Advance warning – this is a long one! But please don’t lose heart at it’s content. The ending has more value than the journey…

It is approximately 21 years since I left school. 21 years! I don’t remember very much of it, yet there are some moments, events, days that I remember like it was yesterday. One day in fact. Don’t ask me to remember the date, but it was sometime in the 5th year, just before I sat my GCSE exams. I was sat with my best friend, packing away at the end of a Business Studies class, when two girls whom I can barely remember approached and asked if we wanted to go with them for a cigarette (I had unfortunately been sucked into a belief that at 15-16 years of age it was a cool thing to do, and had begun smoking). This might not seem like an unusual event, but picture a girl who always felt a little uncomfortable in her own skin, a girl who desperately wanted to be liked and had a misguided desire to be liked by the ‘it girls’. Here was my ticket to the top! The moment I had waited for, acceptance at last.

I remember heading down the side of the school playing fields to the gap in the fence that led to a clearing in the woodland that surrounded the school. There were a number of girls there (it was an all girls’ school), dotted about in the clearing. My best friend and I headed over to a fallen tree and sat down, lighting our cigarettes. I can’t remember what made me turn around, perhaps a change in the atmosphere, but I must have sensed something as I turned to see two girls making their way through the fence. My heart dropped. One was an older girl, the other was a girl from my year – the latter was the school hardcase, whose name will remain anonymous from these pages.

I can’t recall if she spoke to me, the next few minutes of my life appear kind of shady. I remember her removing the cigarette from my mouth and me thinking that this was some kind of intimidation game. And I remember her grabbing my high ponytail and yanking my head back to pull my face up to face her, and then I remember the punches. One, then another, then another. I don’t know how long she continued to punch me in the face for, but when I look back it seemed like an eternity. She stopped for a moment and I remember her saying, “So, are you scared of me now?” I have no idea why I did this, but I looked her in the eye and said “No”, which was clearly the wrong answer as she relaunched her attack, continuing to punch me in the face to ensure a more positive response. I recall one other voice, my best friend pleading for it to stop. And I remember the silence of the others as they watched. I don’t know how it ended, I think I managed to get up and I ran. I ran with blood smeared across my face and tears stinging my cheeks to the Headmistress’s office. “Oh, what has happened? Have you fallen?” (being a girl’s Grammar School, they didn’t see much of that kind of action).

You might be wondering why I decided to write about this today. Well, there are a few reasons. But let me start by telling you about the effect that this one girl on one day has had on my life for the past 21 years

My self esteem issues were with me before that day – if I’d have been confident and assured I would never have been so eager to accept the unexpected invitation, let alone set foot through that fence. The incident didn’t make me afraid of confrontation or physical attack – in fact I remember it not hurting at the time. I guess adrenaline, fear, shock had all kicked in after the first punch was thrown and it was remarkably painless. Until the next day when the mouth torn apart by my braces, the bruises and the gashes on my neck where the nails of the hand that gripped my pony tail had clawed at my skin became apparent. It was the psychological impact that that day had on me that has lasted the longest. I knew the girl didn’t like me – she had made that crystal clear through sneers and threats in the classroom and beyond. I hadn’t actually done anything, but I was always larking about in class and I guess to her I was an irritant. The more my classmates laughed at my joking around, the more I seemed to annoy her. I was surprised by the physical attack, yes, but the thing that has stayed with me is the fact that I was lured into the situation by a bunch of other girls. That has made me question the integrity of every smile, every compliment, every invitation that I have ever received since that day. And I guess my friend ‘ANT’ was there even as long ago as that, telling me that what that one girl had done was carry out the secret wishes of everyone else. I wasn’t an irritant to her and her alone – I was an irritant to the whole school, and she had served me my punishment on behalf of all the others.

Fast forward 21 years, send me an invite to a school reunion, and watch the memories come flooding back. Any of you that know me, in person or via these posts, are likely to guess that wouldn’t be a good thing. God no, far be it for me to recall all those happy times, of smearing the class projectors with vaseline and laughing out loud at the teachers’ failure to write on the transparencies, or sunny days and jolly hockeysticks. Nope, not me, I remember one girl, one day. And that one memory has become so distorted over time that it has served as the moment that defined my worth in that school, with those girls; I was worth nothing, I meant nothing. There was no action on my part that triggered that event, it was my personality that earned me a beating.

