City girl gone coastal

Be your own advocate

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Fri, 29 Dec 2017 20:35:00 +0000

I’ve long been an avid supporter of being your own advocate, sometimes you just know when something isn’t right, in those instances you have to keep pushing until someone listens.

It took 2 months, 4 trips to the doctors, 3 different doctors, 2 wrong diagnosis, 4 different prescriptions and 1 trip to the breast clinic to finally find out what was wrong.

Photo by Giga Khurtsilava on Unsplash

My first doctors appointment had me being told I was suffering from an exercise injury which should clear up in 2/3 weeks.

It didn’t.

My second doctors appointment had me being told I ‘being silly’ and suffering from health anxiety, essentially imagining all the pain I was experiencing.

It wasn’t.

My third doctors appointment had me being told again that I was imagining every thing and given drugs for anxiety and depression.

It still wasn’t.

My fourth doctors appointment had them admitting that there was ‘something there’ and a breast clinic referral was made.

This all took place over 6 weeks or so. Every time I had to make a new appointment I doubted myself more and more, starting to believe I was going crazy and imagining it all, even though I knew something was wrong. Confessing to my partner that I thought I was going insane was a new low for our relationship, one I never want to repeat.

The two week wait over Christmas for my breast clinic appointment was horrendous, I expected the worst and swung between bouts of tears of desperation and fake joviality for the sake of our children.

My appointment left me with mixed emotions, sheer joy at being told my breasts have either cystic tissue or benign activity. In short, I have big boobs which need increased support and evening primrose tablets to adjust my hormone levels, over time this will eliminate the pain I’ve been feeling. The pain is horrendous, I’ve shed many a tear over the discomfort I’ve felt.

But alongside the joy at being told it’s nothing serious is anger that for so long I was dismissed. Whilst not life threatening, the pain was and is real. The worry and fear caused by the pain was and is real.

Being essentially placated by the gp’s has me wondering what happens next time I make an appointment for either myself or my children, will I again be given the run around for weeks on end?

Nothing was my imagination running away with me, the fact I’ve had mental health issues in the past, I believe, made it too easy for me to be dismissed as just suffering from an over active imagination. I realise that gp’s can’t recommend everyone they see for further testing/examination, and I’m not sure how they decide, I do know that I was dismissed/ignored for far too long.

Yes, it turned out to be something easily sorted, but I still have up to 6 months of pain before hopefully it is sorted. Pain that scared me witless, stopped me from sleeping, prevented me from participating in everyday family activities and ultimately pain that had me convinced I was about to die.

It without a doubt messed with me mentally. My children started to pick up on it and haven’t slept through the night for weeks upon weeks, they became incredibly clingy and tearful, incidentally, last night they both slept through for the first time since this whole thing started!

I now also need to wean myself off beta blockers, which as a nice touch make the pain worse, oh joy! It’s been a testing time for our little family, one which could have easily sent me spiralling back in to depression, but it taught me a good lesson.

I know myself, I know when something is wrong, and I know when to keep pushing for an answer.

Be your own advocate.

Health Anxiety, Another Label

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Sun, 10 Dec 2017 22:50:00 +0000

Another day, another label.

I’ve had anxiety for years, I thought I knew what it was and how to handle it in my own way. But then something happened and I was given a new label.

Health anxiety. You may have heard of it as hypochondria, that word does it such a disservice, it’s an insult really.

I shan’t pretend to know much, it’s only been a week since I was diagnosed, but what a week.

I’ve not been “right” for about six weeks. Convinced I had breast cancer I made an appointment with my gp, an examination and chat gave me the all clear and off I went with a skip in my step and feeling like a weight had been lifted.

But then the niggles started.

What if she was wrong, why am I still in pain, has it felt like this before?

Then I couldn’t sleep, I stopped being able to eat, I have constant nausea, a persistent feeling of dread and am absolutely convinced I’m about to die and leave my children motherless. I’ve been breaking down at random times, dissolving in to tears at the dread and fear that is consuming me.

I’m terrified.

Every bruise, twinge or odd feeling is sending me in to the pit of despair. My once rational mind is now hyper focused and picking up on every single little thing, and I don’t know how to turn it off. My irrational mind sets off my physical reactions which in turn makes the physical symptoms worse, making my mind interpret the physical symptoms as something they aren’t. And so it goes…

It’s exhausting and terrifying.

The evenings and nights are the worst, I start feeling pain, I’m not even sure if it’s really there or if my mind playing tricks on me because I’m convinced something is wrong. The rational thoughts I had during the day are swept to the side and replaced with terror and such hyper-sensitivity to my body that I want to crawl out my own skin to get away from the over powering sensations.

Once again I’m a mess. But this time feels worse than the depression and ptsd which I lived with for 7/8 years, I’d rather be numb than be hyperaware of myself to such an extent I no longer know what is real or not.

So now I’m sat here, word vomiting whilst trying my best to ignore the weird sensation in my right breast/rib/ back area (I can’t even tell you what hurts, just that something does) and keeping as far away from Google as possible. I’m wondering if I should make another appointment with my gp, just in case she was wrong last time, or if I just need better fitting bras, smaller boobs and a chill the fuck out pill.

Health anxiety is real and terrifying, it’s rapidly stealing the joy I had found in life after depression, I wish I was mentally stronger, better able to stand up to this in a rational way, alas the mind is a powerful thing and at the moment, I’m just not strong enough.

