Tag Archives: emotions

Pay it forward

Every now and again I stumble across a post on social media or a blog and I find myself relentlessly scratching an itch which may well lead to being blocked or worse, the ending of a friendship. Hopefully, this evenings’ itch won’t have gone so far but it has left me wanting to try and release the valve without hurting any feelings so here I am again, writing on my very dusty blog, trying to sort out the different threads of thought that are weaving loosely around the jelly of my once firm memory bank. Ho hum.

I love teachers and teaching assistants, playgroup volunteers and nursery staff, scouting and guiding and cadet leaders; all of those adults who are still so passionate about preparing the next generation for adulthood that they give up *extra* time and energy on top of their working hours to mark out a path of safety, strength, education and futures. I adore them all. With the restrictions and paperwork now in place it is often a thankless and penniless vocation.

Do you know what else is taken for advantage? The modern parent. Often, all of those people who take care of our children in ways almost unmeasurable, are also parents. They are people who lose time with their own children because they know how much they have already benefited from their passions. For example. I have spent all of my “spare” time this past month trying to get a Stay and Play group up an running. Unfortunately, because of my Fibro and my new meds still trying to settle, my spare time has often been squeezed into family time. Whilst my kids enjoyed a movie put on in the local community, I sat in a side room typing up safeguarding policy. Of course, knowing my own children and husband, Mr Bear sat watching the movie (and multitasking with a game on his mobile) whilst the majority of our Cubs did not. A lot of hummous and PomBear crisps were consumed. I like to mix the good with the bad. There was also birthday cake and pots of yummy olives. See? Ying Yang all the way.

This dichotomy is probably seen more often in my day to day life. I do not have enough hours or enough energy to do more than try to keep the balance as much as I can. I fail miserably far too often. I lose it and shout at my smalls. I have to nap leaving my bigs to be young carers. I forget to collect my meds to the point that I count out the pills to ensure I have enough to last me the next 24/48 hours. I say “maybe” far more often than I am happy with because I just don’t know if I will be up to taking them all to the park after school. I am constantly on technology too and this has reached breaking point this last month.

I use modern tech for as much as possible. To remember my meds, I have an app on phone that rattles away in the same way I imagine my insides to do. I make use of the Google calendar. I have a personal list, a family list, a husband list, a school list (or three) and all of the public holidays to point out how terrible I am that I didn’t remember to send Mothers/Fathers Day cards etc. I also play memory games because if I don’t use it, I may just lose it! I catch up on my friends and loved ones that I don’t see daily via social media accounts. I stumble over delicious vegan recipes to keep my Big Boy happy and exquisite brownie recipes to please us both. I get my daily news on the web. Seriously, I do. I also listen to the local talk radio that helps but I definitely don’t buy newspapers anymore. My diary often rambles into my blog these days and any letter I may have once handwritten is now neatly typed and emailed to those people who need to read my nonsense. I also find communicating with the secondary school teachers extremely convenient (hopefully for us both) and I prefer to have a “good old fashioned” paper trail (or internet bits…)

I organise our entire life via my mobile and laptop. Sometimes, I even find myself tapping away or catching up with Person X, Doctor Y, or Teacher Z at the school gates.

I know for some, this gets a few points knocked off my mummy scorecard. I’ve stopped caring, to be fair. Occasionally, 3:15 is the only time for these things to happen. To some it will look like I am not paying close enough attention to my 5 year old who has exited her classroom full of the joys of Year One and, maybe, they will see me again at 3:25, two more children in tow, still desperately getting stuff done on my phone. I’m sorry if you think that makes me a lesser mother. Actually, scrub that, I’m not sorry.

You aren’t walking in my shoes. You aren’t taking my meds. You aren’t making sure my kids are fed each and every day and you are most definitely not parenting my children.

You never knew that day when I was on the phone to my husband that our benefits were cut.

You were never told when I was speaking to CAHMs about the mental wellbeing of my older child.

You didn’t see the fridge the day I was on the phone to the Supermarket pleading with them to please try my card again so my children’s dinner would still be delivered.

You weren’t aware that my friend’s baby arrived safe and well that very day after a terrifying pregnancy.

You wouldn’t have noticed me wince as I turned my head away so my children didn’t see as my back spasmed at just the wrong moment.

You couldn’t tell that day when I had just found out the devastating news that my friend had terminal cancer.

Sometimes, it might not have been quite so life changing but you didn’t know it wasn’t when you judged me, either.

I ask my children every afternoon how well their day has been, what new fact did they learn, what did they most enjoy, what did they wish they could change. Every night, I kiss them and wish them sweet dreams. Some days, these things will happen from my bed which I haven’t been able to leave, I wonder if I still get judged as a stay at home parent when I don’t collect my own children. What do you assume I am up to when I don’t even turn up to collect them? Or, worse still, the days I can’t leave the car to walk them in.

