A Progress Report

I've been wanting to post a follow up to my last blog for a week or so now but it's kind of hard to find the right words (I know. Me lost for words..... that's not normal!). I suppose the first thing is that I can honestly say I have no regrets about sharing my situation. Not one. I have been contacted by so many people since hitting that 'publish' button. Some on Facebook, some on email, some on Twitter. Some have been people I know, others I don't but every single one has been supportive and a few have been through or are still going through similar issues and situations. To hear from them that my post was such a help and a comfort was a huge deal to me. I hoped it may help someone, somewhere...... I never even considered that I would KNOW it had helped. That is a humbling feeling.
The one thing that most of these messages had in common was that they asked for me to post updates. People want to be able to follow my progress, some of them are thinking of taking the step towards the same kind of help.
It's hard to know quite what to update and what not to. As I said in my last post, it's all too easy to be taken over by PTSD and the causes of it. But I don't want to dwell on it. There's a whole lot more to me than what I am dealing with and I don't want to be characterised by pyschology appointments and symptoms.
But, on a practical level, I have now had four appointments with my psychologist and I have to say I couldn't really hope for them to be helping any more than they are. I have seen a number of counsellors over the last few months and I have to say the difference between them and the lady I am seeing now is huge. Counsellors listen. They are great at listening and sometimes that is all you need. You talk to them and, when there is a lull in your speech, they look at you, nod and say 'Hmmmm'. That's it. And, as I say, sometimes that is perfectly adequate. This time I needed more and I am getting it. My psychologist also listens but she asks questions, she gives opinion and offers advice that may help. She helps explain what I am feeling and why I feel like that. She explains my symptoms and puts my mind at ease. And that is priceless. I couldn't understand why I don't have a chronological memory of the events of the rape. I don't. I have snatches of memories. Smells, still images, sounds......I can remember some bits but I can't remember what order they go in and things that I would have thought I should remember, I can't. At all. I now know that this is perfectly normal for PTSD and so now I am not worried about it.
I'm not going into too much information about my individual appointments, I'm sure if anyone has any specific questions they will get in touch. I am always more than a little nervous on the day but the time I spend at the centre isn't too bad. We started on a timeline so that we could get more of an understanding into the kind of 13 year old I was, that will help us to understand more how the abuse affected me. We spent a good three weeks working through that and we have also talked about more recent events and how past experiences colour them too. This is one thing that I am finding fascinating. I am still so affected by my past. I know that sounds fairly obvious, and it's not neccessarily a bad thing....but I am so aware of it now.
Yesterday......well, yesterday was tough. I knew the day would come that I had to relive the details I can remember of the rape. I was expecting it a few weeks ago but it didn't happen then. It happened yesterday. And boy was it difficult. There were many tears, many tissues used and eye makeup streaks aplenty.....but I managed it and I am so proud of myself. Last night was hard too and I find this a lot after my appointments. I can feel fine as I leave the building, fairly positive in fact but I was told right from the start that after each session I have to give myself time and space to react. And it normally starts to hit me about an hour later. Reactions can come in physical form like a headache or more of an emotional form...... Last night I had the lot; shaking, headache, I felt sick and I felt dirty and I cried...a lot. I just allow these feelings. I don't fight them, don't analyse them, don't question them. I just ride them out like a roller coaster. I can feel as low as I have ever felt but I know it will pass. There is a part of me at this point that wants to get in touch with my close friends...to scream, cry, shout and just let them comfort me.... I think for the first couple of weeks I probably did. And it helped at the time but then, afterwards, I regretted it. I know my friends will disagree with me here, but I felt too needy. I felt weak. I felt a burden. And so now, I generally get through this stage on my own. I don't ask for help and I just allow whatever I feel to come and go because the bottom line is that I have to come to terms with my past, my feelings and my experiences. Other people can help but they can't do the work for me. I have to that on my own. That is probably the hardest lesson I have had to learn so far. Don't get me wrong I still need help sometimes. I still need hugs and, when I do I am lucky that I have people ready, willing and able to offer support (and the best hugs going). It's been so important for me to learn when to push through and stay strong.....and when to shout for help!
I'll update again as I go along....and, as before, I really hope my experiences may help others.