I don’t know how to live with this, how I’m supposed to process, function and just get on with life when I’m in a constant state of terror. I thought my mental health issues were over, I was wrong, it seems almost cruel that I’ve come through such despair with my depression only to now have my mind do this, if I wasn’t so mentally and physically exhausted, I’d laugh, instead I shall probably have a cry.

A Little Set Back

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 04 Dec 2017 21:22:00 +0000

From the beginning I’ve been honest about my experiences with depression and PTSD, maybe too honest at times, but that’s by the by.

I’ve shared the dark moments from which I never thought I’d never escape and the tentative joy and pride at being drug free and learning to enjoy life.

Now it’s time to share the set back.

Photo by Lesly Juarez on Unsplash

A little over a month ago I had a health scare, convinced I had breast cancer I made a gp appointment, explained my concerns and had a breast exam. She found nothing to worry about, my concerns were relieved and I learnt something new about my body, hormones are crazy.

But since then I’ve been hyper aware of every single little ache, pain, bruise, bout of indigestion, hiccup or lack of appetite. These have morphed in to every single kind of disease and ailment known to man, plus some I made up. My anxiety turned a bruise on my leg from kicking the bed frame to a killer disease, then the thoughts of dying in my sleep took over, leaving my children motherless and Spencer without his Amanda. I’d see references to cancer everywhere, again reinforcing what I thought was wrong with me despite the breast exam giving me the all clear, I’d see the number 13 every time I looked at a clock or timer, at the number of comments on a forum, obviously this was a sign I was unlucky and thus deathly ill.

These thoughts became so overwhelming that I’d breakdown in tears, snap at the children and make myself sick with worry. And thus began the cycle, I’d get sick with worry then imagine the sick feeling was me dying, which would in turn make me feel sick again, and so it goes….

Anxiety is hard to explain, it takes over everything until you’re in a heap on the floor struggling to breathe whilst your hands spasm with paralysis. If left unchecked it takes over everything preventing you from participating in life.

I knew I couldn’t continue this cycle, I owe myself and my family better than this, so off I went to the gp.

As much as I hated it, explaining what was going on felt like such a relief. She assured me all was okay and explained how my anxiety was perpetuating my symptoms, those pesky hormones.

We agreed on a course of action, beta blockers and learning what mindfulness works for me.

I’ll admit that walking out clutching that prescription felt odd, not failure exactly but a step backwards at least.

I’ve always said there is no shame in needing help, and there really isn’t. Popping a pill every morning to settle my racing thoughts and allow me to live life rather than fear what the next day will bring is invaluable.

So, whilst I’ve had a little set back, admitting I need help is worth it, it’s not the end of the world, just a slight detour on my journey.

Sentimental Fool

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 29 Nov 2017 09:46:00 +0000

I’m a sentimental fool.

This is no more evident to me than at this time of year, the longing for days and people long gone and the excitement of the days, years and people yet to arrive are muddled together in a wish for home comforts which bring back memory after memory.

I left home with only a backpack, because of this I have little to no items from my childhood, and so, over the years I’ve tried to collect items which, whilst not the same, are as near to the original as possible, this year I ticked two items off that list.

The Cable Knit Sweater

My dad had a cream cable knit jumper. It was huge, just like him. It always carried the faint hint of woods, Old Spice and coffee, a random yet comforting blend that was distinctly my dad. I’d wear it whenever I got the chance, it felt a like a hug when he wasn’t around.

In the shock and befuddlement after my father passed away, I forgot to ask for the sweater, I thought it would just be there, slung over a chair or hanging in a wardrobe. I was and still am devastated when my sister threw it away. A part of me will always resent her for discarding my dads things like yesterdays rubbish, in some of my darkest days, when a girl really needs her dad, I felt like that sweater would have solved everything. I know it wouldn’t have, but it wouldn’t have hurt.

I’ve been on the hunt for a replacement sweater for years, but they’ve never been right. The other week I finally got my very own cable knit sweater, it isn’t the same, it’s the wrong colour for a start, yet it just feels right. Whilst a part of me will always miss that cream cable knit sweater that was like a hug from my dad, I’m glad to finally have my very own, the pup seems to agree.

Festive Greenery

I remember the evening my dad came home from work in giddy excitement, he was a Christmas nut, just like me. He had 3 or 4 refuse sacks bulging with festive greenery, it was stems of holly entwined with red berries and fake snow, it was tacky Christmas awesomeness.

Every year we’d string it around the living room and hallways listening to Christmassy songs whilst the ladder wobbled and pin tacks refused to push in to the walls and ceiling.

It’s another thing that disappeared after my father died. Another thing I’ve missed, over the years I’ve looked for a replacement, but just like the sweater, they’ve never been right.

This summer, as the boys and I were about to go for a walk around the lake I noticed a florist was closing down, so in we popped. And there it was, tucked under a display in wooden crate was my festive greenery, giddy as a kid I walked home in the summer heat with my refuse sack full of Christmas.

It’s a slow process, rebuilding memories, it has to be done right so as not to diminish what they represent. There are other things which as I grow older I feel the need to replace, not in the hopes of reliving the past, I realise that is long gone and it’s time to build upon those rather than try to replicate them entirely.

So, whilst my sentimental foolish side is glad to have a few items which remind me of my childhood, I look forward to building on those with my own children.

Merry Fucking Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Thu, 09 Nov 2017 15:13:00 +0000

It seems the blogging and Instagram annual bitchathon is in high gear in regards to the bemoaning and demeaning those folk who have the audacity to mention, decorate or purchase anything remotely festive.

