Review: Bravado Bliss Nursing Bra

I couldn't believe my luck when I was given the opportunity to try out a new nursing bra! I spent most of S's first year wearing boring t-shirt type ones that faded and went a bit funny. They weren't very glamorous, but they did the job.

When the new bra arrived, I got a bit excited.

Before I had  S, had what you might call a gargantuan collection of bras. In fact, there is still a black bag full of bras in my cupboard, because I can't bring myself to admit they'll probably never fit me again. I love underwear.

You know when you've got a good bra, because you don't want to put it in the wash and wear one of the other ones for a couple of days while it's washing and drying. This is one of those bras.

You know when you get in from a long, hard day at work and have a bath, and just want to put on comfy clothes, so you search out your most comfortable bra? This is that bra.

It doesn't look like a nursing bra! Yes, sure, there's no underwiring, and it has the clips for easy access like other nursing bras - but the material is thick and shiny. And it holds much more firmly than other nursing bras I've tried. This is their Flexi-Fit™ support,  which gives "flexible yet structured underbreast support." The cups are also moulded foam, rather than just material, meaning they're that little bit thicker, and that little bit more able to hide the peanuts you're smuggling down there.

Having spent a depressingly long time wearing nursing bras that were basically glorified crop tops, my boobs hanging somewhere mid-belly, this bra lifted them up to where they used to sit, way back when I wasn't even pregnant yet. It works like an underwired bra, but without the wires. 

The bra is also seamless, which is amazing. It's so comfortable, there are no random seams irritating my skin. Unlike some bras, where you feel a massive relief taking them off, I could wear this one all day and still feel perfectly comfortable. 

The bra also comes with extenders, to add an extra 1"-1¾" to the back size.

One detail I'm sure all women who remember that feeling during the first few weeks of breastfeeding will love: the clip at the top of the cup can hold up to 60lbs! I know so many women who've suffered in that first few weeks with engorged breasts so heavy the clips on their nursing bra broke, and they had to shuffle off and buy a new one. 

The cups also have a "gentle stretch" feature, meaning that they will grow (to an extent) with your boobs - so you don't get that horrible double boob look when baby's gone a bit longer between feeds..

The last detail I want to draw your attention to is nothing short of a stroke of genius, as far as I'm concerned. The bra comes with a little kit with instructions and two little plastic S fasteners - so when you've finished nursing, you don't have to chuck the bra away. You follow the clever instructions, remove the clip, and replace it with this and hey presto, you've got a normal bra. 

Because I've been a bit slack with my writing of this review, I can also report that the bra washes well and doesn't look faded and nasty after a month or so. I've had mine for two months now, and it still looks the same as it did when it arrived.

The Bravado Bliss Nursing Bra comes in sizes 32A - 46K so it's likely they'll have it in your size. It normally costs £33.80, which sounds a bit steep, but when you take into account how well it wears, I think it lives up to that price well. You could buy one for half that price, and then have to buy another one after a month because it's stretched out of shape or your boobs have changed shape slightly.

All in all, I'm very impressed with this bra. In fact, I'm a bit in love with it. It probably needs another wash, but I don't want to take it off.

Disclosure: I received my Bravado Bliss Nursing Bra for free in exchange for writing this review, but that was not dependent on my writing a good review. The views in this piece are my own.

June 2013: That Was The Month, That Was

This time last year, I was something of a jibbering wreck. I'd just left an abusive relationship, but was still in contact with S's father and taking her to see him on a regular basis. I was torn between my desperate wish for S to have a proper father, and the feeling in my gut that I needed to keep her safe from this man. And that was messing with my head a fair bit.

In September last year, I posted something I'd written about strength onto Facebook. People made positive comments, and one person asked me if I'd considered blogging. I have had a LiveJournal blog for years, periodically going back to it whenever the thought grabbed me, but really only ever used it as a sort of diary; never for actual structured, planned pieces. Since having S, I'd been reading parenting blogs from the States regarding Attachment Parenting; I honestly wasn't aware there were many parent bloggers in the UK (that thought seems unimaginable now - like I'd been standing with my back to a massive, noisy crowd and not even noticed!).

I started my blog without putting much thought into it. I already had a Google account, so I just set up a Blogger, and began writing. I would post links on my personal Facebook page, and harass all of my friends to read them. Occasionally I would join in a blog hop or a linky here and there, and then I would get a few more readers. The number of hits on the blog each month went up and down. Some months they went up, others they went down. Most days I was happy to get more than 100 hits.

Here we are, 9 months later. Although I've joined Tots100 and Brit Mums, and I've set up a Facebook page for the blog and been active on Twitter, I still didn't really think people other than my friends (who obviously felt obliged) were reading.

In the last couple of weeks, things have gone a big bonkers. People I don't know have emailed me and said they think the blog is good. Some people on Twitter have said so too. People have shared my posts with their friends. 

Two massive things happened this week though. Firstly, a lady I know only through Twitter, who I have not personally harassed to read my posts at all, told me she would like to sponsor me to attend Brit Mums Live next year. I thought she must have me confused with someone else, whose blog was good, until she commented on some posts and I realised she wasn't confused after all. Which meant she actually did think my blog was good, and she really did want to sponsor me to go to Brit Mums Live.

The second thing is a tiny bit epic, as far as I'm concerned. Gingerbread is a charity for single parents. Their website is an endless bank of resources I've been using since I got a few months into my pregnancy and realised I really should just consider myself to be a single mother. I think they're fantastic, and I liked the idea of maybe writing a couple of pieces about them. So I emailed them. When I got a response really quickly, I was surprised; charities like this don't usually have the resources to reply to emails quickly, they're busy fighting fires with budgets and helping people with real problems. The first paragraph of the email said:

Thanks very much for getting in touch. I’ve been dipping in and out of your blog for the last few weeks, so it’s great to hear from you directly!

