Fighting Fit (The First Step)

This is the first in a collection posts that I’m going to write, as I have decided to share my journey to improve my physical health, here. There are two main reasons for this:

1. Writing helps me and keeps me focussed.
2. My words may help someone who is on a similar journey to me.

Over the last few years, I have openly written about my battle with my mental health. I have been open about suffering with depression and anxiety, and have spoken about my first mental breakdown at the end of 2014, when I became suicidal. Thankfully, at that time, I asked for help and started on my recovery, which included taking anti-depressants. I have spoken about losing my little boy, Ned, in 2016, which shattered my whole world, and about how I struggle every day to live since that day, battling with PTSD and Complex Grief Disorder.

What I’ve never really spoken about is my battle with my physical health and weight. But our mental health and physical health are interconnected (there are many websites which talk about this). When one deteriorates, it is highly likely that the other will too. When you’re locked in that negative cycle it can feel desperate and hopeless. What I want to try do for myself is to change that cycle into a positive one: Improvement in my Physical Health = Improvement in my Mental Health.

During my 20s, I was reasonably active. I would go to aerobics classes, go swimming once a week – your average level of activity. But when depression became a strong presence in my life in my early 30s, I withdrew from physical exercise, and life in general. I didn’t want to leave the house, other than having to go to work.

When I was diagnosed with Clinical Depression and Anxiety in 2014, one of the things I wanted to work on was to get back to doing some physical activity. I joined a running club and found a non-competitive netball group to join. I had never run before, but had heard so much about its benefits, and I have always loved netball.

In December 2015, I went into hospital to have a hysterectomy. My intention was always to get back running and playing netball once I had recovered. It turned out to be a complicated op and I was told that my physical recovery would be slow – at least 6 months to start feeling ‘normal’. 3 months post-op, Ned died.

Since then, I haven’t looked after my physical health at all. It’s difficult to explain but life for me now is either a really bad day when I’m in a dark state of despair and I don’t want to be anymore, or it’s a ‘quiet’ day when I don’t really feel anything at all; when I’m completely disconnected from the world around me.

With life being one of these two states, it’s very difficult to find the motivation to do anything other than go through the motions to get through the day. That doesn’t mean I’m not aware of my physical health deteriorating, I just haven’t got anything left in me to address it properly.

But when I go to bed at night, the tears come, and the shame and disgust and self-loathing that live inside me. And it has been getting worse and worse, making me withdraw further and further from life outside my front door. At the weekend, my husband suggested we all go into town for a coffee. On parking, I began to cry uncontrollably and didn’t want to leave the car. It took 15 minutes for me to be able to open the car door. That’s how real this is for me. This isn’t me wanting to lose weight to fit into a particular dress, or me wanting to lose a few pounds before the summer. This is me wanting, no needing, to change my life because I know I can’t keep going like this.

To sum up where I’m at in terms of my physical health:

• Over the last 5 years, I have gained 5 stone in weight (partly as a side-effect of the medication I take)
• My blood pressure has been creeping up and I am now at the very high end of ‘normal’
• I am at a high risk of developing diabetes (my Dad had Type 2 diabetes, and I developed gestational diabetes, which put me in a high risk category without the weight gain)
• I am in the menopause (and still suffer with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome as my ovaries haven’t been removed)
• I have Binge Eating Disorder (BED)

I have tried on two occasions over the last two years to get professional help. The first time it was brushed away. To be exact, the words that were said to me were, ‘So you’re chubby and tend to over-indulge. I think you have bigger things to address in your life at the moment.’ The second time, nothing. I underwent a mental health assessment after my GP referred me due to feeling suicidal. In that hour-long assessment, I forced myself to open up, despite feeling ashamed, and said how I didn’t want to leave the house anymore, how I didn’t want people to see me, how I can’t look in the mirror or have a photo taken of myself as it makes me feel physically sick, how I feel so much shame and disgust and hate for myself. The assessment ended with an outline of the support I would get with the promise of a phone call in a couple of days. I never received that phone call. I never received the support they said I would.

So, this is a battle I have to face by myself. I have tried sporadically over the last 3 years, with different approaches. I started running again, and did get myself to a point where I was really enjoying being out running, but I never manage to sustain it. I get into a pretty bad place mentally and any physical activity I am doing at the time, stops. This then leads to me feeling angry with myself, feeling stupid and disgusted that I can’t change things, which then worsens the BED and on an on the negative cycle turns.

I have joined Slimming World twice over the past year, but have failed with this too. But I’ve realised that without addressing my BED, following a diet plan isn’t going to work. I would follow the plan all day, but then I would binge during the night, feel disgusted and ashamed of myself, and then not be able to face going to the weekly group.

Over the last couple of days, since my panic attack in the car, I have been trying to come up with a plan to try and make the changes I so desperately want. I know I’m going to have to put every bit of fight I have into this, and although I’m facing this battle by myself, by sharing my journey here, I feel a little less alone, if that makes sense.

And so today is Day One, my starting point. The finish line is a long way away, not visible at present, as I’m going to take small steps, and only focus on one week at a time. I know if I put too much pressure and expectation on myself, and set myself far-reaching goals, I’ll crumble.

I will be posting here weekly, about what has worked for me and what hasn’t. I will be honest about how my journey is going, and will share both the highs and the lows … and I promise that my posts will be much shorter than this one!!

So here is my plan for Week 1:

• Keep a food diary (which will include foods eaten if I binge)
• Follow the Slimming World plan (but for now, I won’t be attending the weekly weigh-in)
• Do some form of physical activity 3 times (not including my daily dog walks)
• Only weigh myself once every morning (I currently weigh myself 4/5 times a day therefore once a day is more realistic for me at the moment than say once a week)
• Order(and start reading)a book about beating BED, that has been recommended to me

If you’ve made it here to the end of my post – thank you for sticking with me!

See you here next week for an update!

Battling the Binge

This post talks about body image, eating disorders and suicidal thoughts. If you think this will distress you, please don’t read on.

This is a difficult post for me to write. Until now, I haven’t spoken openly about this but I feel like now is the right time to because I want to get better. I don’t want this thing controlling my life anymore.

I looked at my thighs. They were fat. Much bigger than everyone else’s. Tears threatened to fall. I wanted to run away and hide somewhere… I was 10 years old and sitting on a low wooden bench in the school hall at the start of a P.E lesson.

That’s my first memory of becoming self-conscious of my body; the start of my continuing battle with body image. I don’t know what triggered it, but I remember it so clearly. I was wearing yellow shorts and a white t-shirt and I wished that I could look like everyone else. I wished I was thin.