If I had known seven years ago just how much our lives would change, I might have done things differently. Woulda, coulda, shoulda and all that.

When I see you, I wonder how you fit in the time to complete your makeup, and I am in awe of your organisational skills.

When I see you talking on your phone again at 3:15pm, I wonder if I should offer to help you with the pick up so you have an extra few minutes to talk in uninterrupted sentences.

When I see you push to the front of the queue, I wonder what you have cooking for dinner that means you’re in such a rush to get home today.

I look at our children and I am thankful that they are here, happy, healthy, educated, fed and loved. I don’t want to question your choices because I don’t want the reasons to be anything like my own. I don’t wish my medical restrictions on anyone. Nor do I want to imagine that a loved one is in pain, although please feel free to spread the joy of a new baby!

The world is so full of judgment already. We are constantly split into groups, measured by the colour of our skin or the jobs that we hold, divided by the haves and the have nots, forced into political camps that label as Lefty Liberals, Far Right Racists, Crunchy Greenies, even Recycling Rebels (but at least that’s better than the Breastapo or Feminazi. Urgh.)

Be kinder to eachother, please. Life can be so cruel all on it’s own that the idea of us biting and clawing at eachother chills me to my core. Spread the love not the fear, smile if you can, and remember that even rainstorms can bring rainbows.

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Does every black dog have its day?

Today was a day of self reflection and understanding. I am now emotionally raw and yet I desperately want to get through the second day of an extremely fascinating and informative course.

It was tough growing up in a “broken” home, being separated from siblings and losing friendships and cousin-friends overnight. It tore me apart and I’m still dealing with the repercussions of it now, 27 years later. Anxiety and overeating came first, the loss of my grandfather hitting me hard causing a spiral into depression. I don’t remember ever feeling free from my emotional toil.


I first considered suicide during secondary when it felt like everyone was talking whilst I became more and more invisible. I was bouncing back and forth between my parents’ homes and I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere.

By the time I reached 15, I was numbly coasting along. Getting raped is one of the hardest and most life altering events a person can go through. For me, it probably saved my life. I decided something for myself for the first time in my life. I wanted to live. That isn’t to say that my mind suddenly quietened and all was right with the world, far from it. I began truanting from school on a regular basis and I would spend days on end sat in Crystal Palace Park reading Discworld books or drawing my emotions. I hated the winter months when I would have to stay in school or pretend to be ill. If only my mental wellbeing was as important as my physical wellbeing, someone might have made the connection. I became good at lying, good at hiding things, good at stealing small items of makeup from shops, good at being the reliable daughter who they could worry about later. I was angry with my parents, the adults who were supposed to be able to help me. We tried family therapy and 1-2-1 sessions. I couldn’t talk freely with my counsellor. I was paranoid about them spilling my secrets to my dad and frustrated by adults talking *at* me, never seeing the whole picture and how much pain I was in.


Meeting Mr Bear, falling in love at first sight, feeling safe in his presence for the first time in years, gave me no purpose and the space I needed to feel safe and secure once more. I knew I would have his children from the first moment and said so openly. Being near him calmed me and my recovery could begin.

It is never that simple though. My depression has ebbed and flowed throughout my life. It is my constant companion both an allie and an adversary, the light and the dark. It is as much a part of me as my laughter and joy, my pretence and the unadulterated love I have for my family.


I am not my depression but my depression is a huge part of what makes me me. Just like my shadow, it lives with me growing and shrinking as my life is lived. I wanted to beat it, to somehow push it away and stop it from returning but that’s impossible. You have to learn to minimise it and lighten the load so that it doesn’t continue to consume and crush and rage against you. I’m almost dependent upon it. Knowing that it is my constant companion is hard. I’m jealous of those whose depression is a footnote instead of a glossary It isn’t fair that my depression is still a raging storm whilst others are enjoying their rainbow. But I get it.


Mental Health is not created equal. I wish it were. We are all different heights, different shapes, different IQs, and different sense of humours. Why should we expect anything less of our mind? Don’t many of us now accept that the brain is a complex and mostly unknown quantity? If we know that, why do we try so desperately to pigeon hole depression and ask for a one size fits all approach? We have shoes not only in a range of sizes but also in different styles. The fact that we have so much choice in what keeps our feet comfortable, safe, and fashionable but that the many facets of our psyches are expected to conform like neat pins in a board or soldiers on parade never ceases to amaze me. We are not born equal. We know a little of why some of us have to struggle against or live with poor mental health but there is still so much more to do.


I hope that our sleuth of bears are able to access the best mental health care and that any struggles they may face can be head on. After all I have lived through, the idea that our cubs might have to go through similar sits heavy within my heart. Are they doomed to relive the cycle? Have I passed along my fragile mental health genes? Only time will tell. In the meantime I will be doing my damndest to keep my black dog on its leash and teaching my cubs how to be mindful and mentally healthy as well as physically so.