However, during the course of a few weeks the reunion began to unravel, and as a result a small splinter reunion was started. Just me and one other girl who I had been in contact via social media for a number of months. We planned a weekend away in London. Shortly after, another girl joined in, and yesterday we met for the first time in 21 years.

I cannot even find the words to describe the past few days. What ought to have been awkward was effortless. I have had the most amazing time with two beautiful ladies, inside and out. We talked and talked, about everything and nothing. I shared my insecurities about meeting them after all these years, I mean why me? Why of all the girls in that school did they want to meet me? They shared their memories, and I learned about the girl that they remember. The girl I’d always thought I was until that fateful day in the woods. I’ve had a hard time believing it, but I have to assume it was real because I was there, and they were there – with me!

I awoke at 4am this morning, my head swimming, and I guess I had a kind of epiphany. Here were two girls telling me I was ok. I continue to have contact with other girls from school, who would appear to think I am ok. My friends, my work colleagues, my boss, my husband, my family, my beautiful kids – they all think I’m ok. I don’t even really know who was there in that clearing or whether they thought I was ok or not. I just know she was there, and she didn’t think I was ok. So why the hell did I hand her so much control over the last 21 years of my life? Automatic Negative Thoughts.

I was at that school for 7 years. That’s about 2,500 days. That one day doesn’t even amount to half a percent of my time there. That one girl didn’t even come close to 1% of the population of girls in the school. That day doesn’t account for even 0.01% of the days since. I was so busy colouring my school life in shades of grey that I failed to see the joy of the remaining 99%! I don’t know if the girls will read this, but I thank them from the bottom of my heart for bringing the full set of colour pencils with them this weekend! They have helped me prove my old friend ‘Ant’ wrong for once. And no matter how unnatural it feels still, I am going to allow myself to believe them. I am going to give the power back to the positive, and metaphorically punch that one girl right back.

Today is the day that I start believing that I am ok. It is the day that I accept that I am never going to be to everyone’s liking. I know I have a good heart, and I know the people who matter know that too. From now on, I am going to give the power back where it needs to be – with the positive – and stop letting the minority take so much control. Today is the day that I let it go.

Nothing worth posting today, so whilst I had committed to myself to blog every day, I am a strong believer in not speaking for the sake of it.

Bit of a contradiction in terms, seeing as I am right now blogging about why I’m not going to blog today 😳!!

But while I am here, I just wanted to say that I appreciate all of you for stopping by to read my posts, and I would encourage you to comment, like or share anything that you find interesting (or even if you find it quite the opposite).

It would be useful for me to know how you feel when you read a post, whether you hate it or love it. And I’m more than happy to answer any questions you have if something catches your attention but leaves you guessing.

Anyway, I’m new to all this so I don’t know if you have visited my page by chance, you’re here for one look, or you pop in to check me out on a more regular basis. Either way, thanks for dropping in 😊

I had my 20 week scan today and found out that all my worrying was completely unnecessary! Not only is my baby perfectly healthy, but she is a girl!

After the scan I legged it to the toilets to relieve myself of the ridiculous quantities of water I drank on the way to the hospital. Once I’d locked the door, the tears came. I was relieved and overjoyed. But I was also overwhelmed by a feeling I can’t describe. Not regret, but something close to that. I thought about all the time I’ve wasted obsessing about what could go wrong. And I shook myself off and told myself “You see, you ARE a lucky person!”

My joy was short lived because waiting for me outside the toilets was the lady that carried out the scan asking me to take a seat in the consultants room. To cut a long story short, I have Group B Strep and a low lying placenta. Both fairly common, neither without their risks. A nurse explained everything to me and I left feeling deflated. My bubble had been burst, and it had been such a good one.

Now, I have had time to think it through though. My old friend Ant was there for me as usual this morning (for those of you who haven’t met my friend in previous posts, please let me introduce you to ‘automatic negative thoughts’, my ever present, acutely annoying and destructive ‘friend’). The news marked the end of my joy, another reason to mope my way through the rest of this pregnancy.