It was during my teenage years that it really took hold. I loved school and I had a large circle of friends. I thrived on school work and from a very young age, wanted to succeed. I didn’t want C grades, I wanted As. I’m a perfectionist, always have been, which makes me very critical of and hard on myself.

The bullying taunts started almost immediately in Secondary School – ‘fatty’, ‘tree trunk legs’, ‘ugly’, ‘swot’, ‘teacher’s pet’… a relentless chorus of phrases hurled at me.

It was after one particularly unpleasant encounter, when one of the boys who regularly called me names walked down the school drive behind me at the end of the day, kicking me in my back whilst calling me ‘fat’, ‘fatty’, ‘ugly’, that my relationship with food took a negative turn. I carried on walking, ignoring the boy, determined not to cry until I was safely behind my closed front door (I lived next to the school at the time).

The house was empty and I sat on the floor and cried. I cried until I was heaving empty sobs. I can remember walking through the kitchen, into the pantry room that was at the back of the house, opening a loaf of bread and stuffing a slice into my mouth … then another … and another … fistfuls of cornflakes … biscuits … until I felt weak and sick. I went up to my bedroom, and lay on my bed. I curled up, my stomach churning. Disgust and shame fell like a heavy blanket over me. Later that evening, I sat at the table with my family to eat tea, forcing each mouthful down until my plate was clear.

These bingeing episodes continued throughout my teens, more or less daily. Sometimes I would throw up straight afterwards. Sometimes I would stick my fingers down my throat to force myself to be sick. Sometimes I would let it sit heavy in my stomach. I would stuff food wrappers into the bottom of the bin, or hide them in my bedroom until I could stuff them into the outside bin on bin collection day without the risk of them being found. I never told anyone. I couldn’t. I was so ashamed of myself but I didn’t know how to stop. I felt stupid and weak and just accepted that I would always be fat and ugly and disgusting. I hated myself. This is what lived inside me. On the outside, I smiled. I was happy with my friends. I never wanted them to know who I really was. I never wanted them to know my dirty secret.

I hid it from my family because I didn’t want to be a disappointment. I got so good at hiding it no one ever suspected. Not a single question was asked. I was just Sharon – shy, good at school, got on with her work and had fun with her friends. On the outside, I looked happy.

I never, not for one second, thought I was ill. I was just me. It was just how I was.

At University, the bingeing became less frequent, but never completely went away. I have no control over the bingeing when it happens. I can only describe it as being in a trance-like state – not feeling anything other than a need to stuff food into myself.

Whilst at University, sometimes I would purge, sometimes I wouldn’t. Again, I never told anyone. I had very close friends and I was happy. I loved University life. When I was out with my friends, I didn’t have to think of this ugliness that lurked inside me. I could forget that I had this horrible disgusting habit.

This is the pattern that continued into adulthood. I had come to accept it as a part of me. It was just something I did. I never considered that I had an eating disorder – eating disorders were anorexia and bulimia, and whilst I did purge at times, I didn’t have bulimia because I didn’t make myself sick all the time.

It was in 2012, after returning to work following my second maternity leave, that depression and anxiety took root in me. And with this, the self-loathing intensified. I started to avoid going out socially with work because I hated the way I looked.

I sunk deeper and deeper over the next three years until I reached the point where I didn’t want to live any longer. Life was too much and I could see no way out. I wanted it all to stop. I didn’t want to be me any more.

After a frighteningly close experience, where I was drawn back from the edge by thinking about my three boys, I sought help. I was diagnosed with clinical depression and anxiety and started to take anti-depressants.

Slowly, over the months that followed, I started to feel better. Life felt a bit lighter. I started to see a better future for myself, a future where I could be happy. By then I had begun writing and had my first book deal, a dream from childhood come true. I made the difficult decision to leave my job as a teacher as it played a central role in my depression and anxiety. I was finally turning a corner.

Then my little boy died. And just like that, my whole world collapsed. I’m not going to write about it here, but only say that there is no pain like that of losing a child.

Only with intensive therapy have I been able to keep going after this traumatic event. Throughout this battle, the one thing that has been constant, is the binge eating. I barely ate for the first couple of months after Ned died and two stone of weight dropped away (the weight that I had gained since starting to take antidepressants). I was put on a strong cocktail of medication by a psychiatrist and as the months passed, the weight crept back on and I got heavier and heavier. Weight-gain is a known side-effect of many prescribed medications for mental health disorders. By now, I have gained four stone.

Having never spoken about my relationship with food, I finally decided to start opening up to my therapist, about three years ago. It was only then that I learnt about the existence of another eating disorder – binge-eating disorder.

I have since read many online articles about this disorder and cried tears of relief at being able to say, ‘Yes, that’s what happens to me. That’s what’s wrong with me.’ I have social anxiety, I don’t want people to see me because of the way I look. I make excuses not to meet people. I can’t look in a mirror. I avoid having my photo taken. I hate the way I look. I hate me.

Just as knowing that I had depression and anxiety helped me, knowing that this is an actual illness has helped to erase some of the shame I carry. This self-loathing I have of the way I look isn’t vanity. It’s part of this disorder.

I binge eat almost every day, always in secret, too ashamed to admit what I do. I hide food and empty wrappers. Some days I’ll purge. Some days I don’t. But every day I hate myself a little bit more for it.

Now that I’m coming to terms that this as an illness, I know I want to get better. This eating disorder has had control over me for most of my life and I don’t want it to any more. I’ve learnt that overcoming an eating disorder is an incredibly tough battle. There is no quick-fix. There isn’t a tablet that will make it go away. I know that this is something I have to do on my own and it’s going to take immense willpower and determination.

So today I’m starting that battle. Writing this blog has been my first step – it’s my way of shrugging away the shame and guilt and saying, ‘I have this illness but now I’m going to do everything I can to beat it.’

What do I do next?

I’m going to start with what I learnt in therapy – keeping a daily food diary, writing down everything I eat, and start to establish a regular eating routine to my day.

This is the very beginning of my battle to beat this eating disorder. This isn’t about losing weight although yes, ultimately, I do want to lose the four stone that I have gained. This is about not having food control my life. I want to feel healthier. I want to have the energy to play with the boys and our new little puppy – to go for walks and bike rides. I want to be able to leave the house without feeling sick with anxiety about the way I look.

I don’t want to carry this as a secret any more.

I don’t want to feel ashamed any more.

I don’t want to be full of self-loathing any more.

I don’t want to hide away any more.