The Difficult One

It's been a difficult decision whether or not to write this post......I expect it will be a more difficult one still to decide whether or not to hit the publish button.



If you have been following my blog for a while you may remember this post. Well now, finally, I have started my treatment. It's taken twelve rather long, slow months but now I am being given the chance I need to face this head on.



PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) is a strange animal. The original trauma that I am dealing with happened to me when I was 13 years old. That's 21 years ago. And yet, without any real warning, a simple conversation triggered the symptoms almost exactly a year ago today. I struggled with nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks and depression.....getting from one day to the next was sometimes an impossible task that could only be tackled hour by hour or minute by minute....... The six weeks I took off work are just a blur to me now.



Any problems of a mental nature, I find, are still very much a taboo subject.... Don't get me wrong, it's a lot more acceptable to talk about them now than twenty years ago but it's still not easy.....and it's a difficult situation for the person experiencing these issues. You're split in two. Part of you wants to reach out to those you trust and those who are close enough to talk to.....you want help, unerstanding, love, support and to feel safe..... but at the same time, another part of you wants to ignore it....you don't want to be characterised by the symptoms. You don't want to be taken over by them even though, at times, that's exactly how you feel. I am not my symptoms, I am me. But, at times, even I struggle to see me through the fog that the PTSD creates.

This social taboo issue makes things considerably harder for someone dealing with a trauma. Because, for some people, it's not just the diagnosis of the PTSD that is hard to discuss....for many people, myself included, the trauma itself is often treated in the same way. My issues are based around an event that happened when I was still a child. I was raped. I am not ashamed of writing that but even as I do I imagine people cringing as they read it. Sexual abuse is something that happens to many people; both men and women, boys and girls and it is still something that is not talked about, mainly because people don't know how to talk about it. And so it's easier not to. But that is not true for those of us who have been attacked in this way and are trying so hard to make sense of the experience and move on.

I suppose, in reality, there are only a handful of people that anyone would want to discuss something like rape with in any detail. It's not something you want everyone you meet to know the smallest detail about but, having said that, beyond the handful of people closest to you, there is a larger circle of friends that you kind of wish just did know. To understand, to be there and to just 'get it'. But nobody can 'just know' and you have to go through the heart wrenching decision of how, when and if to share the facts and, then, how much do you share? And even then, you have to be ready for almost any and every reaction possible........it can be a huge hug, some may cry, others just look back in silence and don't know what to say leaving a very awkward situation. And there is no going back. It's no wonder so many people suffer in silence and don't say anything to anyone....just burying it underneath everyday routines and accepting that things will never change for them.

I find that such a sad situation. I suppose it's what I did for almost twenty years. I knew I hadn't dealt with things but it was easier just to carry on muddling through, ignoring some of the difficulties I encountered that, looking back, were blatantly caused by the trauma. I had no idea that after all this time it was even possible for PTSD to suddenly strike me as it did. It was so frightening. I felt like I had been taken over, I had no control over my thoughts and the flashbacks were so realisitic, bringing back memories I didn't know I had and using all my senses to show me that I remembered more than I could ever have imagined.

It took a lot to speak to my GP, but I did and, after 12 months of waiting and screening I have now just started my treatment with a consultant psychologist. I will see her every week for an hour for as long as it takes. It's more than scary and before my first appointment last week I struggled to hold back the tears and the panic....but that's OK. I know I am strong enough to deal with this now and to meet it head on. Last week we started working on a timeline and we got up to age 13. Which means this afternoon I have to relive, in detail, that day, that attack, that rape. It's something I have tried to hide from since the day it happened but today I will take the deepest breath and put myself back in that situation as a 13 year old. I know I have to do it so that I can finally move on.

I haven't written this post because I want pity, sympathy, attention or anything else. In fact I'm not concerned if no one comments at all. My hope is that my experiences just may help someone else who is struggling in a similar way. There are so many people coping with symptoms alone, thinking they are unable to reach out and take that next step. Even if I can only help one person to realise that other people understand their symptoms and have experienced what they are going through then I consider sharing my story to be worthwhile.