It was a link to a website that a friend sent me that put things into perspective. “If you know you carry GBS during pregnancy, it is good to know.” One simple sentence. My friend ‘Ant’ had told me this was yet another sign that something would go wrong. He tried to make me feel stupid for allowing myself to feel joy for even a moment. But actually, the news I got today was lucky. It is good to know. The risks of any negative effects on a baby from GBS are far greater when the mother doesn’t know. Perhaps it was a sign after all. A sign that everything will be ok.

Tonight I will allow myself to dream 💕

Well, it’s scan day tomorrow (technically today). I’ve stayed up finishing a report for my boss because I doubt I’ll be able to sleep. I don’t know if I’m excited or petrified of the outcome! Everyone has been asking me to let them know. Not if it is healthy, but whether it is pink or blue! I think we are so focused on finding out what we’re getting that we forget the main objective of this scan is to check for anomalies.

For me, tomorrow is either going to provide relief and show me that all the worrying and obsessing about there being an issue was silly, or it will confirm my worst fears. I feel like I am already bracing myself for the news of a faulty internal organ, or a missing limb.

Everyone asks if you have a preference – boy or girl? No-one asks if you have a preference over a heart or lung defect, or perhaps a bit of fluid on the brain. And I don’t believe anyone who says they don’t care as long as it is healthy. Of course we all want our babies to be healthy. I’d like this one to be a healthy girl that’s all 😉.

I’m not trying to be controversial. I’m just being honest. Practically, a boy would be the better outcome. My youngest is a boy so better for him to have a playmate than my 10-year old daughter who only entertains her little brother under duress. If I were a betting girl, my money would be on boy – science says that’s more likely. Given that I took the morning after pill within hours of doing the deed I know this little one was fertilised by some pretty fast little swimmers, and the fast ones tend to be the boy-makers. But, if I could choose, it’d be a girl. Mainly for shallow reasons – I love pink, and I’ve got some cute ideas for a girly nursery!

That said, I think there may be a deeper reason why the gender is important to me. You see, I failed with my daughter; my first born. When she arrived in the world, the last thing I wanted to do was look at her, let alone hold her. That feeling stuck around for 3 years whilst post-natal depression did everything ‘she’ could to tell me I wasn’t good enough (funny how I’ve always seen PND as a woman; a sniping, nasty bitch who stood in my shadow sneering at every move I made). I questioned whether I was ever capable of loving a child how you were meant to (aka how they do in the movies).

Then comes child number 2 – my boy. I never really thought I’d get on with a boy. I have no interest in boy stuff. But when my son was born my life changed forever. I connected with him the moment they laid him on my chest. I looked at his face and knew that I would never love another being as much as I loved him, for as long as I lived. I do love my daughter, but that was a relationship that took time to develop. My son had a headstart on her before he’d even let out his first cry.

So you see, I’m scared that if it is a boy I just won’t have enough love for him. But a girl? A girl would allow me a second chance.

Even writing that I feel stupid! The CBT does work after all! Logic says, “Hold on girl, you already had your second chance – your son. You’ve already redeemed yourself.” But that voice, the one that preys on every insecurity, she says “How many chances do you need to prove that you just aren’t good enough?”

A few weeks ago I’d have believed her. I guess I’m not completely convinced that I don’t. But I will not allow her to drag me down again. I am good enough. Maybe only just good enough, but good enough all the same. So let’s just wait and see what 8:30am brings shall we. Maybe life will teach me a lesson and this one will keep its legs crossed! Make me realise that not everything in life is within our control…

Today I read an email from work on my Blackberry. It was from a lady I contacted for some help last week. She was responding to apologise for not replying sooner but that she had been off work for several weeks due to a family bereavement. Her son and his partner lost their baby at 38 weeks. 38 weeks! Can you imagine?

She won’t know that I am pregnant. Puts some of life’s stupid worries into perspective though doesn’t it! I cannot even begin to imagine how it must feel to go so far on this journey for it to end like that.

Whilst it puts some of my dramas into perspective, it has set off the insecurities about this pregnancy. And the over-thinking, over-analysing part of me can’t help but wonder if this is another sign. Just as I start to feel some hope about the new life I have created, found myself able to step inside a baby shop without feeling like the walls were closing in on me, dared to look forward to the next scan; BAM!! Another reminder not to get too excited because it might all be taken away from me yet.

Logic tells me “This isn’t a sign. It is someone else’s sad sad story, don’t make it about you.” But that other voice, the voice that hides in shadows, she says “That’ll teach you for getting ahead of yourself missy. I told you there’s no such thing as happy ever after.”