At this point, I nearly fell over.

Turns out it's not just my friends and people I harangue on a daily basis who read my blog. So many people have re-tweeted my posts lately, or shared links with their friends. It's all quite overwhelming. I feel all warm inside!

At the start of June, I set myself a target to get more hits than in May. When I hit that target fairly early on, I set the target of getting to the next thousand. Then the next. And now, here I am with almost 5000 more hits on the blog this month than last. I cannot even compute that.

I've had people agreeing to send me products to review, people agree to have me guest post on their blog, and in some cases ask me to write something for their site. Not to mention the fact a BBC producer searched Google for single mother blogs and came up with little old me!

I am, frankly, gobsmacked. And completely at a loss as to how I will top this month in July. Thank you to everyone who has supported me, you've made me very happy!

In all seriousness, if you have an idea for a post, a certain aspect of my life you'd like to know more about, please do contact me.

Thank you for reading!

Sponsored Post: Spreaditfast.com

Oh look, a video:

  



  Disclosure: This post has been sponsored by Spreaditfast.com

Feeling Fortnuate

When I first had S, and had to deal with the whole situation surrounding her father, as well as a tiny, jaundiced, premature baby, I don't think I felt particularly lucky.

But just lately, having spoken to many other women about their experiences in pregnancy, childbirth, relationships, childrearing... I realise just how fortunate I really am.

I am definitely the most lucky mummy in the world.

Here is a list to remind me of my good fortune...

• My pregnancy, if you remove the ex from the picture, was actually fairly easy. I had a little hip trouble, but I didn't end up having to leave work early or confined to a wheelchair from it. I didn't have gestational diabetes. S was born before she was big enough to be anything but a pleasure to feel kicking me. I didn't have to endure a hot summer of pregnancy, I didn't get preeclampsia, I had water retention but not too badly. All in all, a relatively trouble free pregnancy.

• Although I was induced, and labour was painful (and ten and a half hours!) I have heard some real horror stories that have made me realise how easy I really had it. I didn't tear, S wasn't distressed, despite being early she was a good weight and healthy. I didn't need to have an emergency C-Section, and was lucky enough to be able to go through the process without drugs or epidural.

• S was born with no suck/swallow response, and was fed formula through a tube for the first few days. I was very lucky to have the help and support of hospital staff, who helped me to begin to breastfeed. They would say it was down to my hard work, but I really didn't put any work in, other than pumping before S's NG tube was removed.

• I have been so lucky with the breastfeeding! No mastitis, no bleeding nipples, no engorgement, no painful breasts, no low supply, no leaky boobs when I went back to work. Whenever S wants milk, it's there. When she doesn't want milk, I'm not in pain.

• Linked to the breastfeeding: S did not poo much before she started solids. For a while, she was only going once a week. At one point she went for 18 days without a poo, during which time she was perfectly happy and content. Apparently this is not unusual; breastmilk is so efficient, there's little waste from it. 18 days was a record for most of the health visitors I spoke to though!

• I was a high risk for post-natal depression. Everyone thought I would end up depressed, including me. I have more than one friend who has struggled with PND; I've seen how utterly horrible it is. I am so fortunate to have never experienced it first hand.

• When S and I first came home, she was still jaundiced, and I had to wake her to feed her. As she got better, she would wake for feeds; but she didn't cry unless there was something wrong. She didn't have colic and has only ever had a very mild nappy rash once or twice. It took me a little while to realise that actually, some babies do just cry a lot. Actually, I have been very lucky that S is just incredibly easy-going, and only cries when there is something wrong. And that something is usually fixable. Being on my own and lacking in confidence, if things had been different, and S had been a screamy baby, I'm not sure I would have coped so well.

• Seriously, I know I'm gorgeous and all, but how the chuffing hell did I manage to produce something that perfect?! She is so much more naturally happy and laid back than I am. And I don't think either of those is a quality the sperm donor possesses. I definitely lucked out where this child is concerned. Even when she cries at 2am, and she snots in my hair and digs her nails into my boob, she's still perfectly adorable. How the hell did I do that?

• Being on my own with S definitely has it down sides. For instance, my work is having its annual summer BBQ this week; it starts at 5pm and is infamous for all the free food and booze... and I can't go because I have nobody who could look after S and put her to bed without tears. BUT I also don't have to compromise with anything I do with her. As I noted in this post the other week, we get up in the morning, decide what to do, and go. When we come home, we have whatever we fancy for lunch, and spend the afternoon doing whatever we please. I don't leave her to cry, she still sleeps in my bed on a regular basis, I still breastfeed her, and I'm careful about what I do and don't say to her. I don't have to worry about someone else coming in here telling me I really should get her out of the habit of sleeping in my bed, or her cot should really be in her room by now, or haven't I given up breastfeeding yet, or telling her she's good or naughty or bad or telling her to say thank you.

Thanks for reading! If you have enjoyed this post, please share it using the buttons below.

Other posts you may enjoy:

Geeky things about babies and children

Pollyanna ain't got shit on me!

Sling Talk

Wordless Instagram Wednesday

I've decided to make all my Wordless Wednesday posts Instagram collages. I'm lazy like that.

If you've enjoyed this post, you may like these other Wordless Wednesdays:
Peekaboo!
More Peekaboo!
What I used to look like

Why not brighten a friend's day and share this post using the buttons below?

Clare's Law

Do you know your partner's past?

