Running … really?

At the start of the year, I wrote a blog post titled ‘Stepping Stones’, where I set out the three goals that I aim to achieve this year to help me function better on a day-to-day basis (following the loss of my little boy, Ned, in 2016).

My three goals are:

  1. To write for children again; to be the children’s author I’ve always wanted to be.
  2. To exercise.
  3. To no longer have the people in my life who have caused/continue to cause me immense emotional suffering.

These may seem like small, trivial goals for some, but for me they are enormous and will mean a mountainous battle to achieve them.

I’ve decided to write about each goal individually to try to show how each one will impact on my life. I’m going to start with my second goal – exercise – as emotionally, it’s the easiest one for me to write about.

I’m not a person who dislikes exercise, I never have been. As a young child I played mostly outside – skipping, bat and ball, on my roller boots or skateboard, in the park. I loved PE at school and was proud to be in the netball team throughout my time in Secondary School. I represented the school with the javelin at county level athletics. I enjoyed sports.

I was bullied about my weight as a teenager but when I was lost in a netball match, or throwing my javelin, I could forget the cruel taunts and name-calling.

When I went to University, I immediately joined the netball society with enthusiastic intent … but never made it to the first meet-up. University became a wonderful three years of hard work and hard partying. The occasional aerobics class or quick swim were the only forms of exercise my body had … other than a daily walk to lectures and the nightly lifting of pint glasses.

I graduated and became a Primary School teacher. I got married. I had children. As the years passed, I became the person that says, ‘I haven’t got time to exercise.’ Overworked. Overtired. Overweight.

After returning to work at the end of my first maternity leave, the dark claws of depression began to take a grip on me (I was unaware at the time that I was ill). I won’t go into detail here but I sunk deeper and deeper into the hell that is depression and the anxiety I had lived with as a child and teenager wrapped itself around me like a creeping vine, squeezing ever tighter.

I reached December 2014 – blessed with three beautiful sons – but being eaten alive by depression and anxiety. I wanted to end my life and a particularly frightening incident, which is too painful for me to write about, made me muster up every last bit of strength I had, and walk through my GP’s door.

‘You’re ill,’ she said whilst holding my hand. ‘You have depression. It isn’t you. It’s an illness. A very real illness. But you can get better and I’m going to be here with you every step of the way.’

I’ll never forget that moment. I’ll never forget her words for as long as I live. For years I had thought it was ‘just me’. I was being told to ‘snap out of it’, that ‘everyone gets miserable sometimes’, that I ‘had nothing to be depressed about.’

With the support of my GP, I slowly started to feel stronger and more like myself. A very close friend finally persuaded me to join a local running group, towards the summer of 2015 (she had been trying her best for a long time to convince me that I would enjoy running). I read about the benefits of running on mental health, but I was very sceptical. Running … really? Other than the obligatory running with school, I had never chosen to run as a hobby and couldn’t see myself as a runner.

I almost did a u-turn in the car park when I went to my first session and saw a group of women dressed in ‘proper’ running gear, chatting happily. I was in an old baggy t-shirt and leggings. Somehow, I fought the panic attack, got out of the car and shuffled to the periphery of the group.

I stuck with the running group but found it incredibly difficult. I have social anxiety so being amongst a group of chatty women felt extremely uncomfortable.

I had to stop attending the running group when I had a hysterectomy in December, 2015. My operation was a complicated one and I was told that my recovery would be slow. It was likely to be about nine months before I would have the strength to start any physical activity again.

But three months after my hysterectomy, my whole world came crashing down. My little boy, Ned, died.

I’m not going to write about that time here as I have already written blog posts about that day and my continuing journey with grief.

I’m going to fast-forward to January, 2018, when I set myself my three goals. With the constant support and encouragement from my truly wonderful psychologist, I had started to feel that maybe I could have some kind of future. Maybe.

She was very encouraging about me taking up running again, but once more, I had the running … really? attitude. Despite this, I have complete faith and trust in her, and having reached a point where I had to try to do something to be able to function better for my sons, I agreed to give it a go.

I had become increasingly isolated. My anxiety was making it almost impossible for me to leave the house. I was spending much of my time curled up crying under my duvet. I wasn’t living, I was simply existing.

I didn’t re-join the running group. I really couldn’t face it, so I started going out for a run by myself whilst the boys were in school. My aim was to go out for a run three times a week.

And so my running journey began.

It hasn’t been easy. Very far from it. I’ve been in tears on many days as I tie the laces of my trainers, wanting to just crawl back under the duvet. But I have forced myself out through the front door and off for a run.

I started at two miles, with a two minute recovery break after a mile. This was my limit for several weeks and I honestly didn’t believe that I would ever be able to run any further. Running is hard work. It challenges your body and mind. You swallow flies. It hurts.