Today I made a decision that I may regret for the rest of my life. I have no idea what the long term effects of that decision will be, all I know is that this morning my heart broke; not completely and irrevocably, but enough for a sliver to break away and leave an empty space.

There are many types of heartbreak. I’ve felt a few of them, but have also been lucky enough to have escaped some of the worst kinds. For me, there is nothing more heartbreaking than loving someone who won’t be loved, or wanting to help someone who won’t be helped. It’s hard to make a decision to turn your back on someone when every ounce of your being wants to be there, wants to make it alright. Some of life’s smallest decisions can have the most dramatic impact, and today my decision to say “No” was one of those. I pray that ‘no’ doesn’t haunt me.

I have a nephew. He is 18. And he hasn’t had the greatest of starts in life. Diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome and ADHD at a young age he has worn the badge too proudly through his life. The conditions became a reason, an excuse not to have a better life. I could spend all night telling you about his life, his broken home, the failures of people both professionally and personally, those that should have been there but weren’t, those that were there but shouldn’t have been. I could tell you about a father that let him down, and when given the opportunity to help him change his stars, let him down again. I wish I could tell you all of that, and then tell you the part where he does indeed change his stars and mould a new life for himself. He’s not reached that part yet. Given his current path, I’m not sure he ever will.

Having no better option at home (which I might add is 300 miles away from my own), he asked today if he could spend Christmas with me and my family. He says he wants a family Christmas like we used to have, I’m guessing he means when he was young and still part of a stable family unit. That I even had to hesitate made my heart ache. But at some point over the last few years, my nephew has become a person that I don’t recognise. He is two people. The one he shows to me; funny and sweet, still a child at heart. And there is the one that I see on his social media pages, openly sharing his choices and habits with the world. He thinks that I’m too past it to understand the code words hidden in his comments. He talks a lot about his friend Mandy. Cute huh?! Except “Mandy” is street slang for MDMA or Ecstasy. I’ve had to unfollow him so that my feed isn’t constantly peppered with images of my sweet stoned nephew. Because of the untamed conditions, he is a loose cannon. Because of the drugs, he is a liar and a thief.

The nephew I wanted here for Christmas is in there somewhere. I know that turning my back on him when I was one of the last people he felt he could depend on is probably one of the worst things I could do. I have cried all day about the decision that I made. But I had to think about my family, and me and the baby. Whilst I do believe that he wouldn’t bring drugs into my home, I cannot risk it. Whilst I want to believe that his desire for a proper family Christmas would keep him calm, I cannot guarantee that the combination of him + Dad won’t result in the usual fireworks. My kids aren’t used to aggression or abusive language – I don’t want their bubble burst at Christmas.

For most of my life I have put the needs of others above my own. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Mother Teresa, but I have on many occasions made myself miserable for the sake of keeping other people happy. But I’m battling with my own demons at the moment, and I was just starting to feel like things were on the up. A Christmas on egg shells is not what I need right now – this baby has already had to deal with its’ share of stress. And so I broke my heart, and maybe I broke his? Maybe I’m over analysing the whole thing and he really doesn’t care? Perhaps I don’t give him adequate credit for understanding my decision? I don’t know. I just hope that this small decision, cemented with a tiny little word, hasn’t made him feel like I have turned my back on him forever.

I cried for the best part of today. Tickets to see British Comedian John Bishop could not have been more untimely. I went, I laughed. He didn’t fix my broken heart.

It’s hard to believe that just a few weeks ago I was enveloped in darkness and could not see a way out. My mother in law said earlier that she presumed I had been taking the antidepressants because I have seemed so much happier and brighter. The truth is, I stopped taking them before they had a chance to work.

Before I go on, I feel I should say here that I do not advise anyone to go against the advice of their GP. You should discuss your medication with the medical professionals and trust them to get it right. I know I sound like a hypocrite, but I had my reasons and I am ‘lucky’ in that having suffered with depression on and off over the years, I know myself pretty well. I also know that if I’ve got this wrong and I start to feel one iota of how I was feeling, I will accept I got it wrong and get right back on the track my GP had planned for me.