New Year, Old Musings

December was a funny old month. I spent far too much of it sat on a hospital waiting room chair, I had tests that left me in crisis where I had to leave the site or vomit all over the shiny clean floor, and meetings with Consultants who basically told me that my condition is still mostly invisible and even my new secondary condition is playing spot the inflammation. Yay.

In order to stop wallowing in my own room of pain and because it is 6 am on a Sunday morning where sleep played hookie for the night, I have decided to muse on something my big boy happened to say the other day in an off-hand, barely a thing, way.

“I was more scared of telling mum I was a vegetarian than telling her I was trans!”

Say what?? I have always felt that our parent/child relationship has been good and solid. We are open, honest, challenging, thought provoking. I never knew that one of them might have been scared to tell me something and if my outspoken, head strong, opinionated, first born can’t talk to me, what on Earth are the others holding back?

Don’t get me wrong, I know that children aren’t going to tell their parents everything and there are certain things I am not yet ready to hear, yet I didn’t realise I had ever said anything to make at least one of them wary of my reaction. And of all things, vegetarianism. That’s their hot button? Wow. How had I let this happen?


Admittedly, food is a big for me. I like my food, my belly fat rolls are a prominent reminder but I only ever discuss it in terms of eating healthily, looking at where your food comes from or how it is harvested. We even “enjoyed” watching Kill it, Cook it, Eat it on the beeb and would warn the children before giving them the option to stay up late to watch it. I’m fairly certain that it was these series that set my Big Boy on his path to being a (new) Vegan and, he suggests, probably a Raw Foodie or whatever the term will be in a couple of years. He is passionate about it to the point of becoming very upset with himself for fearing he isn’t getting his message across. I love his enthusiasm, his thirst to do what is right before what is easy. He sees a challenge and he drives himself to do his utmost in the name of his cause.


I had mentioned that I would rather he didn’t become a Vegan whilst we were still paying the shopping bill. The alternative products can really stretch things out. When I was following a popular diet for a while, moving from cow’s milk to almond milk was way outside my comfort zone but I found I quite enjoyed it and was able to eat porridge (cold with a little syrup or honey) as a breakfast meal once again. Pregnancy and hyperemesis really took its toll on my dairy intake and looked elsewhere for extra calcium yet never explored “milk” alternatives, I just did without them. However, it was an expense I couldn’t justify as my diet slowly moved back to the family norm. The cheese is another woah product. I put my Bursar hat on and tut loudly knowing that for his little block of cheese I could buy two thirds of the family block of cheddar. I have absolute joy in buying extra olives, chickpeas, lentils, and mushroom. It is fantastic to see my kitchen once again being used for the purpose of proper scratch cooking. I miss the fun of combining ingredients and enjoying new flavours, a joy which not being able to stand or sit upright for long periods has robbed me of. The eating of extra veggies, beans, pulses, and whole grains really doesn’t bother me at all. I dislike the pushy, judgemental, vindication which I have often come face to face with from Vegans. I want my children to make decisions based on the research and evidence of their own making rather than because one of their favourite YouTubers decides that the grapefruit cleanse is the best thing ever. Perhaps, somewhere along the way, that message was somehow lost. I’m really quite uncomfortable with that realisation.


If such a simple “you do you” message was lost, what else have my children decided to say or not say? If he had said “I was scared to tell dad!” that would make perfect sense. MrBear is a card carrying, bacon worshipping, veg avoiding, meat eater. The more meat the better. ALL of our friends know that if they want to thank him meat or some kind of alcohol will do the trick. If he can have it with extra hot spicy sauce then you will probably be in line for next Mrs B, should I ever shuffle off first. Seriously. The man lurves his meat smothered with chilli. I have never understood it. I openly say, in front of the children, that that is a very bizarre way to maintain ones body and taste buds. It is even more annoying because given that he gets to eat twice the adult male calorie count for the day thanks to his epic cycle commute, I’m the one who carries every excess calorie he seems to consume. To say in his presence that bacon is no longer an option is to open yourself up to all kinds of not funny jokes and “all the more for me” boasts.


Perhaps, what I was unable to convey to my wise Big Boy, is that when I ask “why?” to each of his statements, it is because I want to hear his sound and reasoned argument. Maybe I have lost the ability to ask those questions without them sounding loaded or like I have an agenda. I could live without meat. After a while, I would most likely no longer desire to add chicken to my salad or minced beef to my cottage pie. I can see myself quite happily eating in a meat free manner. Perhaps I have never actually said that to him.