It's all about the Legs

...all eight of them that is. Yep, I'm talking about the rather icky subject of spiders...eurgh. I don't like them. No, they have never done anything to me, I am well aware that they are probably far more afraid of me than I am of them....and every other cliche you can come up with. But I still don't like them much. Why anything with a body so small requires eight legs is beyond me. I mean EIGHT?! Why? I also struggle with that bizarre ability they have to lower themselves from the ceiling and seemingly drop in front of you. Gives me the heebie jeebies.

Anyway, up until recently Harry was fine with spiders. He was interested in what they could do, he talked to them....... no problem at all. This was up until about 6 weeks ago when we had a very close call in the bathroom. I had run a bath for Harry and he was playing downstairs. The water and bubbles were rising nicely and so I called him upstairs. He was just getting undressed when I spotted an 'issue'. An issue with eight legs.

'Stop! Don't get in!'

There, sitting on a small red rubber boat was a rather large spider. It looked about as worried as we did, in fairness and if I'd looked close enough it was probably trembling. Now, I wasn't going to pick it up but I didn't really want to drown it either. There was only one way out and that involved opening the window WIDE, scooping the boat and its passenger into a jug and flinging the whole lot out into the garden. So that's what we did. Harry threw some clothes back on and went down to rescue the boat, but then decided he wasn't brave enough to pick it up as he couldn't locate the spider......so the boat stayed in the garden for the next day until we were both sure the leggy creature wasn't still around!

Anyway, since then, Harry won't get in the bath without a grumble. We've had many a night where we've had to do a full bedroom check for spiders before he'd get in bed and go to to sleep. Until I hit upon a way of helping him to deal with this. The spiders started to talk back. He speaks to them and they reply (via yours truly, of course....) It can be a little tedious at times but if it works, then so be it. This has also led to the spiders having names....so yesterday we had Horace in the bathroom and Maurice on the landing....Horace in fact was sitting on the light so we had to be careful not to singe his feet.....

So far today Harry hasn't looked for his spider friends, which is probably just as well....as I went up to bed last night Horace had met Maurice.....and I'm wondering which one ate the other......

Day One of 'The Week Off'...

....has actually been ever so interesting in many, many ways! I'm not going to say much (I'm a spoilsport I know...) but there are things a happening and that can only be a good thing!

So, it's now me and Harry until Friday which is lovely - if slightly scary! I heard my ex heading out the door this morning to catch his flight and as the key turned in the door that was it. I'm in charge. Who? Me? Well, apparently I am big enough to cope so here I am.....

So far so good. I had a Dr's appointment this morning which I duly attended, on time and it wasn't half as bad as I'd feared... phew....I phone on Weds for the results. I picked up Harry from his nan's and we headed over to a local retail park and looked at far too many toys for far too long.

We wolfed down a couple of McFlurries on the way home and then plonked in the house as the rain poured outside...it's hardly stopped all day. I've come to the conclusion that any size house is too small to contain one seven year old and one kitten. At one point I watched Harry slide down the stairs on a bean bag as I removed the cat from the dishwasher....I think that says it all. One thing to add to Harry's twitter site later on too - we had some old gameshow on challenge tv, think it was Jasper Carrott's 'Golden Balls' and the younger of the female contestants was voted off. 'No!' Came the shout, 'I hate it when the good looking ones get voted off.' There are no words.....

So, I've sat here pondering and wondering for much of the day and haven't, so far, managed to complete any of the jobs I've set myself for this week.....but it's only half five....plenty of day left yet! What's that? Do I fancy a brew? Oh go on then.....

On the subject of regret...

I sat by the bed but couldn’t bring myself to hold her hand. I just looked at it. The ring that I bought her so recently was still resting on her finger, albeit now held in place with some tape. Her body looked so frail and light, she was silent, except for the shallow breaths that came and went. Her eyes were closed. This was my mum, the strong lady who had brought me up, who had worked so hard for me, reduced to this lifeless figure that lay before me. She was dying. I didn’t know how long she had left, no one could tell me, but I had a strong suspicion that this would be the last time I saw her. It was.