Not really selling it am I?

Stay with me…

I persevered and I began to run a little bit further. Week by week, I have steadily increased my distance. And dare I say it, I actually look forward to my run.

I’ve now been running three times a week for five months. I had set myself a target of being able to run 10k (6.2 miles) by the end of the year. Mission impossible it felt like, but I ran that distance for the first time in my life about a month ago.

With my hand on my heart, I can say that running has changed something in me. I’m not going to talk about the physical benefits of running, but the benefits of running to my own personal battle with mental illness and grief. This is how running has impacted on my life:

  1. When I run, my mind empties. The constant thoughts, images and flashbacks  that haunt and overwhelm me, vanish. I don’t think about anything at all.
  2. When I run, I don’t think about tomorrow. I don’t think about yesterday. It puts me in the moment; the right-this-very-second moment.
  3. I’m outside breathing in fresh air… sometimes in the sunshine, sometimes in the rain. I’m lucky to be surrounded by stunning countryside where I live.
  4. It has given me determination. I became determined to run 10k and I have.
  5. It relaxes me. My anxiety doesn’t feel as gripping. My panic attacks are less frequent.
  6. On the days when I’ve been out for a run, I sleep better at night. 
  7. It has become a safe coping mechanism for when I become overwhelmed with pain and emotion at losing Ned.
  8. It’s something I chat about with my eldest son, who loves running. He gives me his running tips e.g. what to do when I get a stitch, how best to run uphill/downhill. He loves being my ‘personal trainer’. He’s a true inspiration.
  9. My concentration level has improved dramatically.
  10. I talk to sheep, cows and horses – I’m not sure if this can be classed as a benefit, but it makes me smile! 

So, running … really?


Running has had a massive positive impact on my life. No, it isn’t a miracle cure. I still have days when I’m under the duvet, but these days are far less frequent. It isn’t a cure for grief because grief isn’t an illness. But by easing the symptoms of my mental illness, I have more space to grieve for my little boy.

I have no interest at present in entering running events and I can’t think of joining a running group. Running is something I’m doing alone. It’s my own personal challenge. This is how I like it.

I have promised Tomi (my personal trainer) that I’ll run one race – the Aberystwyth 10k this December. I know that I can run this distance (very slowly!) The challenge for me will be to put myself in that social environment at the start of the race – to stand amongst others at the start line. I feel the panic rising just thinking about it. I will need to find a tremendous amount of courage to do this. But running has proven to me that I can be determined and that I can face a challenge. And I want to make my boys proud of me.

That leaves only one last challenge, and it’s the biggest challenge of all for me – to be proud of myself. To feel proud of myself for having the determination to force myself out of the house for a run. To feel proud of myself for reaching my target of being able to run 10k. And hopefully to feel proud of myself for running that race at the end of this year.

With such low self-esteem and confidence, I’m not there yet, but I’ll keep on running until I can say, ‘Yes, I’m proud of myself.’ (Forrest Gump now springs to mind!)






Where are you, Ned?

Today would have been your 7th birthday. But you’re not here. The house is quiet. There is no laughter or singing, or doing the conga. There was no bouncing on our bed at 7am with shouts of ‘Happy birthday to meeee!’

Where are you, Ned?

It’s been snowing here, snow like you never got to see. Enough to build a snowman in the garden – one of the things you always wanted to do. School is closed; no school on your birthday. You would have been happy with that, I think. What would you have asked for this year? I don’t know. You would have wanted a party, and a friend for a sleepover in your new bunkbed that you never got to sleep in.

Where are you, Ned?

On your 5th birthday, you told me about all of the things that you were going to do now that you were 5 years old. You would have lost some teeth and the tooth fairy would have been. You would have learnt to ride your bike without your stabilisers. You wanted to have ‘chicken spots’ and I think you probably would have because Cai caught them last year. How simple was your list, but how precious. Important milestones in the life of a 5 year old. But you never got to do any of them.

Where are you, Ned?

This question haunts me every day and at night when I cry myself to sleep.

People say that you’re in my heart – yes, you’ve been in my heart since the second you were born, but that’s my love for you, it isn’t you.

Some say that you’re right beside me, but I don’t feel you. I don’t feel your small hand in mine, or your arms wrapped around my neck at bedtime. I carry your memory with me, but it’s not you.

You’re buried in the ground. I watched in anguished pain as they lowered you encased in a white box. But that was your beautiful outside shell. You had already left. I sit beside your graveside, but you’re not there.

I visit the roadside to place flowers; I sit in the spot where I’ve been told you took your last breath. But you’re not there.

Some say that you’re in Heaven, but I don’t know what I believe because taking you away from us so cruelly makes no sense.