I don’t want to be defined by this eating disorder any more.

Reading and Empathy

empathy – the ability to share someone else’s feelings or experiences by imagining what it would be like to be in their situation

Today it’s #empathyday.

Every one of us has the ability to demonstrate empathy, to be empathic. It’s a personality trait that grows and develops within us. By nurturing this trait, it can grow and blossom.

When I think of an empathic person, I think of…

1. Someone who really listens. Someone who listens non-judgmentally and doesn’t make assumptions. Someone who wants to learn.
2. Someone who gives their time to understand, who doesn’t rush away or cut you off. Someone who is comfortable to sometimes sit alongside you in silence until you’re ready to share your thoughts.
3. Someone who reaches out to you, even if you haven’t explicitly asked them to, because they know, they’ve picked up on something that hasn’t been spoken.
4. Someone who allows you to say what you want to say without interrupting and trying to second guess what it is you’re trying to express. Someone who can respect your thoughts and opinions, even if they differ from theirs.
5. Someone who doesn’t push their opinions and beliefs on you, but listens and tries to see and understand your perspective. Someone who is ready to question.
6. Someone who wants to help, who wants to see change and will do whatever they can to do just that.

Some people are naturally more empathic than others. I’m not a psychologist and have no scientific background, so I can’t explain why this is. But from my own life experience, through childhood, as a teenager and in adulthood, I have come across both empathic people and those who don’t show empathy.

Luckily, empathy isn’t something that’s genetically ‘fixed’ inside us. It’s something that can be taught and developed. It isn’t a matter of being inherently empathic or not. It’s something that we can all – every single one of us – have and use.

One powerful tool for learning and developing empathy is reading. This isn’t a new concept, there is much written about the relationship between reading and empathy. By connecting with a character in a book and becoming involved in their story, we develop our understanding of their feelings and actions, which develops empathy. Between the covers of a book, we meet people who may never cross paths with in real life. We see things from different viewpoints. We see new situations and travel to parts of the world that we may never visit in person. Quite simply, reading opens up the world to us.

Knowing and understanding this, it makes perfect sense to develop a love of reading in children, so they too have access to the world; so that they too can wonder and view and question and feel. In books, children can see themselves and can also see others. They can connect and relate and learn and understand.

There is such a wealth of children’s books available today, stories that can take children on so many different journeys. There are books to make them laugh and cry, to explore their emotions, open up their minds and help them to grow as individuals.

For #empathyday ‘The Empathy Lab’ have chosen 50 books for their ‘Read for Empathy’ list, for children from 4-16 years old, which can be found on their website. They are also running online events throughout the day to help children read, connect and act using empathy, which is their focus this year – Read, Connect, Act. Developing our ability to be empathic is so very important, and equally as important is that we then act empathically.

Of course, reading for empathy isn’t just for children. As adults, reading can help us to develop our empathy and improve our wellbeing.

Reading has always been an important part of my life, from a very young age, when a visit to the library was the highlight of my week. Reading has helped me to deal with and gain a better understanding of difficult situations and emotions, from being bullied to battling depression. I often share blog posts about my own experiences for the sole purpose of reaching out and hopefully finding someone who can grasp onto my words, my experiences, and find a connection and feel a little less alone.

Right now, reading is helping me learn to live with the most painful grief; the grief I carry since losing my little boy, Ned, in 2016.

And perhaps most important of all, reading gives me hope – hope that things can get better, that I can keep taking small steps forwards in my life, that I can grow and find my own place in the world.

 

 

 

My 9 Grief ‘Top and Not’ Tips…

On Monday, the 2nd of March, it would be Ned’s 9th birthday. I find it difficult to comprehend. Four years without him seems impossible.

As I’ve said many times during the last four years, writing blog posts about my journey with grief has helped me to try to make some sense of the swirling storm of thoughts in my head. So to honour Ned’s 9th birthday, I thought I’d write a blog about what has helped me, and continues to help me following Ned’s death. And on the flip side, what hasn’t helped/doesn’t help.

I still find a reluctancy to talk about grief and that it’s preferred to avoid the subject, or steer conversation away from it. I feel strongly about opening up to grief, sharing experiences, connecting, because grief is a very frightening place to try to navigate alone.

Once grief strikes, it becomes a part of you, it never goes away. It’s a lifelong journey. Some of my ‘tips’ refer specifically to the early days of my grief, others to the continuous journey, the right now. I hope they help, in some small way, those who find themselves needing to support a grieving person. Supporting a grieving person is tough and at times you’ll get it wrong, but that’s ok because it means you’re trying.

My ‘tips’ are numbered but they are not in any order of importance – they are of equal importance to me. And as grief is something so very individual, these are my ‘tips’, they’re the things that have affected my grief.

 

9 ‘Top’ Tips:

#1 (Early days) Having close friends and family in the house. I couldn’t bear silence. I needed there to be noise in the background. I needed there to be life. I couldn’t really face the visitors who came to offer their condolences, but whilst I lay on Ned’s bed, I needed there to be noise in the background.

#2 (Early days) Helping with Tomi and Cai, my two other sons. I could barely function, so those friends who took Tomi to their houses, or came over to play with them, were a godsend. Distraction was so important in those first weeks, especially for 8-year-old Tomi. They needed normality and I couldn’t give them that.

#3 (Early days) Bringing food. It really was appreciated. I didn’t know what day of the week it was, let alone be able to think about cooking a meal.

#4 (Early days) Helping with housework. Washing clothes. Loading the dishwasher. Small things that are huge in those first weeks.

#5 (Early days) Getting professional support for me. A friend managed, despite it being Easter weekend, to get in contact with my GP, who then came to the house. I can still remember the relief I felt seeing her walk into the house the day after Ned died. Here was someone I trusted, someone I knew would try to help me.

#6 Talking about Ned. Sharing memories and stories with me. Bringing me letters/pictures from his friends – they mean so very much to me. Telling me that Ned will always be in your hearts and never forgotten.

#7 Friends who text just to let me know they’re thinking of us. Friends who have no expectations, but simply keep in touch.

#8 Close friends who listen without judgement, who show understanding and empathy, who have shown me over and over how much they care. Even when they haven’t known what to say or do, when they’ve had to face me in my darkest moments, they have never turned their backs on me. They have been with me every step of the way.

#9 Finding the right therapist. I feel so very lucky to have landed on my therapist’s doorstep. She has kept me here, kept me battling, kept me moving forward.