Could you guarantee, without a shadow of a doubt, that he (or she) has never been abusive in the past?

Clare Wood was murdered by a violent ex partner in 2009. She had made several complaints to the police about him before her death. Her murderer had previously been in prison for three years, for harassing another woman, and for six months for breaking a restraining order. But Clare Wood had no way of knowing about this when she began her relationship with him.

After her death, Clare's family campaigned to make sure something could be done to prevent this happening to anyone else.

Last year, Clare's Law (the Domestic Violence Disclosure Scheme) was piloted in four counties in the UK, including Wiltshire (where I am).

Under the new law, if you are in a relationship with someone, and you're not sure of their past - or you just want some peace of mind - you can ask the police for information about them. You do this, in the first instance, by dailling 101 and stating you want to make a request for information under Clare's Law.

The police will take details from you regarding yourself and your partner, and will then go off to investigate further.

Things you need to know about Clare's Law:

• You can only request information about a current partner. The police cannot give you information about family members, acquaintances, ex partners (even if they are the father of your child).
• A friend or relative can make an enquiry on your behalf, if they are worried about your involvement with someone. In this instance, I think the police will still contact you with the information, rather than your friend or relative.
• The police can only tell you about previous domestic incidents, and convictions for violence they feel are relevant.
• If your partner is a convicted armed robber, a confidence trickster, suspected of fraud or burglary, the police cannot tell you this. But if he had a fight with his brother, at home, and the police were called, they will tell you that.
• Before they divulge anything to you, the police have to inform the person you are enquiring about. That person can't stop them from divulging information, but they do have to know what you will be told.
• If there is information to be divulged, the police will assess the situation and decide how best to proceed. If they feel you are at risk, they may ask you to come into the station to be told what you need to know, so that they can help you to escape a dangerous situation if that is what you want.
• In my experience, once the police feel you are at risk, they are very supportive in helping you to feel safer.
• They will always ask you if you feel that you are at risk in your current situation, and why you are asking for this information; whether you have any suspicions.
• The most important thing you need to know is that most perpetrators of domestic abuse do not have a police record. The police cannot tell you what they do not know. Just because they come back with no information does not mean you are safe. If this law had been in place when I began my relationship with my ex, I would still have been none the wiser because until I spoke to the police about him, I don' t think anyone else had.
• That said, the police can (controversially) divulge previous allegations of abuse, even if there were no charges/conviction.

There have been mixed responses to Clare's Law. Many charities have said the money could have been better spent on helping women to leave abusive situations. They are not wrong. But in my opinion, being able to check whether a prospective partner has ever been involved in domestic violence before is a good thing. There are many, many other things that need to be done to ensure women are safe, but this is a good start.

Thank you for reading. If you have enjoyed this post, you may also like:

Emotional Abuse: Not as Obvious as You Might Think

How to Spot Domestic Abuse

Domestic Abuse: No Longer Just Physical

Please share this post with your friends using the buttons below!

Silent Sunday

S's umbrella provided by The Strawberry Fox

Review: Nature Paint

Many, many months ago, I was sent some Nature Paint to review on the blog. I thought, ooh, I'll decorate the kitchen! 

And then, I put the paint on the floor behind the sofa, and forgot about it.

Periodically, when I was looking for a lost remote, I would stumble across the paint and think, ah, that's far too much work, I'll think about it next week...

Well, this week I thought about it. I was so bored of being stuck in the house with a grouchy, poorly S, I decided to make my kitchen look a bit nicer...

Nature Paint is a Cornish company who manufacture natural paint. It is the first and only paint to be awarded a Zero VOC symbol.

What does that mean? VOC stands for Volatile Organic Compounds. Or to you and me, that painty smell.

Nature Paint is marketed as a paint you could use to decorate a child's bedroom, and then put them to bed in their new room that night - because there's no smell.

Also, because the paint is natural, the colour pigment continues to develop over a few weeks. I'm looking forward to seeing how my kitchen changes colour!

The paint comes in tubs of powder, which you mix with warm water. Like the old powder poster paints at school, remember?

To be honest, I think it was the mixing that put me off using it for so long - I thought it would be messy, and would ruin my food mixer and whatever else I used to mix it with and in. Turns out, I needn't have worried. The paint has washed off without a trace, even from the bucket I kept it in for 3 days! First gold star.

The second gold star came when I got half way through painting my kitchen, and realised... hang on... this paint doesn't smell! I don't mean the smell isn't bad, or it smells but not too much, I mean there is no smell. Once you've mixed the paint, you can keep it for up to three days, and by the third day it did smell a bit - but not like paint paint. It smelled like the storage cupboard in the art room at school. Not like flowers or nice perfume or anything, but also not so unpleasant that you couldn't stay in the room. And to be fair, that smell had gone within an hour of my finishing painting.

I painted half the kitchen on the first night, and the rest on the second night. On the third night, there was the tiniest little bit of paint left in the bottom of the bucket, and it had gone a bit jellified, which was irritating - but I think if there had been more of it left overnight, it might have fared better. And it still worked fine for covering missed patches on the walls (yeah, I'm that good at painting).

This is what the press release says:

Made from only naturally, non toxic and locally sourced ingredients such as china clays from Cornwall, along with exotic pigments including French ochres and Italian Sienna, NaturePaint’s emulsions are both washable and sustainable, whilst still providing vibrant colour and high quality coverage.

I have to say, I am very impressed with this paint. I thought, with it being natural, non-toxic and all that jazz, the paint quality might be a bit below par - but actually it was great. It was just as easy to use as any other paint, and if anything, it was easier to wash off my face/hair/clothes/kitchen surfaces/floor (obviously, I deliberately spilled paint in these places, to fully test it for this review).