This hate for people minding their own business baffles me, in a community that pretends to embrace the ‘you do you’ mantra, there sure are a lot of people looking down on those who happen to start Christmas early.

I’ll admit to loving Christmas, it is without doubt my most favourite time of year, I go all out and couldn’t care less what anyone thinks of how and when we decorate or purchase gifts/decorations. But, I’m fortunate, I choose to decorate early, buy decorations and gifts when I like and play cheesy festive tunes whenever I can, because I love Christmas.

Sadly, some of the folk being snarked on aren’t starting early because they love Christmas, they’re starting early because behind those gaudy decorations and fairy lights, is a beloved family member who has been told they wont be here by December 25th. Behind the false smiles and cheery songs is a girl whose foster place has fallen through and she’s being sent to a homeless centre in 4 weeks. Behind the hastily wrapped gifts and fake Santa there’s a dad who will be missing his child's first Christmas as he’s being deployed in a months time.

Maybe the people you’re mocking are starting Christmas early, because like me, they just love Christmas, or maybe there are more serious, heart breaking reasons. Whatever the reasons, not sure why anyone feels the need to get snarky and belittle the choices other people make, especially when those decisions have fuck all to do with you!

Merry fucking Christmas!

Progress & A Breast Examination

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 08 Nov 2017 09:22:00 +0000

There are moments when I realise just how far I’ve come in my recovery from depression and ptsd.

The other week, whilst on a walk across the South Downs I saw my GP, the woman who fought for, encouraged and consoled me throughout my battle with depression. Without her, I honestly can’t say for sure if I’d be where I am today. I used to see her at least once a month, yet when we smiled and exchanged ‘hellos’ I realised that it had been over a year since I’d last seen her. I couldn’t wipe the goofy grin from my face at just what that symbolised.

Progress.

Yesterday I had another sign of progress, albeit a less pleasant one.

The other day I found a bump under my boob, this along with breast pain had me convinced I had breast cancer. I made that dreaded call to the GP, got myself an appointment and promptly burst in to tears when I sat down to speak to my GP.

After an examination, I was given the all clear. A muscle knot, a goddamn muscle knot under my boob! I was close to throwing myself at my GP with happy tears streaming down my face, I somehow refrained.

Photo by Pablo Heimplatz on Unsplash

As I walked back home the sense of relief was immense. But it got me to thinking, how would I have handled this situation 6 years ago, when in the worst of my depression I was planning my own death.

Would I have even made the appointment? I’m not sure I would. I let my health go by the wayside throughout my depression, I’m trying to fix that with healthier lifestyle choices, the most important one being not ignoring what my body is trying to tell me and seeking help when needed.

Depression is weird, it skews your perspective as to what matters, realising that if I’d found a bump back then, I most likely would have ignored it as I just so numb to everything, was humbling.

Yet, now, over a year since I’ve taken any medication for depression, I’m realising just how much I have to live for.

This is progress.

PSA

* The breast examination wasn’t as weird/awkward as I thought, they’re just boobs after all.

Men should also check for anything out of the ordinary, breast cancer doesn’t discriminate.

If you’re ever worried, go see your GP, chances are it’s nothing to worry about, but it’s always best just to make sure.

Don’t let depression stop you from seeking advice on other health issues *

Going Home

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Fri, 13 Oct 2017 20:17:00 +0000

I went back home this week.

My nana’s house has been the one constant in my life, even before I was born. It’s housed 4 generations of our family, being the one place we could always return to.

Walking the hallway, lined with the same wallpaper put up by my granddad was a trip down memory lane, memories I hadn’t realised I’d long ago forgotten.

The stairs upon which my nana would sit every Sunday and chat with her brother. The kitchen sink which my uncle would lean against as he ate lunch between jobs, the banister we’d slide down and the living room in which I was told my dad had passed away. The kitchen window through which we’d yell at granddad that it was 4 o’clock and thus time for tea. The pantry in which we’d try to stuff each other and lock the door. The bedroom in which I had my very own bed, complete with a blanket hand stitched by my mum. The place where I saw my nana have a stroke, succumb to alzheimer's and became a shadow of her former self. It’s where the only family photograph we have was taken, next to the silver birch planted by my granddad. The archway beneath which we’d spend long summer nights chatting with the neighbours. It’s where family gathered to celebrate the good times and mourned our losses, it is my home away from home.

The vegetable patch is long gone, the greenhouses dismantled, the silver birch is now taller than the house and the neighbours are no longer with us. The rotary phone is long gone, so too are the random knickknacks my nana collected; the windowsills are clear from award winning seedlings being grown by granddad. The wireless no longer sits on the kitchen table, for that too is gone.

A lot about that house has changed, but the memories which bombarded me were a reminder that there really is no place like home, wherever that may be.

Drug Free, 12 months on

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 25 Sep 2017 14:54:00 +0000

Recovery is exhausting.

The aim when I was first prescribed antidepressants was to eventually get off them, I never thought for one moment that it would take almost 8 years, but shit happens.

I want to say the transition from being on drugs every single day to going without was easy, but that would be a bold faced lie.

It was hard coming off antidepressants, so much harder than I thought.

I’ll admit straight up, I have an addictive personality, that coupled with some debilitating anxiety and coming off drugs was a hard fought slog.

I think this is the harsh reality for most people coming off antidepressants, or any drug for that matter.

For anyone interested or perhaps those considering coming off antidepressants I’ll share how I found those first 12 months, drug free.