 

9 ‘Not’ Tips:

#1 Staying away – I understand that coming here isn’t easy (especially in those early weeks/months), but staying away hurts. I have people who were a part of my life, who knew Ned, who have just disappeared. No contact at all. It has hurt deeply. And to be bluntly honest, I can’t take any more hurt.

#2 Avoiding me/crossing to the other side of the road. You don’t have to stop and chat. If you don’t know what to say, it’s fine. A smile and a hello is enough.

#3 Relying on me to turn to you for help. Most of the time, I can’t. Some days, everything is too much. Saying, ‘Call if you need me,’ is too much to ask of me. Or, ‘I’m here if you need me.’ When I’m completely overwhelmed by grief, I don’t know where anyone is. A ‘I’ll text you next week’ or similar is so different. And keep sending these little reminders. Don’t give up on me.

#4 Changing the subject when I talk about Ned. I want to talk about Ned, of course I do. He’s my little boy. If I cry, that’s ok. I’m hurting so much, but it’s the grief that’s hurting me, not you.

#5 Making flippant statements – telling me that I should be better by now, that I have to get on with life, that lots of people have lost children, that I have to suck up the pain, that I have to move on, that I’m not trying hard enough, that I’m not the only one who has lost someone, that I’m being over-emotional, that I’m attention-seeking, that I’m lucky I have two other children. I have had all these statements said to me, and many more, and believe me, all they do is knock me back down. I’m trying. It may not look like it to you, but the daily battle takes everything I have.

#6 (This one is very personal to me, but may be something others have experienced) Making comments on my appearance, specifically my weight. I couldn’t eat for weeks after Ned died, I was having perhaps half a slice of toast a day, if that. And yet I had some people say, ‘You’ve lost weight. You look better for it.’ I’m now on very high dosages of medication, my eating is all over the place, that initial weight loss has been re-gained, and a lot more too. I know this, I don’t need to be told.

#7 Not being held. I have spent so much time curled up with no one holding me, to give me that sense of being grounded, of not being alone. At times, when I’m falling apart, crying uncontrollably, I just want to be held.

#8 Stopping conversations when I’m near. It’s ok. Life goes on around me. Your lives go on. It’s not a secret. I’m ok hearing about things you’ve been up to. I’m ok hearing you laugh. It helps me feel normal in a world that doesn’t make much sense.

#9 Not really listening – my voice is small, don’t overpower me. I’m overwhelmed as it is. If I say ‘no, not right now’ I’m not trying to cause offence, I’m simply unable to do what you’re asking of me. Please acknowledge that and try to understand. I may feel differently in a week/month/six months. Keep checking in.

 

That’s it. I hope someone reading this post will gain something from doing so because supporting a grieving person may be one of the most important things you do in your life.

 

 

Accepting Me

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, I’ve never really seen the point. But I do always have a think about what I would like to achieve during the year ahead.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot more than usual as we’ve entered this new decade. I’ve had a notebook on my lap, ready to write a list of my hopes for this coming year. The page remains blank. There’s just one thing that keeps coming into my head…

I want to start liking myself.

Some of you reading may not understand this statement, or you might think that it’s a cliched comment. Others may fully understand it because please believe me when I say it’s very real.

Over the past two and a half years I’ve been seeing a psychologist. During these sessions, I’ve come to understand just how much other people have had an impact on the way I see myself, from my childhood right up to today. Their actions are deeply embedded and have shaped my perception of who I am, and it’s very difficult to change this, to ‘unbelieve’ that these perceptions may not all be accurate.

I’ve spoken openly on here about being bullied during my teenage years, which not only had a huge impact on my behaviour at the time, but continues to do so. I hated the way I looked as a teenager because of the cruel words that were thrown at me – ‘fatty’, ‘tree trunk legs’, ‘ugly’. That loathing of my body-image has lived on in. I get paranoid that I must just be seeking attention, but when I look in the mirror, I hear the teasing taunts from my Secondary School days. I relive moments of humiliation and shame e.g one of the girls caught me doodling the name of a boy I had a teenage crush on (as does every teenager). She snatched it from me, laughing, ‘Oh my god! As if he would ever look at you!’. This wasn’t enough for her, she then told the older boy in front of everyone as he passed us in the corridor, ‘Hey ****, Sharon fancies you! She actually thinks you’d look at her.’ That feeling of being humiliated still washes over me and makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

I developed very unhealthy coping behaviours during my teenage years – I would binge eat after school and make myself throw it back up, then feel disgusted and ashamed.

That feeling of wanting to crawl out of my skin and disappear, it lives with me. I have social anxiety. I want to hide away at home. I don’t want people to see me. I don’t want people to have to be in my company.

I was a Primary School teacher for 13 years. It was a job I loved at the start, but the immense pressure of giving the job everything I had but it never being good enough whittled away what little self-confidence and self-esteem I had. The last couple of years of my career were hell. I drove to work crying every morning and cried myself to sleep every night. I came to completely doubt my ability to teach. I felt like I couldn’t do anything right and felt utterly worthless.

During this time, I was treated negatively by family members – ignored, belittled, mocked. Without going into detail, by the end of 2014, I didn’t want to exist anymore – it was the only way I could see to end the mental torture. I hated myself so much I couldn’t bear to be me.

But I’m still here because I’m a mam. Thinking about my boys pushed me through my GP’s door and say, ‘I don’t feel right.’ And as the tears fell, the words poured out too.

I started taking medication and saw my GP regularly. I slowly started to feel better. And then something wonderful happened – I got a publishing deal for the children’s book I had written. This was my absolute dream come true. I eventually made the decision to end my career as a teacher. Financially we would struggle, but for my own mental health, it was the only option.

No sooner than this decision had been made and I was starting to feel like me again, looking forward to the future, my whole world shattered. I lost my little boy, Ned.

When Ned died, I lost every sense of who I am. I blamed myself. If I’d been a good mam, this would never have happened.

When you lose a child, the you before no longer exists. You feel like you have no purpose. There is no reason for you being. I felt that everyone would be better off without me in their lives. I felt a burden on my friends. I felt that my husband and boys would be happier without me.

Having therapy has helped so much with these feelings and I’m certainly in a much better place than I was when I first walked into my psychologist’s room in August, 2017.

But I still don’t like myself. I understand that the years of other people’s actions towards me have affected me deeply, but despite this understanding, it’s a huge challenge for me to think differently about myself because I don’t believe it; I don’t believe that I’m not this person that I see as myself. So that’s my one hope for this year – that somehow, I can start to like and accept who I am.

How am I going to do this? I continue to have the support of my wonderful therapist for now, but to fully move forward, I need to be able to do this alone.