Where are you, Ned?

Are you waiting for me? Are you reaching out and I just can’t see you? Are you shouting, ‘I’m here’ and I just can’t hear you?

Where are you, Ned?

If I knew then I would be right there with you. I’d wrap you tightly in my arms and never let go of you again. I’d tell you I’m sorry and whisper I love you for eternity.



Stepping Stones

This is my first blog post in a while. Christmas was an immense battle which left me exhausted and broken. But very slowly, piece by piece, tiny step by tiny step, I’m getting stronger.

Next month will be the two year anniversary of Ned’s death. He also would have been celebrating his 7th birthday. Two years? It feels like yesterday.

April will bring the one year anniversary of Dad’s sudden death.

I have had people say that it’s time for me to accept what’s happened now and move on with my life. I don’t bother to reply to these comments. They don’t deserve a reply.

So, where am I at? I still have the same diagnoses: Complex Grief Disorder, PTSD, Depression and Anxiety. I still cry myself to sleep every night as I have done every night since I lost my little boy. I still have panic attacks and become fearful of leaving the house. I still have suicidal feelings. I am still on very strong, very high dosages of medication.

But, and it’s a huge BUT, I am slowly learning safer coping strategies to deal with my grief and my mental illness. I have learnt and now accept that some of my coping behaviours in the past have been harmful and ended up leaving me in a worse state than I already was.

With the amazing and endless support and care of three wonderful professionals – my GP, my psychologist and my bereavement counsellor – my behaviour patterns are changing. There are three main changes that I have made over the last month:

  1. I have stood up to certain people who have intimidated and bullied me for years, simply by telling them that they are no longer a part of my life.
  2. I have started to write for children again. Being a children’s author was always my dream and I have realised that I’m not ready to give it up.
  3. I have started running three times a week – no music, no running buddy, just me and the world around me.

Three small stepping stones on a very long road to recovery. They may seem like nothing to some people, but believe me, it has taken a tremendous amount of grit, determination and energy for me to get here. It has been a huge battle.

I will never recover from losing Ned. I’m not the same person as I was two years ago. That person died the second the police officer told me that Ned had passed away. But there is a new me forming. A very different me. My view on life is very different. What I want from life is very different.

I will never stop grieving for Ned. The tears I cry at night will never dry up. I will never forgive myself for letting him go on that horrific day. But I know that I have to be here for my two other sons. And I want to see them grow up. I love my three boys equally with every beat of my heart.

There will always be bad days and I may not be ready to step onto the next stepping stone for a very long time. But as long as I can keep both feet steady on the stone I’m standing on and not fall into the deep water below, then I’ll be ok.

To a grieving parent at Christmas …

This is my second Christmas without my little boy, Ned, who died in a car crash on Good Friday last year. He was 5-years-old. That day shattered my heart, destroyed me. Grief is the cruellest infliction on a human.

Grief never goes away. It has often been described as the ocean. Calm and breaking gently on the shoreline on some days. Angry and vicious, battering waves threatening to drown you on others.

There are always triggers that make days, even parts of the day more difficult. After losing a child, Christmas is definitely one of the most difficult times of the year.

How are you expected to get through this time of the year that’s meant to be filled with magic and merriment, when the pain is sharper and the sadness deeper?

I don’t have the answer, but I thought I’d share some ideas that have been offered to me by the professionals who help me on how to get through this horrendous time …


1) I’ve created #NedAdvent this year, to help me look through photos of Ned. It has been painful, but with a purpose, I’ve been able to lose myself in my memories. I see it as a gift to Ned. I can’t leave a present under the tree for him, so I’m sharing to keep his memory alive.

2) To get through the Christmas holidays I have to have a plan in place. I have to know what we’ll be doing every day, otherwise I feel like I’m drowning. For Christmas Day, the plan will be hour by hour. I will focus on each hour and feel relief at the end of each one.

3) I will fill the time with close friends and family. Even if you don’t have the energy to make much of a conversation, just having them there is enough, especially if you have other children. They can distract your other children and help keep things as ‘normal’ as possible.

4) Accept the sadness. It can’t be avoided. Cry with your family and friends – they shouldn’t be afraid of your tears.

5) Find time to have some space and peace by yourself. For me, this will be at Ned’s graveside where I will let the sadness flow out of me. I will allow myself to feel the emotions that threaten to overwhelm me and release them. Cry, scream, punch a pillow. Whatever helps.

6) Talk about your child. Share in the memories. Your child may not be there as a physical presence, but they are there in your hearts and deserve to be spoken about.

7) Do something different to what you used to do – form a new tradition. This could be anything from when you usually open presents to where you spend Christmas. I don’t know what ours will be yet, but we’ll choose something.