It was actually more like 24 months, before I popped that final pill, I’d begun a gradual reduction of drugs, one smidge at a time to give me a chance to get used to the influx of emotions and stave off the worst of withdrawal symptoms. The withdrawal is something I wasn’t expecting, I wasn’t on crack, but on a gp issued drug!

Alas, withdrawal is real, hard, painful and at times too much to bear. I had to up my dosage a few times when I just couldn’t cope with experiencing a range of emotions the headaches and anxiety brought on my the lower dose.

I was in constant contact with my gp throughout this, I know some go cold turkey, but I honestly wouldn’t recommend it.

The early days of being drug free were both exciting and nerve wracking, I’d been building up to this for a long time, yet I was unprepared as to how I was supposed to cope with the barrage of emotions which came flooding in. There is little to no support in this area unless you can go private, a supportive partner or close friend is a godsend. As too are distractions, I’ve upped my exercise and my creative outlets as a way to avoid allowing negative thoughts to take over.

Having been essentially emotionally numb for 6/7 years, I found it hard as to how I was supposed to cope when the kids played up, when something made me laugh or I was simply content. A bout of anger or happiness would have me questioning myself and whether or not I was experiencing a manic episode.

The bafflement as to how to deal with this sent my anxiety in to overdrive, many a time I was tempted to restart the antidepressants so as to avoid what was a complete head fuck of over stimulation of my emotions.

As with depression, there was a good day followed by several bad days, followed by good weeks and bad days. But it was knowing the good days were coming that made the bad ones worth it.

By the 6 month drug free mark, I was beginning to think I could do this, I’d got through winter which is a bad time of year to come off antidepressants, my children were thriving and Spencer was commenting on how nice it was to have “me” back. It was around this time that I experienced one of my worst panic attacks. It happened whilst I was out alone and set me back, even now months on I get that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach at the thought of leaving the house, I get restless and fidgety when I’m convinced something catastrophic is about to happen and the thought of actually talking to people leaves me a bumbling mess of word vomit. But, I’d take that over the depression fog any day.

The past 12 months have given me pause, I’ve had a chance to start clean, one not everyone with depression & ptsd get. It’s been humbling to reflect on how far I’ve come, from planning my suicide to setting a 5 year plan and working on making the most of what makes me….me.

To wrap up this rambling post, coming off drugs, any drugs is hard. There will be days when you question if it’s worth it and resent not being on them. But it is so so worth it. Having said that, there is no shame in admitting the time isn’t right for you, you can always try again when you feel ready.

Can you be boring and a blogger?

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 14 Aug 2017 18:38:00 +0000

I’ve been thinking about getting back in to blogging lately, I’ve always rather enjoyed tip tapping away, sharing a little insight in to who is me. It’s been almost 9 months since I last put finger tips to keyboard and bashed out some rambling nonsense, and I’ve been missing whatever it was I got from blogging.

But the topic of what to write got me thinking, am I really that interesting that I need to write about my life?

The answer is no.

No I am not.

Like most of us, if I’m being honest, I’m boring. So so mundanely boring that at times I bore myself. For sure, I can and do get in to some awkward and interesting situations; who hasn’t fallen in a river and pondered if cows smell fear, been mistaken for a prostitute, almost had a leg amputated due to infection or gotten lost on the South Downs several times?

But for the most part, life is just ticking along in a way that I suspect is similar to yours.

Photo by Freddy Castro on Unsplash

I’m not building my forever home in the middle of the woods. My children, whilst awesome, are no different to most kids out there…they’re slightly annoying, frustratingly stubborn yet wonderful in their own weird and wonderful ways. I’m not on some miraculous journey of self discovery, nor am I embarking on a fitness regime, besides no one wants to see a sweaty ol’ me panting for breath with frizzy hair and wild eyes. I can’t cook, burning pasta is a niche skill I have, so a food blog is out. Unless I got to eat all the yummy food without cooking it, but then I’d really need to do a fitness blog to negate the impact of a food one!

I have done some pretty interesting things career wise, which legally I can’t talk about, so that’s out the window. So to are the personal things I don’t share with family let alone folk “out there”.

I don’t travel to exotic far flung places, air travels scares the crap out of me, and I don’t think I could convince the school that my kids need to be out during term time. I’m so far removed from fashion that a fashion blog would be ridiculous, my jeans have holes from wear and tear not as a paid for fashion statement. Where are all the bootleg jeans, are they still a thing?

I wouldn’t know in what order to apply make up even if I had detailed instructions before me. I could try my hand at writing about serious topics, but in all honesty I like to play devils advocate and would just end up pissed off at myself.

I’m a wood turner, looking to set up shop, but that isn’t all that interesting to most people. My depression story, whilst uniquely my own, isn’t all that different to most out there. My parenting journey has at times been interesting, yet is pretty much what you expect parenting to be like, full of ups and downs and not really all that remarkable. My relationship is the same, we love each other yet also piss each other off in a healthy adult way.

So, when sitting before a computer, contemplating a blog post, whilst leading a pretty regular life, what do you write about?

Life After Depression

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 20 Mar 2017 14:07:00 +0000

I long held the naïve assumption that depression and anxiety were conspiring bedfellows. They arrived together on a quest of destruction of everything I thought I knew and held dear.

Instead, as I tick off the 200th day since I’ve taken an antidepressant I come to the sad and hollow realisation that anxiety can and does continue to flourish long after the chaos of depression has subsided.

I’m happy, that much I know.