So I’ve come up with four things that I want to ‘work’ on. I don’t know whether trying to achieve these things will help, but they certainly feel like the right changes.

1. ‘Me time’ – I don’t allow myself to have time that’s just for me. I feel guilty using time on myself. I don’t feel like I deserve it. But I know that I need this time. At times I feel desperate to have time alone doing something that I enjoy. But I push it away. I should be working or looking after my boys. That’s my purpose. But I’m slowly learning to accept that I have to have this time to relax – go for a coffee with a friend or sit reading. I need to learn how to be a little bit kinder on myself I suppose.
2. Being an author – that’s my career now. As with any job, I need working hours. It’s not a ‘nice little hobby’ as some have referred to it, it’s my work. Yes, I love writing and feel lucky that I get to write as my job. But it is that, my job. I aim to be a lot more productive this year, stricter with my writing time. I would like to do more author visits to schools. This isn’t me being hard on myself. I want to make a success of being an author.
3. Running – I know that running will help with my confidence and self-image. Last year I didn’t allow running to have the importance it should have in my life. I allowed it to be pushed aside. It was easy to say that I just didn’t have enough time to go for a run. I allowed everything else to come first, which has had a negative impact on me. Running makes me feel better. My husband rows and always makes time for his rowing. It’s an important part of his week. He’s disciplined and focused and I can see the way rowing has a positive impact on his mental health. I need to learn to give running this same importance in my life.
4. Form new friendships – This is a tough one. I’ve lost friends since losing Ned, and I find it very difficult to accept that anyone would want to spend time with me. I have a couple of close friends who I know will be with me always, but maybe there are other people who I can start calling friends. Having social anxiety is a huge hurdle, but I’m not thinking about going out socialising in a large group of people – that isn’t me. But maybe I can nurture a handful of new friendships.

So there it is, my one hope for 2020. Will I achieve it? Will I end the year liking myself a little bit more? I hope so, because I think if I like myself, then I’ll finally find some peace. If I can achieve the four things I’ve outlined then I’m pretty sure that I’ll feel like a better person and if I feel like a better person, maybe I’ll start to see myself differently. It’s going to be a huge challenge for me, but I’m going to give it my best.

 

 

 

 

A Grieving Parent at Christmas

It’s the most wonderful time of the year … but not for you. It’s one of the worst. Christmas is displayed as soon as the warm rays of summer begin to fade. You walk around trying not to see the shiny decorations and gift offers that crowd in on you. It can’t be that time again, not so soon.

You try not to listen as friends chat about their plans for the holidays. You see photos of friends and family, out celebrating at parties, and vaguely remember a time when you would have been included. Everywhere, you see smiling families. Your mind fills with happy Christmases … Christmases like you used to have.

You hurt – it’s a heavy ache in the pit of your stomach and a crushing pain on your heart. You feel guilty for not feeling any ‘festive cheer’. You berate yourself, tell yourself to make more of an effort, just try for goodness’ sake. You try to do what you think you should be doing, but it gets too much. You want to hide away, curl up under the duvet, hibernate ’till Spring flowers start to bloom.

You paste on a smile and carry your hurt because your children deserve the magic of Christmas. You go to the school concert and imagine him standing on the stage next to his friends. You visit Santa’s Grotto and make a silent wish, the one you can’t stop yourself from making every year … please bring him back.

You wander around the shops looking for gifts but can only think about what would he have wanted. What would he like now? What would his interests be? You leave quickly, empty-handed. You shop online, in the safety of home.

You decorate the house with the children and delight at their smiling excitement, yet feel a deep sadness at the same time. You place his special bauble carefully on the tree.

You lay his stocking gently on his pillow; you can’t leave it in the Christmas box, it’s not right. You check his bed on Christmas morning, just in case…

You smile and laugh as the children open their presents in a chorus of ‘Look what I got!’ You pull the cracker and wear the silly hat. You play games and watch a film.

You visit his grave and whisper ‘Happy Christmas’, then with grief’s gravity heavy, go home and light the red candle and remember as you gaze at the flickering flame. You remember the way he unwrapped each present slowly and carefully, his big brother emerging from his own mountain of paper urging him to hurry up, to open them quicker. You remember the way he worried about Rudolph and needed reassurance that the other reindeer were kind to him. You remember being whole.

You finally get to bed exhausted and let the tears fall silently in the darkness.

You hurt so very much, but still you smiled and you laughed.

You did it.

 

 

 

 

Me and My Grief

*Some may find this post upsetting. I speak openly and honestly about my loss and mental illness. If you think that you will find these subjects difficult and distressing, I simply ask that you don’t read on*

For ‘National Grief Awareness Week’, I want to share what I know about grief, since losing my little boy, Ned, in a car crash on Good Friday, 2016. As the title of the post says, this is about my grief. Everyone grieves differently, there is no right or wrong way. This is my story…

Good Friday, March 25th, 2016 

11am: I waved goodbye to my 5-year-old son, Ned, as he set off in the back of his grandmother’s car, to go on an Easter Egg hunt. He smiled his dimpled smile and waved back. That was the last time I saw my little boy alive.

2:50pm: I had been at the hospital with my youngest son (18 months old at the time). He had croup and had been given steroids and an inhaler. My husband rang to tell me that Ned and his grandmother hadn’t arrived at the Easter Egg hunt that morning. There had been an accident on the road and my husband was going to drive along to see if he could find them. ‘Where’s Ned?’ I whispered. I knew. I knew in that second that he had gone. My body temperature dropped. My hands were freezing cold. Everything felt distant. Time felt like it had slowed. I was shivering. Because I knew. I drove to my mother-in-law’s house, hands gripping the steering wheel, tears streaming down my face.

3pm: I saw the flashing blue lights as I turned onto the street. Two police officers were standing on the pavement. I stopped the car and walked up to the policewoman. ‘I’ve lost my little boy. I don’t know where he is.’ They tried to get me to go inside but I knew what they were going to say. ‘Please come inside,’ the kind-looking policewoman said. No. Shaking my head. ‘Where is he? Where’s my little boy?’ There were tears in the policewoman’s eyes. ‘There’s been an accident. I’m so sorry. He’s passed away.’ Screaming and clawing at the ground. Being helped into the house. Struggling to breathe. Needing to get to the hospital to my little boy. The room too hot. Stifling. Suffocating. No. No. No.