So, what does my shiny new kitchen look like?

*drum roll*

NaturePaint is currently available for purchase online at NaturePaint.com, JohnLewis.com, B&Q (DIY.com) and Brewers (designerpaints.com)

Disclaimer: I received 2 packets of Nature Paint in return for writing this review. The free paint was not dependent on my writing a favourable review, though.

Thank you for reading. If you have enjoyed this post, please share it with your friends using the buttons below.

Other reviews by Single Mother Ahoy:

Vistaprint Photo Books

Popbands

Aggie MacKenzie's cleaning products

Guest Post: The Fighter Still Remains

This is a guest post from The Fighter Still Remains about being the child of a single mother...

My real father left my mom when I was two and me when I was three.

A boy without a father

This set a tone for my relationship with my mother and the man she wound up marrying that would at times be beautiful and others tragic. What we have shared over the years has been my greatest strength. The perseverance of making it through that abandonment. We weren't just a single mother and the product of that, we were a family no one wanted. It does not matter how old you are or how long you are alone for- abandonment is a jagged blade that leaves wretched wounds. They don't heal unless you treat them properly.

You can't tell a child something like that is ok because a child doesn't know that they aren't ok. My mother tried by showering me with love, giving me everything I wanted and protecting me from the world. In a lot of ways this enabling treatment stunted my growth. Maybe I did blame her somewhere inside. My years of misogyny would've made more sense. Ether way, I can't tell you. I am just now, as a 27 year old father of two, beginning to deal with the feelings that he didn't want me.

I only have one memory of my father. Maybe two years old in his dank house with shag carpet and fake tile linoleum that curled around the edges. He was sitting in the living room on his stained brown couch drinking a long neck. "Dad" had just gotten me a Mr. Freeze Batman toy. It was sick, man. You filled it with water and put it in the freezer and it would form this impenetrable layer of ice around Mr. Freeze's suit. I spilled the water all over the curled, dirty linoleum floor. He beat me senseless. All I remember is cowering, hands above my head.

Soon after that he left. I've been told that he called on my third birthday and I said I didn't want to speak to him.

Just like that picture, our life became just Mom and I for a few years. I kept her going without knowing it. We lived in a dank basement apartment and Mom lived off venison a neighbor gave her. My first real Christmas was thanks to a hundred dollars her boss gave her Christmas Eve. No pot to use and no window to throw it out of. We were so broke we couldn't even pay attention.

Now, my mom remarried by the time I was five, but irreparable damage had been done. Our relationship, my soul and the way I dealt with men would be forever changed. My mother became my protector and later on my greatest enabler. To her my real father leaving our life was her fault and she spent the rest of my childhood trying to make up for that. Even after she remarried it was just her and I in an odd way. Dad (as I've come to know him) tried his best to fill that hole in my soul and replace what my real father (John) stole.. There was nothing he could have done our said, though.

I am not complaining. My mother and my Dad did the best they could to make me a whole man. Mom even took it a little far at times, not truly allowing Dad to be a father and discipline me as he should have. They tried their best, though. Being only amateurs at the whole parenting thing and the way I've turned out, I'd say they did well with the busted hand they were dealt.

My mother taught me a lot. Most everything I know. Even if an apple has a hole in it, it can still be good. She would tell me to look in the mirror everyday and say, "I love you," to myself. When times got hard the best place to be was on your knees, praying to something bigger than you. We all have some defective parts, but a person worth loving is the one who sees yours and loves you still- warts and all. Pencils have erasers because we make mistakes. Crawl before no man. Everyone needs a mental health day sometimes. These were just some of mom's lessons.

We have, little by little, let time and distance mend the parts of our relationship that were codependent. She wore a lot of hats in my childhood. Today I have respect for her. I look at my life and realize that none of it would be without her courage.  

We have no control over which way this magnificent sphere we exist on turns. Sometimes fathers leave. All we can do is try our best. My mother told me a story that at her new job as a flight attendant she had met a young man with severe disabilities. He worked in the airport picking up trash and driving the cart people put their luggage on. Her first Christmas with her new company required she worked and she was very upset about it. When she got to the airport she was surprised that the young man (Joey) came to pick her up and take her to her gate.

"What are you doing here, Joey? It's Christmas! You should be home with your family."

"Yeah, but who would pick up the luggage?" Joey beamed back with a puzzled smile.

It was through no fault of my mom or my dad that John did not want to be a part of the miracle of raising a child. She could have done what he did or turned to the bottle or more abusive men. She didn't though. Dad could have passed on the instant family (just add him). They put their needs aside and decided they were going to raise a man. They tried their best, but he had no clue what they were doing. Together, though, they made a patchwork quilt that now is becoming whole over time.

If you are a single parent, do not give up. If your child and you were abandoned, remember it is not your fault. That is not your cross to bear. Try your best every day. Focus on the small things. Make every sandwich as good as you can, fold every shirt as perfect as possible and make every hug count. When you add all the small things up they will take care of the big things themselves.

I hardly remember the mistakes my parents made when I look back on our life. I remember a dad that let me eat sherbet and watch cartoons Saturday morning while he cut the grass. Did I wish for a long time that he had made me go out and work so I could've come into adulthood with a stronger work ethic? Yeah. I wouldn't trade that now, though. And my mother, I remember chicken noodle soup, grilled cheese and a blockbuster movie when I was sick. Did this give me a feeling of entitlement that has been tough to overcome? Sure. But they raised me to be strong enough that I've overcome it.