8) If you have other children, make sure that they know that it’s ok for them to be happy. It’s ok for them to laugh. This doesn’t mean that they’re not thinking of your lost child. Allow them to enjoy Christmas. Children need this.

9) If possible, get out of the house as a family on Christmas Day. Go for a walk somewhere just to get some fresh air.

10) Don’t put pressure on yourself. If things don’t go as you planned, that’s ok. There’s no right or wrong way to grieve. Christmas will be painful, it will be sad and you will feel an overwhelming emptiness. Go with this, don’t try to fight it. You will get through it.


I am filled with dread, sadness and a suffocating emptiness when I think about Christmas Day. But I have to get through it for my two other boys. I’m not strong. I’m in a very dark place, but somehow I’ll do it. And so can you.



Dear Ned

I can’t believe it’s coming up to Christmas again. A second Christmas without you. How can that be possible? I don’t remember much about last Christmas, but the Christmas before? 2015? I remember it well, but I should have memorised every second.

I do remember Tomi insisted on waking you up at 6am. You always liked your sleep and a little lie-in. I loved the way you would come from your room all bleary-eyed with sticky-up hair and wrap yourself around me to say good morning.

Tomi, he was the opposite wasn’t he? But you never complained. And certainly not on that morning when Tomi brought your stocking to you from the end of the bed. You both came to our room to open your stockings on our bed, managing to wake Cai up in the process. But hey, he didn’t mind either.

Do you remember opening the living room door and seeing the mountain of presents Santa had left you? Tomi tore through his at record speed. The first thing you did was check that Rudolph had eaten his carrot. You then opened each present carefully, treasuring each gift, whilst Tomi eagerly passed them to you. You had Woody and Buzz Lightyear, a keyboard and drums.

You and Tomi set up your own band – you on keyboard and Tomi on drums. You wanted a lead singer and decided that you’d ask Uncle Mark on Boxing Day. I texted him to warn him! Your music was … loud.

After lunch, you gave us a performance – a story about the lonely Christmas tree. You stood in the middle of the kitchen and made it up as you went along, but it was beautiful. You took a well-deserved bow at the end. You loved stories and were looking forward so much to my book being published the following September. Can you remember us practising our signatures?

Three months later, you were gone.

Your drum set sat silently in your room. Your keyboard leaned tuneless against your wardrobe. Buzz and Woody sat on the shelf waiting for you.


This morning I forced myself to open the Christmas box that Dad has brought down from the attic. I pulled out your stocking and held it close. It will forever be empty of gifts but forever filled with love. I carefully took out the decorations you made in school, ready to put them up. I haven’t managed to do that yet.

I left the box and took out the Christmas placemats and coasters from the cupboard in the kitchen. I’ve set them on the table. I’ve set a space for you. I’ve given you the Rudolph coaster because I know that one’s your favourite.

I sat at the table crying. What would you have asked Santa for this year, Ned? I’ve tried to imagine. But I don’t know. I don’t what you’d like now. Would you still be a performer? I think you would. I think we would have had another of your lovely stories. But I don’t know for certain. I never will.

But I do know that you’d want a big cwtch when you woke up, just like you wanted every morning. And I know that you’d want to make sure that Rudolph is ok; that the other reindeer aren’t being mean to him. And I know that our home would have been filled with noise and laughter and music if you were here.

I don’t want to walk into the living room on Christmas morning, Ned. I don’t want to see the empty space where your presents should be. I don’t want to sit at the table staring at the empty space opposite me where you should be sitting.

I want to feel your warm little body wrapped in my arms. I want to see your dimpled smile. I want to hear your laughter. I want you here, where you belong. But that’s a gift I can never be granted. Not even Santa can bring me what I wish for most in the world.

So I’ll sit at your graveside and I’ll close my eyes tight. I’ll let the tears fall because I’ll see you. I’ll see you standing in your pyjamas your arms outstretched, your dimpled smile crinkling up your eyes. And I’ll gather you up and hold you and tell you that I love you, Ned, more than you could ever possibly know.




Heartache with a headstone

Last Thursday, December the 1st, my little boy’s headstone was placed. I knew that this was going to be a huge deal. Seeing my son’s name in stone; the dates of his short life. I tried to prepare myself for it, but how do you prepare for something so awful? You can’t.

I went alone to see the headstone on Thursday afternoon and as I walked across the cemetery, the wind was knocked out of me and I couldn’t breathe. I fell to my knees. A sound escaped from deep, deep within me.

It wasn’t the stone. Before the stone was placed, Ned’s grave had been a small mound. I have sat next to this mound with my arm draped across with my eyes closed day after day. It’s been the closest I can get physically to my little boy. But on Thursday, the mound had gone. The ground was flat. Ned had gone.