Yet for reasons both known and unexplainable, my anxiety has bloomed. My nerves are shot, sleep is hard to find, the knocks at the door have me freezing in fear of……something. Unwanted memories overwhelm me at the most unexpected times, taking me down paths I never again want to walk down. Crowds are still making me twitchy and leave me longing to slam the door, pull the curtains and just shut everyone and everything out.

I’m at a loss.

I’m not depressed.

I’m happy.

But there is something missing or broken in me which is stopping me from making the most of this new lease at life. I hate that I might be wasting something which isn’t granted to everyone who has battled depression and PTSD. I hate that I might not be strong enough to make the most of life, that my fears will keep me locked away in a prison of my own making.

Life after depression wasn’t meant to be like this, I thought the hard part was done, yet it really seems the hard work of reclaiming my life is only just beginning and I’ve no idea what to do.

Charity, Is it better to give than to receive?

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 27 Feb 2017 22:47:00 +0000

I have, for as long as I remember donated to charity, whether in monetary terms, physical item donations, my time or my voice, I’ve given to those charities which have either directly impacted the lives of myself and loved ones, and those which have tugged at the heart strings in such a way that I couldn’t just sit by and do nothing.

I always give, when I can, to the homeless. Not always via a charity, but to the individual.

You see, I’ve been homeless twice in my life.

There really aren’t words to describe the emotions which bombard you when you’re sat on a bench on Wimbledon Common not knowing where you’ll sleep for the foreseeable future. Knowing that everything you had been gifted, collected, bought and cherished is now gone, from cherished birthday cards to the tooth brush you didn’t have time to grab .

That your favourite pillow and blanket will no longer keep you snug at night.

So, the other day, when the boys and I walked out of the newsagents having bought yet more Pokémon cards, my eyes were drawn to the young man sat unobtrusively in a door way.

Quietly, and oh so politely he asked if we had any change.

As I herded my overly excitable children to a bench so they could tear in to their Pokémon cards, I looked between the young man and my boys.

At one point in time, that young man could have exited a newsagents, giddy with excitement after his mother or father had bought him a treat.

I don’t know what led him to be sat on the high-street, politely asking for change, and I don’t need to know.

As my boys were alternating between squealing and scowling at the cards they got, I took the change and walked over to the young man.

It was over in seconds, I extended my hand, he somewhat shocked, accepted my small offering.

‘Thank you so much’

‘You’re welcome’

We both smiled and then I herded my children off to continue with our errands.

But, the exchanged lingered for me for longer than a moment.

I don’t feel like I contribute much to the world, but for a one fleeting moment I made a difference, just a small one, but a difference all the same.

I'm not sure who benefited most, him receiving the money, or me, for feeling like I’d made a difference, no matter how small.

Protecting ancient woodlands

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Fri, 24 Feb 2017 13:32:00 +0000

Woodlands are something which I have always taken for granted.

Growing up, my siblings and I spent most of our days away school making forts, climbing trees and playing hide and seek between the branches and leaves of various woodlands and green spaces, I took for granted that these places would always be there.

I thought, rather naïvely, that all such spaces were protected. Who wouldn't want to ensure that woods and forests were protected from development and destruction? When in reality, there are little to no protections for our ancient woodlands.

The vast eco systems and wildlife that call the ancient woodlands of the British Isles home need to be preserved, protected and cherished for generations to come, not consigned to history books and photos.

At present there are 709 ancient woods across the UK under threat, most likely some of these woods are ones you and your family enjoy spending time in.

If you want to see these woods preserved for our own and future generations, could you think about signing the Enough is Enough campaign on behalf of the Woodland Trust

**this isn’t sponsored or anything, this is just something I feel rather passionate about**

What to expect when your child has day surgery

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 20 Feb 2017 14:14:00 +0000

I had thought that I was an old hat when it came to having a child go through day surgery, we went through so many with Ethan when he was a baby that I naïvely thought I knew what to expect. Alas, surgery for a 3 month old and a 7 year old are vastly different.

On an emotional level, I think regardless of age and previous experience, there will always be a level of fear that takes over when your child has surgery.

Approximately 7 out of 10 surgeries can be performed as a day surgery, so chances are that if your child needs surgery, they’ll be in and out within the day.

In the weeks or so leading up to the procedure you will get official confirmation of the appointment and instructions from the hospital as what you need to do to ensure your child is ready for surgery.

**Please read the letters, notes and instructions and follow them, to ensure you and your child are as prepared as possible**

Before surgery day

Each child will react to the news they need surgery differently, you know your child, so judge accordingly.

Ahren is a worrier. We knew if he had too long to dwell on his surgery he’d panic and get himself in to a state. So we waited until 2 days before his surgery to tell him. This wont be ideal for every child, but for Ahren it worked out perfectly, a mild freak out and some reassurance from us and he was ok, not jumping for joy, but he didn’t have to wait too long for it to be over with.

We went over the procedure with him, what to expect before, during and after. He rather liked the idea of a day time nap whilst his brother was at school!

Morning of surgery day

Depending on the timing of the surgery, your child will be allowed a small breakfast and then have to starve until after their surgery. We followed our usual morning routine until 7:30. We kept Ahren distracted with games, reading and other such activities all in hopes of keeping his mind off his surgery and the fact he couldn’t eat or drink.

It also helped me, keeping him distracted stopped me dwelling on it!

Booking in for day surgery

Having arrived at hospital and reported to the reception desk we were seen by a nurse, anaesthetist and surgeon. Each of them took the time to introduce themselves to Ahren and explain hat they would be doing. This helped immensely with calming both his and my nerves. This is also standard practice from our experience over the years, even in an emergency situation, someone has come out to explain what was going on.