Your kids will have issues no matter what you do. Give up the "perfect parent" idea if you haven't already, At times they will blame you for them not being able to get what they want. C'est la vie. If you teach them the fundamentals of being a good person, they too will have the ability to not live in that bitter resentment. Give them attention and show them through the way you treat life and other people that they matter. Teach them to laugh at their mistakes. Above all else love them. Even when I felt unlovable I knew somewhere deeper, my mom and dad loved me.

Give yourself a break today. No one is perfect and I know that because my parents told me!

Thank you for reading. If you've enjoyed this post, please share it using the buttons below.

Other guest posts you may enjoy:

Vintage Fee

Mummy With Issues

Recovery

This is one of a series of posts about a breakdown I had in 2010.

The first post is here.

Did you know, in Darlington, they have a train made from bricks?

By August, things have started to improve without my really noticing.

After a while, I realise there is nothing saying I have to stay at home all the time. I visit friends in Oxfordshire, Cardiff, Darlington. I see people I have not seen for years. I do the tourist thing. I get drunk. I spend hours upon hours on trains, reading books, listening to my iPod and looking out of the window. I miss Group Therapy and the one-to-one counselling, but my opinion is that visiting friends is better for my recovery any way.

I continue to work weekends at the local pub, waiting tables in the restaurant and garden. It's too hot and horribly busy on the shifts I work, but I enjoy it. The people there aren't really aware of what's been going on in my life, so they don't treat me any differently to any other weekend waitress. Once I am made properly redundant in October, I decide I will take on more shifts at the pub, and spend the rest of my time writing a book. I realise this is the first time I have thought about the future in months.

I begin to enjoy having enough spare time to be able to just go off on the spur of the moment. On the August Bank Holiday weekend, a friend comes to visit. We spend the evening drinking with my sister and another friend, then head into town and meet more people. The next day, with stinking hangovers, we agree that I will go and stay at my friend's place for a few days. I pack a bag, and we leave that evening. I spend about a week in Oxfordshire, splitting my time between two friends' houses, depending on when each of them is working.

This week marks some sort of change in me. I actually have fun; both when we are out drinking, and in the days that follow, just hanging about and not doing very much.

Thank you for reading. If you have enjoyed this post, please share it with your friends using the buttons below.

More Psychiatric "Services"

This is the latest in a series of posts about a breakdown I had in 2010.

The first post is here.

Me, at the top of Snowdon -
better therapy than anything Psychiatric Services had to offer!

Although I am glad to have been allowed to take gardening leave from work, I am well enough to recognise that sitting about navel-gazing is not the best thing for me right now. At first I continue to go to Group Therapy, and to sit in cafes reading books.

A different lady from Psychiatric Services calls and asks me to go in for another interview. When I get there, she looks at my notes and realises I have already had a preliminary interview, which is what she had been planning to do with me. She tells me I have ended up with her through a series of errors. My GP originally referred me to Primary Care, and when that wasn't working she referred me to CMHT (Community Mental Health Team). CMHT then referred me back to Primary Care (no explanation as to why), and Primary Care referred me to this lady. She is Intermediate Care. If I ever get to see a proper therapist, that'll be Secondary Care. I resist the urge to point out that, since they are dealing with people who have a reduced ability to function, perhaps they should make these things a little more simple.

She tells me there is a 4-month waiting list for any one-to-one assistance, but I can continue to see Primary Care (the counsellor who seemed scared of me and was no help). There is a group called Working Through Depression that starts next month, and they've put me on the list for it. She thinks the course runs for 8 weeks. Meanwhile, I can join some Open Groups. I tell her I am already doing those, and they are not helping.

I wonder what a person has to do in order to get proper psychiatric care around here.

Having visited a friend in the locked ward recently, it seems even getting sectioned doesn't guarantee any sort of assistance to get back on one's feet.

The story continues here

Thanks for reading. If you've enjoyed this post, please share it with your friends using the buttons below.

Wordless Wednesday: Instagram Love!

Here are some of my Instagram posts from the last week.

Here are some other Wordless Wednesday posts:
Autumn
Self Portrait
Peekaboo!

Up and Down

This is the latest in a series of posts about a breakdown I had in 2010.
The first post is here.

I give the Sertraline a few weeks, and then I go back to the doctor, indignant that it’s not working. I’m still miserable, I’m still not eating, I’m still not sleeping, and I still want to die. The Sertraline has failed, and I am distraught. The doctor tells me not to panic; it can take a month or two to begin to really kick in. (A month? Or two? I can’t wait that long, I won’t survive!) And also, 50mg is still only a low dose. They can always increase it. Some really crazy people are on up to 200mg a day. This guy is not the doctor I usually see. He realises, after he’s made this comment, that it was perhaps not the best choice of words, and changes the subject. I go away under instruction to take my little white wonder pill in the mornings rather than the evenings, as this may improve my sleep. As I am currently averaging 3 hours a night, I am willing to take any and all advice where my precious sleep is concerned. I change my pill-popping routine.

After a week of the higher dose, I have a day where I am ridiculously manic. I get up early, bake and ice brownies, tidy the house, work a lunch time shift at the local pub, iron clothes, change bed sheets, work the evening shift at the local pub. Around 7pm, I crash and burn, and spend the evening at work drinking Coke and coffee, shaking. My eating is still an issue.

The sleeping is still a problem; I am still taking a lot of whichever pills are closest to hand before getting into bed each night. I know this is probably a Bad Idea, but I just really want to get a decent night's sleep.

One day a friend gives me some of the antipsychotics he's supposed to take but doesn't. I take one, and lose two days in blissful slumber. It is amazing. I am scared to ask him for more though, as I know I will end up just sleeping for months at a time.