That visit to the hospital will always stay as vivid in my mind as it is now. I knew before I even entered the room that it would probably be the last time I would make the journey. I had given it a lot of thought as I didn’t want to regret anything that I did or said. For that matter I didn’t want to regret not saying or doing anything either.

I had received an email from a friend the day before who had lost her mum a few years before. Her advice had been to tell my mum that it was OK for her to go. To give her permission to die. The very thought of speaking those words filled me with fear and dread and yet I felt that it was something I should do. Mum wasn’t coming back, I knew that. There was no way in the world that she was going to recover from the cancer that had eaten her away. I hated seeing her like this. It was time for her to be free from the ugly mass her body had become.

As I sat there, in the chair by her bed, I felt suddenly self conscious. Could there be a more important meeting? It was my last chance to say everything I wanted to. If I said anything wrong or missed anything out I would regret it for the rest of my life. I cried.

Looking back on that day I am relieved to say I do not regret anything. I did tell Mum that it was time for her to go. I told her that we didn’t want to see her in pain anymore and that, whilst we would all miss her, we would be strong and we would be OK. I told her that I loved her and that I would make sure my son knew all about his Granny. He was only 3 and so I knew I would have to help him to remember her.

It is now a little over four years later and I can still look back on that final visit with no regret. I sometimes wish that I could have brought myself to hold Mum’s hand but I know that she wouldn’t have expected me to. It was just something I couldn’t bring myself to do, I think I was afraid of how it would feel.

There are many things that I could regret, many decisions, especially those we made towards the end of her life but I still feel we did the right things and I am forever grateful that I do not question those difficult times.

That’s not to say that there are not things I would have done differently, but they are mainly things from a long time ago. I wish that I had not spent so much time shut upstairs in my room when I lived at home. There were only the two of us and I can clearly remember saying, ‘I’m going upstairs’ and heading up to my bedroom leaving mum alone downstairs most evenings after tea. The stupid thing is that I have no idea what I was doing up there. It was so important that I can’t remember it and yet it was enough to leave my mum alone for. When I think of all the hours we spent apart and yet in the same house I could just kick myself. All the conversations we missed out on and the laughs we could have shared. If I could go back in time I would be sitting there with her every evening. I would just love to sit and watch TV with her now or just sit and chat. I hate that I gave away all that time. Time that now feels so precious to me. I would give almost anything just to be able to spend another 5 minutes by her side.

I also regret not helping more around the house. I suppose I was a typical teenager, every household job was a chore. I should have done more and not dragged my feet so much - stopped moaning and just got on with it. I feel this clearly now that I have my own house to run. If only I’d learned more from her. Mum loved to clean and have everything sparkly and clear. It seemed effortless to her. Home always had a wonderful atmosphere, it was cosy, warm and safe. I never realised how much hard work it took to create this feeling. I think I must have assumed it was just ‘there’. As I try to recreate it now for my own child, I know just how much it takes and I will be forever amazed that Mum managed it so well considering everything else that was going on in her life.

I could also have learnt a lot from my mum about cooking, another thing I regret every time I switch the oven on! I was just not that interested in baking and cooking as a teenager. It was another thing that Mum loved to do and so I left her to it. The food she made was always delicious. Quite frequently now I will remember one of the dishes she used to prepare and wish I could remember what it was called or how to make it. But it’s too late now. I never asked when I could have done. I will always regret that.

This amazing lady was bringing me up alone, struggling in so many ways, and working full time. I only wish I had the insight back then that I have now, all these years later. I just hope I didn’t make things any harder. At the time I was just a child, in so many ways removed from the reality of life. Still living in some idealistic bubble surrounded by my own agonies and importance. Looking back now, I want to pop that bubble. I want to shout at myself to realise what was right under my nose and to care for it and nurture it. I had the most fantastic mum in the world and I took her for granted. That hurts.