Prepping for surgery

Depending on the type of surgery, your child may have to change in to hospital gown.

You are then taken in to the room where your child will be knocked out. Once your child is on the bed the nurse will attempt to distract him, most likely with some sort of ‘Where’s Wally’ picture on the wall whilst the anaesthetist is placing the mask over their mouth. As your child chats away they are slowly being ‘taken under’ and before you know it, they’re asleep.

Now, this is where it can get scary, it’s normal for your child to “fight” the anaesthesia.

Ahren literately tried to throw himself off the bed whilst bending himself in half, the nurses expect this and have lightening fast reactions. It looks horrible, but is a normal reaction and nothing to worry about, I wish I had been warned of this before hand.

At this point you can give your child a quick kiss and you’ll be escorted to the waiting area whilst your child is whisked away for surgery.

Whilst you wait

I’ve passed more hours whilst my children are in surgery than I care to count, so I’ve learnt a thing or two about those hours.

Go for a walk. Not too far, you want to stay close to the hospital, just don’t wait in the waiting room. Every time a door opens, an alarm sounds or a nurse hurries past you will assume the worst, don’t do that to yourself.

Get a coffee, make phone calls or go have a cry if you need to.

You’ll be given an approximate timescale for when your child is due to be in Recovery, make sure you are back about 10 minutes or so before then.

Waiting in recovery and discharge

Each child reacts differently, some take awhile to come back round and others, like Ahren, wake up raring to go and ready to walk out the door.

Take heed of the aftercare instructions, even if your child seems 100% they’re still recovering from surgery, no matter how minor. Ask any questions you have, if in doubt about something, ask!

Also make sure you have been given contact details for after hour emergency care.

Back at home

A slow and lazy rest period is ideal, don’t let them feast after their pre-surgery starving, simple and bland is best until all the surgery drugs are out of their system.

Follow the instructions from the discharging nurse, if they say take the following day off school, no matter how alert your child seems in the morning, keep them off school.

Before you know it, your child will be back to their usual self and you can put the worry away until the next worrisome parenting moment.

Blogging, the changes I’d like to see!

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 04 Jan 2017 21:01:00 +0000

With the start of the New Year social media is inevitably awash with posts detailing their blogging aims and the changes many are planning to introduce to their blogs. Rather than come up with a list of “blogging resolutions” which I most likely wouldn’t follow, I thought I’d go for a different approach, and instead share what I’d like to see change within the blogging community as a whole.

Conversation

The blogging community is vastly different to what it was when I first started blogging 7 years ago, despite more channels than ever to communicate with each other it often feels like you’re shouting in to a void. There’s this idea that you need to have a presence everywhere, which leads to link dropping and not much in the way of conversation.

So, I’d like to see a return to conversations, be it on blog posts in the comment section, or on social media discussing the merits of a controversial or inspiring blog post, more conversations and less link dropping.

Link Dropping

There are so many bloggers out there who are disgusting link droppers.

Dropping links multiple times an hour, every hour, of the day is too much.

The same blog post link dropped 7 times a day for over a week is too much.

The same blog post being posted on to every single social media outlet at the same time, numerous times a day, is too much.

Look at your own twitter feed and see just how many links to your own blog you’ve dropped in the past 24 hours, if it’s more than there are hours in the day, it’s too much.

Relevancy

There was absolutely no need for you to be sharing your 2014 Easter Shopping Haul in December 2016, nothing you purchased then would still be available! That competition you ran 8 months ago is also no longer relevant, by all means write a blog post about the item which you featured in the original blog post, but don’t give folk the impression they are in with a chance to win something when they aren’t. Sharing these sort of posts, when the relevancy of them is now obsolete is plain ol’ scummy, you get the clicks whilst the blog reader is left wondering why you just wasted their time.

Fawning

I do realise and appreciate that some folk relying on their blogs for an income, so I recognise that there will be a certain degree of fawning over services and products. But, really, that “blah” was so life changing that you can’t stop harping on about it. A genuine opinion and appreciation of something is easy to detect and carries more weight than some of the obviously fake praise for something you and the rest of the the blogosphere are trying to sell to your audience.

On that note, we need more bad reviews, I do not believe for one second that all those positive reviews are genuine.

Perfectionism

Blogging over the years has become sanitised, less emotive and raw.

It seems the vast majority of bloggers follow these supposed rules and rarely do they step outside of the acceptable structures, going so far as to apologising when they don’t post for a few days, touch on a topic not usually among their repertoire or even for being a tad ‘controversial’.

The idea of pigeonholing oneself to a certain topic or “brand” is so restrictive, broaden your horizons!

It would be wonderful and so inspiring to see more raw blogging, a more honest less sanitised approach, which is after all how blogging started.

I love blogging, both the writing of one and reading others, but there is much about this community that leaves a great deal to be desired, I’m hoping that 2017 is the year when blogging returns somewhat to its origin, not the competitive, isolating, number chasing chore it seems to be for many.

Happy Blogging!

Depression v’s Anxiety

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Tue, 20 Dec 2016 22:26:00 +0000

I was rather naïve with my expectations of coming off antidepressants, in my excitement at the thought of being drug free I didn’t even think of my depression and anxiety existing outside of each other.

They arrived together, existed together and I foolishly thought that they would head off in to the distance together, leaving me well alone.