I scrambled, half crawled over. Where was he? Where was my little boy?

There stands a beautiful stone with his name engraved onto it, but for me, it now feels empty. I don’t know where to find Ned anymore. I have nothing to physically hold onto. He really has gone and he’s never coming back.

This is another huge step in my complex grieving journey. I spoke about it today with my psychologist. I told her I didn’t know where Ned is now. I don’t even have that little raised mound of earth to hold onto. She asked me if I needed something to cling onto. Isn’t Ned with me all the time she said? But this is something I’ve struggled with all along. Yes, I think about him every minute of the day, but I’ve clung onto that little mound with all that’s left of me, like clinging to a branch out in the vast sea.

I don’t know what to hold onto anymore. One of his favourite teddies? An item of his clothing? But it isn’t the same. That mound represented Ned. And now it’s gone.

I never for one second thought that this is how placing Ned’s headstone would affect me. He deserves a headstone, of course he does. But where does the journey take me now? How do I stop from drowning in grief’s ocean?

I don’t have the answer, but I’m clinging to the hope that somehow I get through this new phase of grieving and continue on my journey.

Always remember that grief is unique to every individual. There is no right or wrong way to grieve. Every way is filled with pain and anguish. My advice for anyone who knows a grieving person? Be their piece of driftwood. You don’t need to know the right things to say. You don’t need to know the right things to do. You just need to be there.

‘Catch a grieving person, try to make them stay,

Hold their hand so tightly, don’t let them float away.’


Grief’s Grip

I haven’t posted for a while, simply because I haven’t known what to write about. I haven’t known anything. Days pass by in a blur. Weeks go. Most days I’m unsure what day it is. This has been my life for the past 18 months. But surely it’s got a little easier I know some may think. No. No it hasn’t. In fact the opposite. Each day since Ned died brings more pain and more suffering. That’s grief’s grip on you. It doesn’t go away. It doesn’t play nicely. It isn’t gentle. It’s your worst nightmare.

I’ve always written honestly about my experience with grief and mental illness. Why lie? Who would benefit? Not me and certainly not any reader. If the writing is too raw for you, then you don’t have to read it.

I wake up every single morning and think, ‘Please, not another day. I don’t want to face this life. I just don’t want to be any more.’ That doesn’t necessarily equate to suicidal thoughts. I have had incidents of these, but mostly it’s just a sense of not wanting to exist; not wanting to have to think any more; not wanting to have to pretend and act just to get through the day; not wanting to feel the desperate guilt that I’m a terrible Mum; not wanting to be terrified that I’ll let my other two sons down the way I let Ned down. All this, jumbled up in my head all day, every day.

I am so tired. Physically, emotionally and mentally empty. Most nights are filled with horrific nightmares. I wake up crying and sweating, disorientated until reality becomes clear and sits vice-tight on my chest.

Yes I have counselling. Yes I’m having psychology sessions, which include EMDR therapy which I’ve written about. I’m functioning. I’m breathing. But I’m not living. How can I? I let my little boy die, I don’t deserve to live. My boys deserve their Mam, of course they do, but I’m only a shadow. I try, I really do. But deep in my core I feel nothing but emptiness. A black hole waiting to swallow me whole.

‘Other people have lost children. They get through it. It just takes time.’

‘You will get through this. You will live again.’

‘You have to live. You have no choice. You have a husband and two sons.’

Grief affects each of its sufferers differently. The generalised comments that I get mean nothing. Grief’s grip makes me physically sick; it leaves me in a panicked heap unable to breathe; it makes me cry an ocean; it makes my limbs heavy; it makes my heart hurt. Of course it does because grief is the price you pay for loving someone. I loved my little boy more than I could ever put into words. I miss him so much I can’t even let myself think that I’ll never see him again. And so I must suffer. I must live in grief’s grip. There’s no escape. There’s no cure. Maybe one day it will loosen its hold slightly. Maybe.

Galar a Fi

Dwi wedi penderfynu ysgrifennu yr hyn yr oeddwn yn ceisio ei ddweud ar noswaith lawnsiad ‘Galar a Fi’. Dydy siarad yn gyhoeddus ddim yn rhywbeth sy’n dod yn naturiol i mi, ond mae ysgrifennu yn. Do, mi siaradais ar y noson, ond yr eiliad camais oddi ar y llwyfan, doeddwn i ddim yn gallu cofio r’un gair o’n i wedi ei ddweud! Poeni wedyn, fel ydw i. Nes i ddweud yn iawn? Nes i wneud synnwyr?

Felly dyma fo’n ysgrifenedig, yr hyn dwi’n ei obeithio fy mod wedi llwyddo i gyfleu ar y noswaith. Dyma fo yn ddu a gwyn rhag ofn i mi fethu.