I know I often speak in ideals. Our own little homestead. Chickens for fresh eggs, a goat to milk, pigs to harvest and swap with other homesteaders for some of their own produce, a polytunnel to fend off our beautiful English weather and a greenhouse to potter around in. In my dream making, it is entirely plausible that I failed to set straight my views on animal cruelty, testing on animals, forced breeding in dairy cows, dire battery cages of egg layers and the by products of these animals so widely used that the meat is now the by product. I don’t see how but I have to concede that I don’t always know the answer and I certainly have become less proficient at getting my words straight when my pain levels have begun to rise. I know that he feels genuine distress when he considers the lives of animals within the meat industry and I am completely on board with his choice to become a vegan. I’ll manage the cost, I’ll encourage new foods, I’ll search for better footwear, and I will stand beside him whilst we tell his father to stop being such a tit. He deserves my support and he has more than earned my respect. Can I say that we will never again butt heads or talk with great passion about the view from our side of the fence? Heck no! I doubt that he would actually want me to stop. The challenge I bring in to our conversations is a tool I will continue to use to better equip him for the world. His father is not the only one who will put down his life diet choice but he will probably be one of the only ones to turn around and stand up to any other tit who dares to tell our Big Boy that he is wrong in those choices. He is a daft so and so at times, my Mr, but his heart has been owned by our children since the day I sent him a text with one simple message, “Hello daddy”.


Opposites, emotions, unique, the same

Sometimes I wonder if I am too emotional. I react with great empathy and cry at most things unashamedly. People I know and love look at me like I have 2 heads or something but I can’t help it, my heart has always ruled my head.

This year I have noticed a few things that have niggled at me but because it is my children who will have been hurt I have chosen not to react but to step back and allow the anger to subside. I can’t work out if this is the right course of action or not and, as I’m also a dweller,  chew it over and over, getting more and more upset, until eventually I have a huge cry and everything gently returns to normal. 

Some would have me believe that I am too emotional, that I shouldn’t take everything to heart, that I am weaker because I show people my vulnerability whilst they hide their emotions from the world and, often, from themselves. One person in particular is always tutting and scoffing at my perceived injustices and, quite frankly, I want to bop them on the nose! There you go, another example of my emotional brain working. I can’t help it. They make me feel stupid for living via my emotions but it is also my emotional brain that they lean on when they need my help and support. I will always help, that’s my character. I don’t want to see anyone in pain especially if I can do something about it.

I constantly second guess myself, maybe this is why people say that I am too sensitive. I consider why something was said or done, how I may have caused the outcome, how or what could be done differently to get a better result, and on and on and on. I need to mentally resolve a situation in the hopes that the upset can be avoided in the future. Resolution is extremely important to me. Perhaps having only a few events reach an end point in my young life means that now I need to get things done and finished.

Life is rarely that simple. There are many things that just have to naturally fizzle out and that should be okay. I have to knowingly allow that to happen though because I want to see the ending to know that it is done and dusted. It is quite annoying and mostly frustrating. 

The Mr is the complete opposite. He rarely allows his emotions to rule his life. I can recall only two occasions where his emotions led our family path. When holding the eldest after my emergency c-section he told me I could have as many babies as I wanted. This was a huge shift from the “woah! We might have a few but let’s have this one first.” The second time was also child related when an event happened abroad resulting in the death of a group of school children. He felt so blessed to have our family safe and well that he agreed after 18 months of “we’re done” to have another child (2- I dislike odd numbers of children). 

It was a healthy mental contemplation to get married, it made sense, it was what adults do. It was sensible to get a good, solid job in IT rather than spend a year or three studying and enjoying being able to travel and see the world. It was responsible to trade in the sporty little car for a large family vehicle. It can often be very dull. 

He doesn’t do romance, he rarely gives compliments, and he is practical whenever I suggest something spontaneous and fun. He goes along with it because he loves me and wants me to be happy and then he ends up having a fabulous time too. 

I have often looked at our relationship and been plagued by doing what is right for us and what is best for us. He will patiently listen to me mulling things over, trying to decipher what I’m getting at and why it is very important that I talk about this NOW. He tries very hard not to fall asleep during this process because he prefers to wrap himself in the duvet at night and, with my insomnia, he tends to find his portion of the duvet on my side of the bed. He brings balance to my chaotic emotional life and he, mostly, gets me well enough to see why I am upset, excited, happy, annoyed etc. 

After talking with him earlier, I found myself in a better place with less anxiety over the situations I cannot and should never control. He asks so little of me and I take a great deal from him. He is the rock that I anchor my emotions to and we are both stronger for it.

Am I too sensitive? It is possible, and yet, I don’t see it as a bad thing. If we were meant to live our lives in a practical only existence we wouldn’t have our emotions. Yes, I take things to heart but that is because I care, because I want to help and make a difference. It is okay if you see things differently, if you prefer to calculate and live on a practical level. I adore the way we are all unique, it makes us all richer, especially when you find a Yin for your Yang.