Alas, whilst the worst of the depression has gone the anxiety is still keeping me up at night. Fearful of starting my days. Afraid of phone calls and letters. The crowds are still too much and going out isn’t as enjoyable as I’d hoped.

The joy of finally being drug free is now marred by the fact that my anxiety is part and parcel of me and not a symptom of my depression.

In a perverse way I’m missing my depression, it made the anxiety so much easier to live with. Now I’m trying to figure out how to manage the anxiety without the numbing effect of antidepressants, and it isn’t easy.

I’m hoping that I’ll get a handle on my anxiety, it seems cruel that once I’ve finally started to come out of depression that anxiety comes along to ruin the positivity I’ve finally started to enjoy.

Mental health recovery is full of ups and downs it would seem.

Christmas, stop taking it so seriously!

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 19 Dec 2016 11:34:00 +0000

The older I get the more I realise that we’re taking Christmas too seriously.

Having made a list of what I thought we’d need for Christmas I sat down and started our online shopping order. As we hit the £100 mark I was getting the feeling that something very wrong was going on.

Christmas dinner is a glorified roast dinner.

Nothing more and nothing less.

It should not be costing a family of 4 over £100 to cook a roast dinner, even if we decide to have a fancy side dish, crackers and something special for our pudding. Especially when two of those at the table are such fussy eaters they’ll ignore it all and instead ask for a bowl of pasta, so no, we should not and will not be spending a small fortune on one home cooked dinner.

The day itself has become about so much more and at the same time so much less than its original intention.

I see people getting in to a tizzy over buying the must have gifts, making the fanciest foods and worst of all getting in to debt over one day.

It’s the week of Christmas and honestly, I can’t stand the thought of leaving my home, my anxiety levels at facing the hoards of bat shit crazy shoppers have reached medication levels.

The crowds at the stores are reminiscent of disaster movies; people hording food and panic buying before the shelves are emptied, roads leading in to the shopping centre are blocked by impatient drivers forcing their way in to full carparks, blocking emergency access and regular drivers just trying to get home or to work.

Why people insist on losing their minds over one day is beyond me.

Rather than fall in to the trap of panic buying and trying to keep up to imaginary and impossible standards, we should instead enjoy the time we may have off work, the lack of routines and such.

By all means, cook a fancy dinner, treat yourself and loved ones to something special, but for the love of all things jolly and holly, please, don’t take it too seriously, you only end up ruining it for yourself and others.

Cancelling Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 12 Dec 2016 19:09:00 +0000

I still remember my own Christmas plays and nativities from Primary school. The nervous excitement as we waited for the teachers to announce the roles, the panic as we made sure our parents had a spare tea towel, a piece of silver tinsel and card to make wings or practiced our very best standing tall and very very still skills.

The school Christmas plays were something we all looked forward to, weeks spent making costumes, scenery and back drops, hours upon hours learning songs, dances, words and the right places to stand on the stage without falling off the edge.

It was something to look forward to. A moment when all children could shine, no matter if you were an angel, Mary, a tall tree or a singing star, we all had our moment in which we got to stand on stage, beaming the cheesiest smile and waving to our family whilst forgetting our lines and not realising Mary had her dress tucked in to her knickers.

When my children started school I was so excited by the thought of getting to see them in school plays and nativities.

For 3 three years I’ve stood to the side of an overly packed hall, camera in hand as I snap away, capturing my children whilst they sung, danced and goofed their way through a performance.

They missed their cues, added extra dances moves and waved like they’d never waved before, each performance was completely and utterly brilliant. I couldn’t have been prouder of them.

I have been eagerly looking forward to this years performance.

Only to discover that there wont be a Christmas performance this year. Nada, nowt, not a thing.

And I’m feeling rather hard done by. I do realise that these things take time, planning and lots of coordination to arrange. But I also know just what they mean to the children and their parents.

It’s such a shame that there was no room within the school days to arrange for something, I’m not talking a West End style show; missed lines, out of tune voices and wonky sets are part of the charm of a primary school event.

But to leave the children and parents with nothing seems a little mean and not in fitting for the season.

I do hope that those of you who get to attend a Christmas nativity or play this year appreciate it, they’re over with before you know it.

100 Days

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Fri, 09 Dec 2016 12:50:00 +0000

Coming off drugs after years of dependency is tough, both emotionally and physically.

There’s fear, excitement, apprehension, determination and whole heap of other emotions I can’t put into words. It’s not something you can really prepare for, you’re either ready or you’re not, the only way to really find out is to try.

A leap of faith in the abyss that is your mental health.

On the 1st September after 7 years of dependency on a cocktail of antidepressants, anxiety and sleeping tablets I made that leap.

It was terrifying yet exhilarating.

It’s going well. It hasn’t been easy, but it is worth it.

The pride I feel in myself for getting this far is worth the doubts and niggles.

Who knows what the future holds, maybe I’ll keep going as I am, with moments of worry which are soon eclipsed by the joy that is being discovered in the every day things. Or maybe one day I’ll need the support and stability that comes with medication once again, what I do know is that I’m no longer worried nor ashamed if I do.

But for now I’m just chuffed as fuck that I reached my first 100 days antidepressant free.

Yay me!!

A Hint of Winter Colour

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Thu, 08 Dec 2016 20:29:00 +0000

I tend to associate winter as a bleak time of year for the garden, as well I should, it looks awful really and in true Amanda style I have misplaced the bulbs I need to plant to ensure some colour in the spring months.

However, among the bleak can be found some beauty and colour.

This rose has been slowly fading from its bright white to a light brown, it reminds me of the pages of an old book.