You see, three weeks ago I crashed. Hit rock bottom. Broke down. However you want to describe it, I was a mess by the time I dragged myself to my doctor. One of the most debilitating issues I was dealing with was an absolute obsession with death. The lack of control I felt over my life had taken a life of its own and made me think about how little control we have over our own mortality and that of those we love. I hadn’t felt any movement from my baby, and began to worry that was a bad sign.

The day I told my children about the baby, I searched the Internet for an image I could show them. I made a huge mistake and searched “15 week fetus”. Why did I choose those words? Up to then I’d always used “fetal development” or “baby” in the search. Yes, you’ve guessed it. The search engine returned a number of images of lifeless bodies clearly lost during varying stages of pregnancy. Luckily my kids didn’t see it. But those images will never leave me, and from that point I became overwhelmed with fear that my baby was dead. I was walking around with a dead body inside me. And when I wasn’t worrying about that, I worried that I would die, I would give birth to a dead baby, my baby would be healthy but I’d lose one of my other children. Me and the kids would be fine, but my husband would die. Nuts right?! Looking back it’s easy, but at the time I felt like there was no point in looking forward to anything. What was the point in taking any joy from my life if it was going to end badly one way or another?

Every expectant mother has similar fears. Maybe not on that scale, but I would bet every mum-to-be will worry about the health of their baby at the very least. That is perfectly natural. But when those thoughts start to spiral, devour every other thought you may have, and change the way you may normally act or feel, then you know it’s far from natural. I saw everything as a sign that my worst fears would be realised. Every sad post on social media sites. Every news story. Every picture of a disabled child. Every bloody solo magpie! I took to the sofa, and I decided there was little point in going anywhere else. And that’s when I realised I needed help.

When I started this blog, I decided that one of the most important features of my updates would be candid discussion of my innermost thoughts and feelings. It is important to me that I feel I can share my craziest thoughts and my most miserable moments without fear or shame. And that’s why I shared this with you today.

More importantly – I feel different now. Just 3 weeks later and those feelings have passed. Yes I’m still apprehensive about the anomaly scan next week, but only in a normal way.

Whilst I completely trusted my GP and believe the risks of taking antidepressants to be lower than drinking alcohol in pregnancy, the fear of the potential impact on the baby from taking the pills only added to my crippling fear that my baby would not be healthy. I was able to logically think things through and decided that the pills were causing me more anxiety than I already had and it was better to stop. But, they are still in my bedside drawer. And I have told my husband, so that he can make sure that if I start to crash again, he is there to make sure I get myself back on the path my GP planned.

I fear I’ve made this sound too easy. Please know that if you are in the same position and have had these feelings; you are not alone. Find someone you can talk to about it, professional or otherwise. If you have a pregnant friend, sister, wife, and you see them unhappy, don’t always brush it away as ‘hormones’. Be there. Listen. And help them to get help.

Today I had a moment of weakness when a strongly worded email from a client sent me reeling. I was in a meeting with two colleagues and could not do anything to fight back the tears. They were lovely and supportive, but what one of them said really struck me; “Come on, this isn’t like you!” And I realised how few people have ever seen the real me. Because the person who cries when she’s knocked off course, that judges herself by extreme expectations and that always doubts whether she can do it, really is me.

Is it a good or a bad thing that my work colleagues (well most of them) are completely unaware of the real me? Does it mean I am able to successfully function in spite of my real self? Or does it mean that I am a fake? An actress? A swan, gliding gracefully on the surface but paddling furiously beneath? Does it even matter?

I don’t know the answer. I don’t know why I err towards hiding that side away. Is it to protect my colleagues or myself? Is it shame or consideration that keeps me well hidden?

The only thing I will say is that my initial response to my colleague today was “You will have no respect for me now.” Her response? “I think I respect you now more than ever.”

Sometimes it is easier not to talk about how you feel when you are feeling low. Especially when you feel like you are on the up, and someone late to the show asks how you’ve been feeling. I was asked today if I’ve been ok because the person thought I might have been a bit down. Why when I’m starting to feel more positive would I want to go back there?

Not only that, but there are some people who are just not equipped to deal with the truth that you might tell them. They have their own demons, and your story would only make them worry or bring them sadness. So, whilst I am normally a huge advocate of talking talking talking, today I chose to smile and say “I’m fine”. It wasn’t a lie; today I really am fine.