Ateb cwestiwn oeddwn i am ba mor bwysig oedd ysgrifennu’n agored ac onest i fi. A dyma fi’n ateb…

Mae o’n hollol bwysig i fi fy mod i yn agored ac onest. Dysgais bwysigrwydd hyn cyn i mi golli Ned. Cuddiais y ffaith fy mod yn sal am sawl blwyddyn. Trio cario mlaen. Gwneud esgusodion. Ond llusgo fy hun at y doctor bu rhaid yn y diwedd a chyfadde nad oeddwn eisiau byw rhagor. Y doctor wedyn yn gafael yn fy llaw ac yn dweud fod pob dim yn iawn, bo fi’n sal, yn dioddef o iselder clinigol a’i bod hi’n mynd i fod gyda fi bob cam o’r ffordd wrth i mi frwydro’r salwch.

Cododd bwysau o’m hysgwyddau. Dwi’n sal, feddyliais, a mae hi’n mynd i fy helpu. Mynd ati hi wedyn yn wythnosol a siarad; gadael i’r holl deimladau oedd yn pwyso’n drwm yn fy stumog allan. A doeddwn i ddim yn teimlo unrhyw gywilydd. Salwch oedd gen i, nid fy mai i oedd o.

Dechreuais ysgrifennu blog ar iselder, gan bo ysgrifennu yn rhywbeth dwi’n neud, rhywbeth sy’n fy helpu i. Ond dechreuais gael bobl yn ymateb i’r blog, yn dweud bo fy ngeiriau i’n eu helpu, bo nhw yn yr un man a fi. Cefais syndod enfawr – fy ngeiriau i yn helpu eraill? Dyna oedd deimlad da.

Ond yna daeth fy myd i ben. Daeth y geiriau fwyaf creulon gall unrhyw riant eu clywed … roedd Ned wedi cael ei ladd mewn damwain car. Ned bach fi. Bachgen bach pump oed. Doeddwn i methu gwneud synnwyr o ddim byd. Doeddwn i erioed wedi profi galar o’r blaen, felly pan ddaeth fel hunllef fyw i’m bywyd, doedd gen i ddim syniad sut i’w reoli.

O’r oriau cyntaf fe ges i help broffesiynol gan y meddyg teulu a’r tim iechyd meddwl – a hynny gan fy mod wedi cyfadde chydig dros flwyddyn ynghynt fod rhywbeth yn bod efo fi. Pwy a wyr beth fyddwn wedi ei wneud petai’r help yna heb fod ar gael i mi o’r cychwyn.

Does gen i fawr ddim cof o’r misoedd yn dilyn y ddamwain, ond roedd y cymorth yn ei le, fel rhwyd diogelwch yn dynn amdanaf. Ac roedd ei angen arnaf. Roedd fy ymateb i i’r golled erchyll yn un cymhleth a pheryglus.

Pan ges i’r gwahoddiad i gyfrannu at y gyfrol hon, y peth gyntaf feddyliais oedd, os ydw i am gyfrannu yna mi fydd yn rhaid i mi ysgrifennu’n gwbl agored ac onest, neu fel arall beth byddai’r pwynt? Ond mae’n anodd siarad allan. Mae’n anodd cyfadde’r pethau difrifol dwi wedi eu gwneud, a chyfadde eu bod dal yn cripian fyny arnaf o bryd i’w gilydd, ddeunaw mis ar ol y ddamwain. Mae’n anodd rhoi eich hyn yn yr agored lle da chi’n gallu cael eich barnu. Mae’n iawn yn yr ystafell ddoctor, neu gyda’r cwnselwr neu’r seicolegydd a’r drws ar gau. Ond siarad allan fel bo pawb yn clywed, mae hynny’n wahanol.

Bues i am hir yn meddwl sut i ddechrau. Doedd gen i ddim geiriau byddai’n gallu disgrifio’r hunllef dwi’n byw ynddi. Ond yna fe ddaeth yn glir ataf. Dweud wrth Ned. Dyna dwi’n ei wneud wrth eistedd ar lan ei fedd. Dweud y cyfan wrtho. A dyna ni, llifodd y geiriau allan a cheisiais dangos effaith galar ar fy mywyd – dangos y poen, yr euogrwydd, y salwch.

Dwi’n gwbod fod rhai wedi ei ffeindio’n anodd i’w ddarllen; yn ffeindio’r darn yn frawychus. Ond gallai ddim cuddio. Gallai ddim cau’r drws ac esgus nad fel hyn yw fy mywyd. Pwy fydd yn elwa o hynny? Nid fi, ac yn bendant neb arall.