7pm: I walked into the hospital room with my husband and the policewoman. My little boy was lying there, looking like he was sleeping. ‘Can I hold him?’ I asked. ‘Sorry, no. He has to have a postmortem,’ was the reply. ‘But he’s hurt. He’s my little boy. Please.’ A shake of the head and an apology. I didn’t understand. ‘He’ll need a light left on. He doesn’t like the dark. He has a nite light. He’s so cold.’ I pulled the blanket up further, tucked it in and kissed him goodnight.

The start of my journey with grief.

On that day, grief slammed into our lives with such force it knocked me off my feet. Three and a half years have passed since that day. I’m here, but I’m not. The person I was died on that day too. I’m different. I’m different because grief is now a part of me. Grief never goes away. It stays with you for the rest of your life. You can’t ignore it. You can’t get rid of it. You have to live with it.

So what do I now know about grief – this ‘thing’ that will be with me for the rest of my life?

These are 8 things that I have learnt about grief; the 8 main ways that my grief has affected me.

1. Pain – The pain of losing a child is unbearable. I never felt the true meaning of the word ‘unbearable’ until the day I lost Ned. Losing Ned was too much for me to bear. The pain floored me. It had me on my knees. It had me curled up tightly on his bed clutching my stomach. It had me pulling my hair. It had me banging my head against a wall. It had me scratching away at my skin. It had me swallowing too many tablets. I still have times during the day when the pain strikes like a blow to the stomach, taking my breath away.
2. Tiredness – I couldn’t sleep at all so I was given sleeping tablets. I’m constantly tired. I often fall asleep during the day. I still take medication to help me fall asleep at night. My body is tired. My muscles ache. I have difficulty concentrating for long periods of time. I’m simply bone tired.
3. Eating – For the first few weeks, I couldn’t eat anything. The sight or smell of food made my stomach churn. I couldn’t swallow food. It lodged in my throat till I coughed it back up. I still don’t eat ‘correctly’. I struggle to eat a proper meal. My eating pattern is all over the place and a pre-existing eating disorder has become very difficult to manage.
4. Crying – I cried. Endless tears. My heart hurt. I cried till my body ached with the exertion. I still cry. There isn’t a day that has passed that I haven’t cried.
5. Memory loss – I remember the first couple of weeks after losing Ned, but then it all becomes hazy. About 18 months of almost nothing. I have recollections/memories of moments during those months, but mostly it’s nothing. I can’t remember. I still struggle with short-term memory loss. I often go blank, unable to remember the right word to use in a sentence. I forget what I did yesterday/last week.
6. Mental illness – I had been diagnosed with depression and anxiety 18 months prior to Ned’s death. His loss has intensified my mental illness. I have PTSD. I suffer with horrific flashbacks of the accident. I am fearful of life. There are many triggers to a panic attack e.g. the sound of a siren. My ‘fight-or-flight’ response is always on high alert.
7. Social anxiety – I quickly became very isolated. I didn’t want to leave the house. I felt safe at home. I couldn’t face people. I couldn’t face life continuing outside my door. I would have severe panic attacks, sometimes to the point of passing out. I am still unable to be in a large group of people and only have a very close circle around me.
8. Outlook on life – For a long time, I didn’t want to be alive. I didn’t want to live without my little boy. There are things that don’t matter to me anymore. Trivial things. Pointless things. Things that seemed so important before. Not now. I know what really matters to me now. You never get over losing a child. Never. My grief for Ned equals my love for him. It’s immense. I will never stop loving my little boy and therefore I will never stop grieving for him. But I’m learning to live this ‘new’ life, the ‘after’. I’m learning how to live with my grief.

And here are the 8 main things that have helped me get to this point; the 8 things that help me live, day-by-day, with my grief.

1. Asking for help – During the night of Ned’s death, I sat on his bed staring out at the darkness, whispering, ‘Please help me. Someone, please help me.’ I was so very fortunate that my wonderful GP came to my house the following day. She referred me to the Mental Health Services. I needed professional help. I was placed under the care of the Crisis Team and a psychiatrist. I was, and still am, on high dosages of medication. After 12 months, I was discharged from their services (something I can’t write about here as it’s an ongoing legal matter). I had bereavement counselling for a year through Cruse. My counsellor was fantastic, but I needed more help. I needed help from a mental health professional.
2. Therapy – Since August, 2017, I have been having weekly therapy with a private psychologist. I have had CBT and am currently undergoing EMDR therapy. I wouldn’t be here today without this therapy, it’s that simple.
3. Family – my husband and sons are the reason I get up in the morning. My sons deserve the best life I can give them. They not only lost their brother on that day, but they lost me, the Mam I was. The new me is trying to be the best Mam that I can possibly be. And I am still Mam to Ned. He is still as much a part of our family as he ever was. He is still our little boy. He is still Tomi’s and Cai’s brother. There are family members who I no longer have any contact with because they’ve hurt me. They hurt me at a time when I’m hurting more than I could ever hurt. My therapist has helped me see that if the relationship is toxic, we don’t have to have someone in our lives just because they’re ‘family’.
4. Friends – I’ve lost friends since Ned’s death. They disappeared from my life. I don’t hear from them anymore. They simply chose to leave. I have less than a handful of true friends now; friends who have been by my side every step of this journey, friends who I know will be my side for as long as I live. It’s difficult to form new friendships after the loss of a child. I find that many parents avoid making eye contact with me by the school, they rummage in their pockets as they pass me, eyes cast downward. Some cross the street when they see me coming. It hurts, but that’s their reaction, their choice. I can’t teach each individual person that avoids me, or finds it difficult to be in my company, how to react to my grief. I simply don’t have the energy for that. This is why work such as ‘National Grief Awareness Week’ is so important. This is why it’s so important that those of us who are living with grief speak openly and help to raise awareness, help people to understand.
5. Writing – Writing has become my lifeline. Having this creative outlet allows me to escape from my life into my imaginary world. Writing helps ease my anxiety, it slows me down, it relaxes me. It also gives me purpose. It gives me structure to my day. I’m a children’s author, and so I need to write books. I sit at my desk after dropping my boys off at school and I write. I enjoy writing. In fact, I love writing.
6. Running – My therapist has shown me the positive effect exercise has on mental health. She has got me running. It gets me out of the house. It clears my head. It allows me to be in the moment. It tires my body; I sleep better on days when I’ve been out for a run. It has connected me to nature – a connection that I didn’t have before Ned’s death. It has made me love the outdoors. I marvel at the natural world around me. It gives me peace.
7. Acceptance – I’m learning to accept me as I am now. I’m not the person I was before. I never will be that person again. But that’s ok. I don’t need to be that person. This is who I am now. Some days are still so incredibly difficult, there always will be days like this. But some days are ok.
8. Grieve – Grieving is natural and unavoidable. I allow myself to feel sad and cry. I allow myself to lie on the bed and be swallowed by memories of my little boy. I allow myself to do what feels right for me e.g. keeping lucky pennies that we find in a jar that we call ‘Ned’s Jar’ because he loved finding coins; lighting a candle on Ned’s birthday and singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to him.