The Sertraline doesn’t seem to have any side effects. Something seems to be sort-of working. I don’t suddenly wake up happy one day, but I do stop obsessing quite so much about killing myself. Instead, I am filled with apathy. I don’t not want to kill myself because of a new-found zest for life, but rather because I just can’t be bothered to make the effort. It’s as if I am standing outside of myself, watching. 

You know when you learn to meditate and they tell you to just sit and notice your thoughts like a passive observer, well I am doing that with my entire life, and I don’t even care. I’m not bothered that I’ve become the proverbial shadow of my former self, but I am slightly bothered about this lack of concern. Even in my addled state, I know that I should be bothered by the fact I’m on a slippery slope. I feel very much that I am walking down a road from whence there is no return, and have resigned myself to the fact that this is just fine; perhaps I will just keep going down this road, and never return. Perhaps I will just die. 

I am still unable to cope with social interaction, and have not answered my phone for weeks. I leave it on silent, in the spare room. I read some of the messages that come in, but rarely respond. I have deleted my Facebook account and feel bad that friends have texted asking if I’m ok, why have I deleted my account… and I just can’t bring myself to respond. I feel intensely guilty that I may have hurt people’s feelings or made them worry, but I still can’t get around to doing anything about that. During this period I will end up losing a lot of people I thought I could count as friends, because I simply cannot explain my actions to them. And I’m not entirely sure they’d want to understand any way. People steadily stop calling or texting over the weeks.

I begin to read every memoir of depression I can get my hands on. Even though most of what I read doesn't go in, I keep reading. I search Waterstones and then Amazon for books by people who have survived this, in the hope that by reading about them, I will somehow figure out how to help myself.

In one book I read, the author describes how, frustrated with the doctors and pills, she researched supplements. I take a note of everything she takes: fish oils, magnesium, 5-HTP. Then I take myself off to Boots, and buy a ridiculous amount of supplements. Surely the contents of one of these little pots will fix me, and I will be normal.

After the apathy comes the mania. It starts with a vague sense of purpose, and within a couple of days I am up at the crack of dawn, baking brownies, cleaning, tidying, moving furniture, doing laundry. Anything and everything, to an OCD-like level. I cannot sit still. I am suddenly super-productive, getting everything done. The house is spotless. This lasts a few days, and then I crash and burn. And suddenly this is worse than it was before. Because I thought it was over. I thought this was the magic cure-all pill that was going to save me from all my troubles. But it’s betrayed me, and here I am, back wallowing in my familiar despair. It’s like that line from that song: “If I hadn’t seen such riches I could live with being poor.” 

I want nothing other than to lie down and die. I feel lost and am convinced nobody of my family or friends wants to find me. While all this is going on I still have the tiniest modicum of self-preservation instinct. Alone in the house and scared of what I might do, I try my best to contact an acquaintance who lives on the other side of the park from me. He doesn’t work; I figure there is a good chance he will still be up at 2am, while I am having my crisis. He’s fast asleep and cannot come to save me. I drink more and go to bed feeling terribly alone. I have had 29 years of feeling that I am surplus to everyone’s requirements, and it does not matter what happens next; open the vodka, take some more pills. I take more than is strictly necessary (since none is necessary) and lose myself for a while. 

It is July now. This has been going on all year so far. I'm sick of it. The phrase "shit or get off the pot" keeps coming into my head. I am impatient with my own inability to get well; if I'm impatient, no wonder I'm losing friends left and right. 

You know that scene in The Beach, where the Scandinavian man has been bitten by a shark, and keeps howling in pain, and everyone just wants him to either miraculously recover, or get on and die? 

That's me right now.

The next part of the story is here

Thanks for reading. If you have enjoyed this post, please share it with your friends using the buttons below.

Group Therapy

This is the latest in a series of posts about a breakdown I had in 2010.
The first post is here.

Mount Snowdon: a turning point

I have agreed to attend Group Therapy courses because if I turn them down, there is nothing else. No other help available. The GP thinks it will be good for me to have to get up and be somewhere three times a week. The lady from Psychiatric Services thinks Group Therapy will keep me going until she can get me into the "Working Through Depression" group. I would rather just stay in bed and wait to die. But I said I'd do it.

And so, the following Monday, I get myself up and wander into town. I stop in a cafe and buy myself the largest possible latte, with added syrup, and sip it on my way to group therapy. I try to look as inconspicuous as possible as I wander along a main road of almost stationary traffic, and turn into the grounds of the mental institution. In reality, they probably don't care one way or another. I'd like to think I don't look particularly crazy; it's entirely possible that even if I am noticed, people would just think I was a member of staff, or visiting someone. Or not even care.

I sign in at the reception desk, which is behind a glass screen as if the staff need to be kept away from us, lest they catch our madness. I am told to wait in the waiting area. There are some chairs and some magazines. I am early. I take a seat. More people turn up; the waiting area is tiny and packed with people who don't make eye contact with each other. Eventually a lady comes out from behind a locked door, and takes us through to another room. We all sit down, and don't make eye contact. I assume this is the first week the group has run, but actually most of these people have been coming for several weeks. I am the only new person; they just don't speak to each other. Except for one lady, who turns up late and talks enough for all of us put together. It basically becomes her own personal therapy session.

Group therapy consists of this: a group of socially awkward, horribly depressed and anxious people sitting in a small conservatory crammed with too many vinyl hospital chairs and some dusty plastic plants. The lady running the course goes off to get her folder, then comes back. We all get a handout about today's session, and then she sits and reads it to us. I sit there, incredulous. Do I have to sit through two hours of this? How is this going to help me with anything other than my insomnia? Ironically, this is the assertiveness group, and I am not assertive enough to stand up and tell them what a crock of shit this is. So I sit and sip my coffee while we read through the worksheet, pausing every couple of sentences for the loud lady to tell us all how this point is relevant to her life, her week, her dog. Sometimes the lady running the group tries to be assertive herself, and ask whether anyone else in the group has anything to add. Mostly, though, she lets the loud lady do the talking.