I can almost hear my mum’s voice as I write this piece saying that she wouldn’t have changed a thing. That’s Mum all over. She was a giver and, in the end, she gave everything. My job now is to take all that she gave to me and to pass it on. The unlimited love that she showed to me I must now share with my son and, eventually, any children that he has. This motherly love still shines from within me, everyday, even though my mum is no longer here. She lives on in the way that I live my life.

The University Issue

Now it's not like me really to spit the dummy out on this blog. It's not really what I set it up for, more a light hearted banter about all things parenty really....but today I'm making an exception as I have things I need to get off my chest....

This week, of course, has seen the annual A level results released. And, for a welcome change, the headlines haven't been screaming of how the results are better than last year, the year before that, the year before that and the last 22,456 years too, no doubt. But the alternative headlines I have actually find even more difficult to comprehend.......

'At least 200,000 students who have applied to University will not get in'

Erm, OK. Is it just me who doesn't see a problem with this? At what point is everyone who applies to University SUPPOSED to get in? It's supposed to be competitive......not a given that if you fancy having a go at higher education, then why not?

I was taught to look at courses from age 15 or so, decide what I wanted to do...make sure I chose the right subjects from GCSE level and then work bloody hard to make sure I got onto the course I wanted.... I honestly don't think I ever assumed I would go, I had to work for it. And I didn't just want to go to University for the sake of going....I wanted that course, that subject because I felt a real love and interest in my subject....and that was why I worked hard enough to ensure that I got onto my first choice. If I hadn't, yes there were fall back options but I would have been devastated. And so I worked. Hard. And I got through. But I was fully aware that if I hadn't worked I wouldn't have gone. End of.

It, quite frankly, dumbfounds me that it can be seen as a 'given' that if you apply for university you will get a place.....to my mind it should be over subscribed, that's what pushes you to work. It's like applying for a job, many applicants - ONE job. That's how it works, it's how it should work in my mind. Because that's what makes people really question what it is that they want to do. Without wanting to sound like a snob, though no real apologies if I do, university is not for everyone and it worries me that it is pushed down children's throats as if it is the only way forward. It isn't and in pushing so much we are increasing the numbers of students applying for second or third rate courses and, as a result, devaluing the worth of every degree and person who holds one. We are also costing the country nationally and as individual families a whole lot of money. And for what? To me, it just isn't the way forward. Let's stop force feeding university to people who, given a free choice, would rather do something else. Let people really find their own vocation, their own interests and their own strengths then give them support to use them and develop them for the good of the country and themselves and their families. Yes, we do need academics, of course we do, but we need a lot more to keep the country ticking over too.

OK rant over.....

Is this really the time?

Harry. Again. That boy, honestly! He comes out with the most weird and wonderful questions and statements. Things that you think you know but then suddenly find you can't explain? Do you know what I mean? If you're on Twitter I have set up an account to record them, you can follow @whatharrysaid

Take this week. It was Wednesday. It was 6:15pm, we had just finished eating....

'Mummy?...'

I take a deep breath.....there's a question coming and it could be on any subject, be about anybody (doesn't matter if I know them or not).....it really could be anything.

'Yes, Harry.'
'How did the first man or lady get on the Earth.'

Initially I think I had a little sigh of relief, then the bottom fell out when I opened my mouth and realised I didn't know where to start. It was Wednesday tea time. What a time to ask a question like that....

Anyway, I switched into 'repsonsible Mummy mode' and realised I should be happy that I have an inquisitive, intelligent son (though I may still have been grumbling slightly internally). I took a deep breath and explained that scientists believe in a process called evolution and I took him through some of the basics of evolving from apes, using tools, changing shape etc etc Then I explained that people who believe in the Bible believe that God made man and I told him the story of Adam and Eve. 'How did they get those names?' Erm, I still have no idea? Anyone know that? I said God must have chosen them and told someone....or something like that.

Anyway, he listened intently seeming to take it all in. I asked if he understood. He nodded. I relaxed. I put the kettle on.

Ten minutes later.....

'Mummy?'
'Yes, Harry?'
'So people who believe in the Bible think that Adam and Eve were the first people to evolve from apes?'

I'll start again.