So that’s it; my grief laid bare. No one else will ever feel my grief because it’s mine. But if I speak out, maybe I can help others to understand better. They won’t feel like I do, but they may start to understand.

Don’t allow others to tell you how you should be grieving. Your grief is yours and you’re the one who has to live with it. And by speaking openly about our experience, maybe we can begin to change things. I have come across awful attitudes over the past 3 years. I have heard dangerous phrases thrown at me, and I say ‘dangerous’ because they’ve come from medical professionals – ‘you’ll get better in time’, ‘you’ll feel better after a year’, ‘you have to get on with life now’, ‘suck it up’, ‘you’re not ill, you’re only grieving’, ‘you have to stop being so emotional’, ‘we can’t help you, we only help people with real mental illness.’

I have had all of these phrases said directly to me. I have been left floundering, suffering, lost. But I’ve been lucky. I have a GP who answered those first whispered pleas for help. I have a therapist who is with me every step of the way. I have friends who are here for me – they don’t always know what to do or say, but they are always here. I have family – my husband and three beautiful boys who I love with every ounce of my being.

I hope that my words will help someone – someone else who is grieving, someone who knows someone who’s grieving or someone who just wants to try to understand grief.

(Ned Rhys Jones 2011 – 2016)

My Angel

A Magical Month

My second book, ‘Grace-Ella: Witch Camp’, published a little over a month ago. It has been a wonderfully magical month so I thought I would share some of the highlights…

The book launch for ‘Witch Camp’ was on the 28th of September at Waterstones, Aberystwyth. In the days leading up to the launch, I was a bundle of nerves and worries – What if no one turns up? What if no one buys the book? What if my anxiety gets the better of me and I can’t do a reading?

My wobbly worries were far worse with this launch than with my first book. I’m a perfectionist, my own worst critic. I constantly fear letting people down. I was afraid of letting my family and my publishers down.

My first book launch happened 6 months after I lost my little boy, Ned. I was on a huge amount of medication at the time and I felt disconnected to it all. When I think back to that day, it’s like I’m watching someone else. There was a huge crowd at my first launch, the signing queue snaked through the shop and out into the street. It was so very surreal but what grounded me that day was Dad standing close by, a quiet, settling presence in his red coat. I drew strength from knowing that he was there and that he was proud of me.

 

I lost my dad suddenly on Easter Saturday, 2017, a year after losing Ned. His reassuring presence wouldn’t be at my second book launch.

(Book launch for ‘Grace-Ella: Spells for Beginners’, September, 2016)

 

At 2pm on the day of my second book launch, the children’s section of the shop was bustling. I was touched that so many had come to support me. As I stood in the shop, reading a chapter from ‘Witch Camp’, I kept seeing flashes of red and my mind filled with Dad in his red coat. I stumbled over words, but I did it. I read to the end of the chapter.

And then it was book signing whilst everyone enjoyed cake and a chat. It was lovely. Really lovely. So I want to say a massive thank you to everyone who came – my family, friends and everyone else; you made a difficult day sparkle.

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The official publication date for my book was the 30th of September. My publishers told me that it had been selected by the Books Council of Wales to be ‘Children’s Book of the Month’ for October. I was absolutely thrilled!

Not only that, it was their number one best seller for September too!

I couldn’t have wished for a more magical start. During October, I’ve had the opportunity to meet lots of young Grace-Ella fans – at Ysgol Gymraeg, Aberystwyth, Aberystwyth Town Library and Aberaeron Book Festival. It is such a wonderful feeling to see children reading my books and telling me how much they enjoy them. This is why I write for children. There is nothing more magical than seeing that sparkle in a child’s eye and the smile on their face as they talk about my stories.

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And there we have it, my magical month. It’s been a whirlwind and a rollercoaster of emotions. Thank you to everyone who has supported me and my book, both online and in ‘real life’. Thank you to my family for supporting me on this journey and my closest friends for picking me up, not giving up on me and for accepting me as I am. Thank you so much to my publishers, Firefly Press, for believing in me.

You all keep me going and keep me chasing my dream. Writing my stories is a lifeline for me and to see my books out there on shelves, being read and enjoyed by children is therapy to my soul.

So what’s in store for this month?

Finish writing ‘Grace-Ella: Book 3’…

 

Ned’s Jacket

I have been so overwhelmed by the response I’ve had to an online plea that I made at the weekend, I’ve decided to write a blog post about it because the experience has taught me something very special…

On Saturday, I was shopping in our local Marks&Spencers with my husband and two sons. I was carrying our coats over my arm. Just before leaving the store, I checked the coats and realised that the blue jacket that my youngest son, Cai wears wasn’t with me. I went into a panic. I couldn’t lose that jacket, it meant the world to me.

A jacket? Meaning the world to me? But it’s just a jacket, you might say.

Yes, a jacket, but not just a jacket. The blue jacket started life as my eldest son, Tomi’s jacket. It was passed down to his little brother Ned. It was worn to school by both and therefore had both names on the inside.

On Good Friday, 2016, Ned, who had just turned 5, died in a horrific car crash. Tomi was 8 years old at the time, and my youngest son, Cai, was 18 months old. Ned’s death has devastated us as a family. We live with a huge Ned-shaped hole in our lives. My husband and I have lost our beautiful, boisterous little boy. Tomi has lost his little brother, his best friend. Cai has lost a big brother that he will never remember.

It took me a very long time to be able to open Ned’s wardrobe and place his clothes into a plastic box. It was sheer anguish; pain so overwhelming that it took me hours. Most of his clothes I had to put away – the pain of seeing them was too raw. But I wanted Cai to have something of Ned’s to wear. I wanted there to be something that connected all 3 of my boys. So I kept the blue jacket out of the box.

A few months ago, Cai turned 5 and started to wear the jacket. I wrote his name inside, alongside Tomi’s and Ned’s. I told him that Ned had worn the jacket as well and he beamed at me. He said he loved the jacket and he loved reading out all their names. Every time I put the jacket on Cai, in my mind, it was Ned giving his little brother a hug. And just as Tomi had looked after his little brother Ned, when he had started school, in  my mind, the jacket came to represent Ned looking after Cai. This might not make any sense to others, but that is what the jacket means to me.