There is no Goal Setting group that week, so I am granted a few days' peace before the relaxation group on Friday. The loud lady is in the relaxation group too; as is my brother in law, who I barely know. We don't really get on. He usually tries to tell me what to do, and I usually bite my tongue so as not to start a family feud. Between the two of them, I don't feel very relaxed. The same lady comes in to lead the group again. She hands round sheets, and reads them to us. I am sensing a theme for group therapy. After an hour of discussing how the loud lady finds it hard to relax, we go into the gym and lay on camping mats with pillows under our knees. The lady puts on some relaxing music, and reads a text to us while we close our eyes and "relax." Afterwards, the lady tells each of us how well we did at relaxing, or whether we still seemed tense. And then I leave, as quickly as I possibly can.

The groups are the same the following week. I am not impressed. 

This week is my first time at Goal Setting group. The loud lady is there again. My heart sinks. The same lady is running the group, and seems powerless to stop the loud lady from taking over. We spend the first hour having a sheet read to us, like story time at school. Then we all get a "goal setting" sheet. Apparently in the second hour of this group, we review the goals we set last week, and set a goal for next week. This weekend, I am being taken by a friend to climb Mount Snowdon (more about that here). It's something I agreed to ages ago, and he is holding me to it as a way of ensuring I am ok and making me Get Out And Do Things. On my goal sheet, I put "to climb Mount Snowdon and get to the top." When we go around the room and read out our goals, I have my first ever inkling that actually, I'm not so bad; actually, I may be on the mend and not as hopeless as I thought. Everyone else's goal involves doing the washing up or writing a letter. Jaws drop when I read out my goal.

I attend Group Therapy for a few more weeks. Irritatingly, my GP is right - it's not the therapy, so much as having to get up and out of the house three times a week that helps. After therapy, I go back to the cafe, order another large latte, and curl up in an arm chair upstairs, alternately reading a book and watching the world go by outside. It's my own form of therapy. Sometimes I have two or three coffees, curled up in my armchair, reading endless memoirs of depression and madness.

After a few weeks, I start missing groups. I'm going away for the weekend, or the weather is nice and I want to go to the beach for the day. 

One day the loud lady is in a pub I am having a drink in with friends. She asks me, in front of everyone, whether I think Group Therapy is helping me. I do not return to Group Therapy after this. They call to check I am ok, and I say I don't appreciate being "outed" in front of people who may not have known I was attending Psychiatric Services.  She doesn't have an answer for that.

The next part of the story is here

Thank you for reading. If you have enjoyed this post, please share it with your friends using the buttons below.

Psychiatric Services, and Other Jokes.

This is the latest in a series of posts about a breakdown I had in 2010.
The first post is here.

I have no idea how to live my life. I feel like the last couple of months I've been in some sort of weird stasis; whole days and weeks have merged into one. I couldn't tell you what I did last week with any certainty, much less how I spent the month I was signed off work. I don't know how to change this. I can't even think what to wear to work tomorrow. The simplest of decisions is beyond me; I skip meals for days at a time because I just can't decide on what I want.

I am aware that this has been going on for far too long now. Several of the people who were very sympathetic and nice when I first started showing signs of being a bit "off" have either mysteriously disappeared, or openly told me to just pull my socks up and sort my shit out. I don't know if they're right or not. I probably should sort my shit out but I can't even sort out doing the shopping. I can't remember anything I used to do, how I used to function. I can't decide anything, it's like I'm just stuck. And everything is black and sticky.

The lady from Psychiatric Services calls me. We discuss my situation. When I tell her I am taking 25mg of Sertraline, she suggests I increase it. I speak to the GP about it, and we discuss the potential side effects of doing this. I go away with my prescription for the stronger dose, and try to watch myself for signs of further mentalness.

A few days later, I have my preliminary meeting. It is in Fountain Way, the local mental facility on the outskirts of town. I sit in a room with too many chairs, a table and a box of tissues. The lady wanders off to get my file, then comes back. I tell her all the same things I have told everyone else: I am broken, it's not fixable, I want to die. She tells me I should think of my younger sisters, and how they would feel if I died. I do not find this helpful.

On the phone, the lady said it would take "45 minutes to an hour." It takes two hours. There is a lot of crying.

The lady is nice to me. She tells me she has to go back and discuss my case with the rest of her team, and then I'll get a letter. They'll send a copy of it to my GP as well. She tells me that with the increase in my medication I should see an improvement. I tell her I have been self harming a lot; she doesn't seem bothered. I leave, feeling drained, and cry on the way home.

I know that these people cannot help me. Even if they do decide they will refer me for "treatment," the lady has already told me they have a "fairly long" waiting list, so I won't get any help for a while. I feel like I've been tricked; I sat in this too-hot room for two hours, dragging up all sorts of crap from my past that I generally just deal with by not thinking about it. Now I am left with it all spinning around in my head, and no clue how to deal with it. I feel like I have gone right back to square one, feeling worse than I did when I was originally signed off work - except now I have to get up and wash and dress myself and speak to people every day.