Felly dyma fi yn siarad allan, yn dweud yn uchel i bawb fy nghlywed. Dwi’n dioddef, dwi mewn poen anioddefol. Dwi wedi cael diagnosis o iselder seicotig a PTSD. Dwi ar lot fawr o feddyginiaeth ac yn derbyn therapi wythnosol gan seicolegydd.

Ond does na ddim un tabled all wella galar, gan mai nid salwch ydi galar. Mae o’n gallu arwain at salwch fel sy wedi digwydd i mi. Ond mae galar ei hunan yn hen fwystfil hyll sy’n byw y tu mewn i chi. Mae o yn eich esgyrn, yn eich calon, yn eich enaid. Mae o’n anferthol, ond mae rheswn dros hyn. Y pris mae’n rhaid talu am gariad ydi galar.

Does dim gwella, dim ond ceisio dysgu byw efo’r hen fwystfil sydd raid. Ac mae hynny’n broses hir ofnadwy, mae’n siwrne a fu’n parhau am weddill eich bywyd. Does gen i ddim yr ateb ar sut mae gwneud hyn. Does gen i ddim syniad. Dim ond bodoli dwi’n neud ar hyn o bryd. Ond mae hynny’n ddigon am nawr. Jyst bod yma – yn wraig i Bleddyn ac yn fam i Tomi a Cai. Ac efallai yn fwy pwysig na dim, yn dal i fod yn fam i Ned. Siarad amdano bob dydd, rhannu atgofion gyda’r teulu a ffrindiau agos. Cadw Ned yng nghof bawb oedd yn ei adnabod, a’r rhai na gafodd y fraint o ‘nabod y bachgen bach direidus oedd yn wen o glust i glust drwy dydd, bob dydd.

Dyna’r anrheg dwi wedi ei chael o gael y cyfle i gyfrannu at y gyfrol pwysig hon. Mae enw Ned yna, i bawb i’w weld. Fy machgen bach annwyl i na gafodd y cyfle i fyw ond am bum mlynedd. Ond oherwydd ‘Galar a Fi’, mi fydd o’n byw yng nghof pobl am byth. Ned.

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EMDR Therapy (2)

Yesterday I had my second session of EMDR therapy. The biggest thing I learnt is that this therapy is exhausting. Considering I’m sitting down with my psychologist for an hour, at the end of those 60 minutes, I am physically, mentally and emotionally drained. My psychologist had told me that this would happen and has strongly advised that I go home to rest after each session.

Yesterday, we progressed from my ‘safe place’ to the very beginnings of reprocessing the trauma. The trauma for me is, of course, the sudden loss of my little boy Ned last year in a horrific car crash.

The therapy works with images. I needed an image I had of that day, before Ned left in the car.

As I recalled the image I began to cry and I became extremely agitated. My legs began shaking and I began to scratch at my skin. My breathing quickened. I felt physically sick. I had to make a statement to go with my image. It was simple. ‘It was my fault.’ I let Ned go. If I’d said ‘no’, my little boy would be here this very second being his usual bundle of energy and happiness.

With this image in my head, my psychologist began the reprocessing. This is when I follow her fingers from left to right for a set amount of time (45 seconds). No speaking is done during these sets. At the end of each set, I’m asked how I’m feeling physically and emotionally.

I am so amazed at the effect this therapy has on me. I feel physical changes. By the end of the session I no longer felt sick, I wasn’t agitated, I wasn’t crying. In my mind I had an image of Ned choosing his favourite clothes to go on his day trip – his purple jeans and a blue top with an orange dinosaur on the front. He was smiling. He was hopping from one foot to another. He wanted to go. And I let him go because I didn’t know what was going to happen. How could I?

The session ended with me returning to my ‘safe place’ where I don’t have to hide my grief. I don’t have to pretend. It’s ok to cry for the loss of my little boy. It’s ok to howl in pain there. It’s ok.

My psychologist explained that the reprocessing would continue during the next few days and that I would likely experience strong images. I have to practise being able to ‘go’ to my safe place, preferably when I’m calm and not anxious.

I’m no scientist. I have no real idea how the brain works. But I do know that when I’m sitting with my psychologist for that hour, something is happening in my brain and that something is hopefully going to help me to live day-to-day. That’s what my lovely psychologist has given me – the gift of hope. She is amazing and I will be eternally grateful to her.

During a very difficult weekend before yesterday’s session, my pain and anger was so all-consuming that I resorted to some of the self-harming behaviours that I have written about in the past. These behaviours give me temporary release. They in no way make it go away. They are not helpful and they are risky. They are behaviours that I want to stop.

I will never stop hurting for the loss of my precious son. Never. I will never stop crying for him, for the life he should have had. I will never not wish to feel his little arms wrapped around me again. But I do want to be here for my two other precious boys. I want to be their mam. And I want to do everything I can to keep Ned’s memory alive.