So back to Saturday …

We looked everywhere in the store for the jacket, but couldn’t find it. We asked members of staff on each floor if it had been handed in. Nothing. We left and returned after a couple of hours to ask again if it had been handed in. Still nothing. We searched all over, every rail, under rails, toilets, changing rooms, everywhere we could think of, but there was no sign of the jacket. A member of staff wrote down the details and took my phone number, saying she would phone me if it turned up.

That evening I kept checking my phone – no call. I wrote a post on Facebook and Twitter in the desperate hope that someone local would say that they had found the jacket and had handed it in.

What actually happened is utterly overwhelming…

The post began to be shared hundreds of times. On Twitter, messages started to flood in – strangers showing empathy and understanding and expressing their hope that the jacket would be returned to us. On Sunday morning, we had a message on Facebook to say that a jacket had been handed in at the cafe in M&S.

Before the store opened, Tomi was running a race. During that time a photo of the found jacket was sent to us. My heart sank. It was a different colour – it was pale blue whereas Ned’s jacket was royal blue. It wasn’t the jacket. But we returned to the store at lunch time, as soon as Tomi’s running event had finished, just hoping that it would miraculously be there.

A lovely member of staff told us about the jacket in the cafe. We followed her up to the next floor. We waited whilst she went to the back. She came out of the cafe carrying Ned’s jacket! Cai’s face lit up and he jumped up and down. Tomi smiled. My husband smiled. I smiled. My heart slowed down and my breathing felt easier. I had been so tense all morning. I took a photo of Cai with the jacket to post online and to say thank you to everyone who had shown their support. Cai put the hood on, leaving the arms hanging and said, ‘I’m a superhero in my jacket.’

Throughout the day, more and more messages had been posted on Twitter. Welsh actor Michael Sheen had tweeted about the jacket, hoping for its safe return. Carol Vorderman tweeted to ask if it had been returned. But not just two famous names, but hundreds of strangers, as well as local people who know us, had taken the story to their hearts. Once I posted that the jacket was back where it belonged, the messages continued to pour in.

A journalist from Wales Online contacted me and asked if he could write a piece about what happened.

I have been completely overwhelmed by the response we’ve had. To see such empathy, kindness, compassion and understanding has been wonderful. The jacket is special to us as a family, and yet the story touched the hearts of so many. It has been truly amazing. It has shown me that there are wonderful people out there; people who took the time to send a message to a stranger; people who took the time to understand why the jacket means so much to us. It has been so very heart-warming.

I still don’t know who found the jacket and handed it in, but I thank them from the bottom of my heart.

As I put the jacket on Cai yesterday morning for school, I imagined him having the biggest hug from the big brother that will never be able to hug him.

 

From one word to publication … my way.

As writers, we’re all different. There is no one step-by-step guide to writing to fit all. I’m stating the obvious I know. And yet (and I believe I’m speaking for more than just myself here), there is still a tendency amongst writers to compare themselves to others.

I used to do it a lot. I would read tweets from authors celebrating completing their daily 1000 words, or completing a full manuscript in a month, publishing more than one book a year … and I would feel very inadequate and a very large dollop of despair.

Then I learnt to stop. I stopped comparing my way of writing to others and I found what works for me. This is not a ‘how to write a book’ blog, but I wanted to show how learning to not compare myself to other writers has allowed me a refreshing freedom to be the writer that’s me.

We all have a time of day that we know we’re at our best creatively. For me, it’s morning. I can no longer do the really early morning writing that I used to do, but I’m still a morning writer. Once I’ve dropped my boys off at school, I come home and do a quick tidy-up. This is important to me; I can’t settle if I know that the breakfast dishes are still on the table and that there’s a load to go into the washing machine. These little jobs niggle at me so I know I have to get them done first if I want my focus to be solely on my writing. I aim to be at my laptop and ready to go by 10am (that includes having checked emails etc).

Just as I have a preferred time to write, I have a preferred place to write. If I want to get some ‘real’ writing done, I have to be by my desk, in my office, alone in the house, with no noise. I have decorated my office so that it feels like my writing space; a space I enjoy and feel relaxed in.

Once I’m at my desk with a coffee next to me, I’m ready to go. I don’t set myself daily word count goals. I’ve tried and it doesn’t work for me. The pressure made my mind go blank and I would stare at a blank screen. The only goal I set is to write – that may be a few words or a few hundred words. Some days there will be no words added to my manuscript. And that’s ok. I can usually tell fairly quickly when it’s going to be a ‘no words written today day’. I don’t berate myself; I settle on the sofa to read, with a notebook next to me for jotting down things as they come to me. For me, it’s all part of the process.

I don’t plot my work in detail. I have a rough idea of what the plot will be and I just get going. I find that the story builds by itself. As I am currently working on a series of books, I do have to revisit the previous books to check on some details, but in general, I let the words spill out and the story to grow and take shape as I go along.

I’m also not a writer who can ‘just get the words down’ so that a first draft is complete. I have to be pretty happy with a chapter before I move on to write the next. Maybe this is a personality trait? I don’t know. I’ve always been a perfectionist and incredibly critical of myself, and just like I can’t settle to write if there are tidying up jobs that need doing in the house, I can’t move on in my draft until I’ve tidied up what I’ve already written. You may be sighing or groaning that you just need to get a first draft written and then start tidying up … like I said at the start, we’re all different and that method doesn’t work for me. Just like an untidy house makes me anxious and fidgety, so too does an untidy manuscript. I’m not talking about polishing to a gleam at this stage, just a wipe over to remove the cobwebs before I feel settled and ready to move on.

And so day by day, word by word, chapter by chapter, I write my story; I write it my way. And I absolutely love it. I wake up looking forward to 10am. I’m relaxed and I enjoy what I’m doing. Of course I have to have some sort of deadline to work towards – what works for me is an estimated deadline to complete a first draft. I take into account school holidays etc and take that pressure away from myself. I keep it realistic for me otherwise I know will buckle and get nothing done.

I’m certain that if I tried to write by following another writer’s rules – setting myself strict word counts; focusing on just getting a first draft written in any way, shape or form and then starting the tidying up, I wouldn’t get to the finish line any quicker. In fact, I don’t think I would get to the finish line at all!

So that’s me. It’s what works for me. It took me a while to discover and work out who me the writer is.

Writing is my lifeline. It’s something I have to do to feel like me. And most important of all, writing makes me happy.

So my simple piece of advice: only you know what works for you so give yourself the freedom to find your own writing you and enjoy!