For the last few weeks I have been "hanging on," waiting for my next appointment with the GP, or the counsellor, or for this assessment, thinking "ok, just hang on until this appointment, and then you'll be okay." And every time I get to the appointment, and I'm in the room, I have this thought, "well, you managed to hang on and make it to here - but nothing has changed, you're not magically fixed, things are not okay, and when you leave the room it'll all just be the same." Now I've spoken to Psychiatric Services, I'm back to sitting in limbo, waiting for the next thing to hope will offer salvation.

I go home, and sit and stare into space, thinking to myself, "what are you doing? You can't just sit here and stare into space." The lady from Psychiatric Services had suggested I go for a run. She has clearly never been in my position, sitting in the house, petrified of going out and bumping into anyone I might know.

A letter arrives from Psychiatric Services a while later. There are leaflets for "group therapy." I put them on the floor next to my bed, and forget about them. 

I tell the GP I think "group therapy" is not for me; it seems stupid and a waste of time. She tells me that perhaps it will do me good to have a reason to get up and out of the house every week, now that I'm not working. I can't find the words to form an argument against it, and I don't want to seem ungrateful for the only help being offered, so I say okay, and leave.

A few days later, the lady phones. She tells me she thinks I would benefit from going to the group therapy for depression, but that the group is currently full, so I am on a waiting list. In the meantime, what do I think about the leaflets she sent me? I quickly pick the leaflets up and blag my way through the conversation: "er yes, I was thinking I'd do the Assertiveness, the Goal Setting and the Relaxation..." She seems pleased with this.

To be continued.

Thank you for reading this post. If you have enjoyed it, please share it with your friends using the buttons below.

Voluntarily Redundant.

This is the latest in a series of posts about a breakdown I suffered in 2010.

The first part of the story can be found here

The pub garden where I spent my summer

As my time at work goes on, I realise I can't just carry on working only two hours a day for the rest of my life. I have to increase my hours, and start doing proper a proper day's work again. This thought terrifies me.

The whole company has been on notice for redundancy since January. It's July now. I could make all this effort to increase my hours back up to full time, and be made redundant any way.

I speak to my boss about it. He tells me that there are around ten people at my level, and only four jobs in the new structure at that level. 

I am tired. I am not enjoying my job any longer. I didn't want to come back, and I don't want to be here now.

I decide to ask if I can take voluntary redundancy. I speak to my boss again. He tells me that under the circumstances, the company may consider allowing me to take my notice period as gardening leave, something most other people have not been allowed. He tells me to leave it with him; he will speak to his boss.

So my boss speaks to his boss, and his boss speaks to HR. One Wednesday morning I am invited to a meeting with the nice lady from HR. She tells me that I can take voluntary redundancy, if I want. I can take my notice period as gardening leave, if I want. I can finish at the end of this week, if I want. I say yes please, and go back to my desk. 

I go and speak to the big boss, to thank him for getting the company to allow me gardening leave. He tells me that it's not a problem, and that I need to concentrate on getting myself well again; he can see that I was not ready to come back to work.

And that is how I came to spend the rest of the summer drunk and sunbathing in a pub garden, reading endless memoirs of depression.

The next part is here

Thank you for reading. If you have enjoyed this post, please share it with your friends using the buttons below.

Single Parenting: The Good And The Bad

Photography by New Sarum Photography

Being a single mother is hard work. There's no denying that. Not only do you have to do the work of two parents, you have to put up with one of two looks from Joe Public:

1. the "oh-you-poor-thing" head on one side fawn, or
2. the "my-taxes-are-paying-for-your-child-you-useless-wastrel" down-the-nose glare.

 Neither is particularly desirable, if I'm honest.

Here is a list of good and bad things about being a single parent.

The Bad:

• When your nose picks up that tell-tale smell, there's no point in ignoring it. Nobody else will smell it and change the stinky nappy for you.
• You're the only one on duty for middle of the night cuddles, nappy changes, teething comfort and general shenanigans. There is no "just hold the baby while I..." - you have to learn to do it while you're holding the baby.
• You may as well give up; you'll probably never pee without an audience again.
• When your child picks up a bad habit... you can't blame it on someone else; they probably learned it from you.
• The buck stops with you. You are entirely responsible for this child. 
• When your child has a bit of a temperature/looks a bit peaky/may have put something untoward in his mouth, you have nobody from whom to seek a second opinion. There is nobody who knows their "normal" well enough to know if you are just over-reacting.
• Your friends and family may mean well, and show an interest from time to time, but realistically you are the only person who is that interested in your child's development. Nobody else cares that much about that cute little face she just made, or that she's just done the cleverest thing with her sun hat.

The Good:

• You get all the cuddles. You don't have to share them with anyone. All that love, just for you.
• You get to make all the decisions. You don't have to agree to disagree or compromise on what you think is the right choice for your child. 
• You can have an amazingly close bond with your child that may not be so close if there was a third person in the relationship.
• Did I mention the cuddles?
• When someone says "you're spoiling her" you can tell them to knob off; it's none of their business. If your partner said that, you'd probably have to take their opinion into account.
• You can do what you want, when you want. Let's have breakfast, and then go straight out to the park. Let's go to soft play. Let's go swimming. Let's stay in the house all day in our PJs and watch CBeebies. There is nobody to disagree with your ideas, and nobody to hold you up while you wait for them to have a shower/make a coffee/tie their shoelaces before you can leave.
• You know when you look at your child, and you're just amazed by how awesome they are? You did that. On your own. Not as part of a team or a group effort. You. Be proud.

Can you think of any more good or bad points? 

Add your own in the comments!

Thank you for reading. If you have enjoyed this post, please share it with your friends using the buttons below.

If you have enjoyed this post, you may also like:

An Example of Why I Am Happy to be a Single Mum

My Response to the CSJ Report on Single Parents

Things NOT to Say to a Single Mum