something. It’s right at the back of my head and some days I can’t find it. But there have been days in the last week when I have.

One of these days was last Friday when the cover for my debut book was released. A book with my name on it. My dream come true. A book that I will dedicate to my beautiful little Ned. Yes, it’s bittersweet because he’s not here to share in it, but it’s for him and his name will be in the book, just like he wanted.

The support I received on Twitter following the release of the cover was overwhelming and I thank every single person who sent me messages. They really do keep me going. Because after all, ‘Grace-Ella: Spells for Beginners’ is the first in a series, so I have more books to write. And on those days when I can find that tiny glimmer in my head, I truly believe that I will be able to live and write and be me. Not the old me. A new me. A new me who has words to put on the page. A new me who has two little boys physically in my life, and a very special little boy who lives in my heart.

It won’t be easy, I know that. There will be cripplingly bad days when that glimmer doesn’t exist (yesterday was one). But there will be ok days, never good any more, but ok. And when you’ve lived for three months in a dark pain-filled hole, ok is good.