I will always have three sons; three beautiful, precious sons who I love more than I could ever put into words.

EMDR Therapy

This is my first blog post in quite some time. Since losing my little boy, Ned, last year, I have blogged about my journey through grief. These blog entries have shown how my grief has affected my mental health, and I have spoken openly and honestly about this.

I have recently contributed to a book in the Welsh language about grief. There were 14 contributors to the book, each with their own story, each with their own unique experience of dealing with grief. The book has become a huge success and has started several discussions about the need to be open about grief; about the need to talk honestly about it.

By also writing openly on my blog, I hope to reach out to someone. I hope that someone can read an entry and identify with it and thus feel less alone. I also hope it helps those who know me personally to understand a little better what life is like for me.

Due to having pre-existing mental illness which has escalated dramatically since losing Ned, the support I have needed has been complex.

Grief is not an illness. There are no tablets that can help make it better. It will never go away. One can only hope that somehow, they learn to live with the pain. I have weekly bereavement counselling, specifically for my grief.

I am on strong mental health medication specifically for my depression and anxiety.

I therefore have two paths – my grief and my mental illness. These paths have now become intertwined. They can’t be separated. So where do I start? How do I begin to deal with such a complex and frightening concoction? I struggle to get out of bed in the mornings. I struggle to remember which day it is. This is why I have to rely on professional support.

I see my wonderful GP fortnightly. We re-assess my medication, my mood and my actions. We talk. We both agreed that I still needed more. I’m not moving on. The hole I’m in is still as dark as it was on March the 25th, 2016.

This has lead to my decision to have psychology. I have reached a point where my coping strategies have become dangerous.

I began having psychology a month ago. My psychologist told me that the therapy she would be using is called EMDR therapy (Eye Movement Desensitisation Reprocessing), which has been successfully used to treat PTSD.

I came home and Googled the therapy and to be honest, it all sounded a bit strange. I couldn’t really grasp what I was reading. This is one of the reasons that I have decided to blog about my experience of having EMDR therapy. What I understand so far is that my brain has been unable to process what happened last year. Ned’s sudden death was so traumatic, my brain just hasn’t been able to cope. This has lead to me having PTSD (I have  previously written a post about living with PTSD). The aim of EMDR therapy is to reprocess this trauma so that my brain can store the information in a much let intrusive way. It will never take away the pain I feel at losing my little boy, but it will hopefully make my grieving journey safer to manage.

I have only had one session so far, so I’m starting at the very beginning …

My psychologist asked me to visualise a safe place. Somewhere real or imaginary where I can go when my feelings begin to overwhelm and suffocate me. No one else can be with me in my safe place.

It took a little bit of time, but I did find my safe place. It’s a small cottage which opens up onto a secluded beach. I’m alone in my cottage therefore I don’t have to pretend. I can grieve openly for the loss of Ned and my dad. I can cry without trying to hide my tears. I can scream at the waves crashing onto the shoreline. I can curl up on a chair wrapped in a blanket, close my eyes and lose myself in my memories. There is no one worrying about me. There’s no one waiting for me. There’s no one wanting me for anything. I’m alone and I can simply be me – the broken me that I have become.

Once we had established my ‘safe place’, my psychologist began with the eye movements. I visualised myself in my cottage then followed her fingers from right to left for about 25 seconds. This was repeated several times and at the end of each set, I was asked how I was feeling. I honestly couldn’t believe that I was experiencing physical changes in my body. The weight in my stomach felt lighter, my limbs felt lighter, my tears dried and the most important one of all for me, something that I haven’t been able to feel since the day my little boy died, I felt like it was ok. It was ok for me to be alone. It was ok for me to think only of me. It was ok to be broken. I didn’t need to hide.

At the end of the session, my psychologist explained that we would continue with this until I’m able to access my safe place without her help. I need to be able to do this before we start reliving the trauma.

As yet, I have been unable to access my safe place when I’ve been in a heightened state of crisis over the past week. My psychologist has said that this will take a long time. She has encouraged me to try to return there when I’m feeling calm and quiet. The more times I can reach my safe place, the easier it’s going to get.

I am full of positivity about this therapy. I will never ‘get over’ losing my little boy. I will never stop hurting. I wouldn’t want to. He’s my son. The little baby that grew inside me. The little boy who was always at my side, beaming at me with his beautiful dimpled smile.

I have two other beautiful sons too that need their Mam now more than ever. My hope is that with EMDR therapy my coping strategies will become safe ones; that I will no longer turn to the ‘risky behaviours’ that I have used to cope over the past year.

I hope that slowly, step by small step, I can move forward in my life, with Ned safely tucked up in my heart.