Whilst I haven’t managed to get out and photograph the trees, most of which have now shed their leaves and berries, I have picked up some seasonal greenery.

I just adore eucalyptus and pussy willow!

Not sure why I haven’t had any of this in our home before but I’m so glad to have finally got my hands on some.

I even used it to make a wreath, which turned out pretty good if I do say so.

I’ve been seeing purple cabbages all over Instagram, and I must admit I was intrigued. I detest cabbages as a food, but as a flower type thing, I can get totally on-board with that!

I saw these two shoved under a shelf at our local flower stall, so I rescued them both for the pricely sum of £1, well worth it for these odd yet delightful pops of colour. When the light hits them, they just look amazing, not something I ever thought I’d say about a vegetable.

Winter Wreath Making

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 05 Dec 2016 12:24:00 +0000

There are several schools of thought on the history of the humble wreath. From the ancient Greeks and Romans using them to symbolise status and victories to the Pagans and Christians making wreaths to symbolise the changing seasons and Advent. Most nowadays are simply a festive decoration, a simple and visual reminder that Winter and Christmas are upon us.

Inspired by the rather lovely wreaths which have been popping up all over Instagram in the last week or so I decided to try my hand at making my own.

For the base I used a circle wreath of honeysuckle vines I cut from the garden earlier this year and then collected some items from around the house

silver birch stars

rusty bells

mini pinecones

eucalyptus

pussy willow

Using no skill whatsoever, I just interwove the eucalyptus and pussy willow in to the honeysuckle wreath, both are rather flexible and easy to slot in to gaps in the wreath.

The pinecones I attached using a hot glue gun, the stars were slotted in to gaps between the wreath, eucalyptus and pussy willow and the bells with a piece of twisted wire.

All in all it took less than 5 minutes and didn’t turn out too shabby.

It was only after making the wreath that I discovered there is a whole bunch of symbolism attached to the items I used to make my wreath.

Honeysuckle vines for the wreath – Signifies happiness and fraternal affection.

Silver birch stars – Silver birch trees around the world symbolise renewal and protection whilst a star symbolises good luck.

Rusty bells – Bells have long been a symbol of protection, the ringing chimes used to ward off evil.

Mini pinecones – Pinecones are symbolic of long life and prosperity, as well as a symbol for good health and protection.

Eucalyptus – Besides smelling amazing, eucalyptus is a symbol of healing and protection.

Pussy willow – The pussy willow symbolises good will and motherhood and represent protection for the home.

I realise that symbolism it totally subjective, but I do rather like the connotations which go with the items I chose for my wreath, now I just need to find the perfect place for it.

Firsts and Lasts

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Tue, 29 Nov 2016 11:18:00 +0000

When you become a parent there are many firsts you experience with your baby, many are expected and looked forward to, a few come out of nowhere, leaving an emotional blow you never expected.

The excitement of those firsts; steps, words and smiles is soon eclipsed by the realisation that there are a limited number of these experiences, and as the years pass us by, the firsts become few and far between.

It’s been a while since we had a first, and then on Friday Ethan lost his first tooth.

A teeny tiny little tooth, yet it still tugged at my heartstrings, this baby tooth is yet another sign that the baby years have been left far behind, the toddler years are fuzzy in memory and childhood is well established.

It doesn’t matter that we’ve had 7 years of firsts, this one still hit me as much as the first ever first, perhaps even more so, knowing that most of these experiences are behind us.

Over the years I have doubted my parenting, thought for sure I was doing things wrong and messing up these two amazing little humans, but as we meet each first I realise I’m doing something right.

Reality Bites, Depression my old friend

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Thu, 24 Nov 2016 21:08:00 +0000

Think happy, be happy.

If only it was that simple.

It’s now almost 84 days since I had my last antidepressant, and the thoughts that maybe I’m not as strong as I believed are creeping in.

There is a shocking lack of assistance for those with depression once you seem to be in recovery, and whilst I understand that funding is disgustingly low, being cast out and expected to manage this on my own is terrifying and honestly, I wonder if it would be easier to let the dark thoughts seep back in and take over.

Over the past 7 years I forgot how to function in so many ways, I still don’t know how to function in some situations and I have no idea how to go about relearning how.

As we grow up, our ability to cope with and handle ourselves in certain situations comes about via trial and error, peer influences and through education but as an adult, I should know these things. I do know them, I just no longer know how to actually get my thoughts in to actions.

Somewhere along the way I’ve lost the parts than made me…me.

It’s exciting to a degree, I’m in a sense a blank canvas with the ability to start over. But I no longer feel I have a base on which to establish who I am. Am I confident, outgoing, strong willed and passionate or am I this meek and lost person who is stumbling through life trying to find some place where I belong?

I fear I’m the latter, I don’t want to be, she makes me mourn for who I was.

It’s evident I’m struggling this week, there’s a whole host of reasons as to why, some significant, some ridiculously inconsequential that I shouldn’t even waste my energy on them

I’m lucky I got 12 weeks in before I started to feel like maybe I wasn’t as free from depression as I thought. I knew there would be periods like this. I knew I would doubt myself and want a prescription for drugs which numbed me from many of these thoughts, but I’m hopeful that this is a blip. A day or two of vacillation before I perk up again.

I hope so, I’ve so enjoyed these past 12 weeks, the feeling of being alive again is a wondrous thing. But the reality is that after so many years of severe depression I’m unlikely to ever be free of it completely, and I’m truly okay with that, if only I could figure out how to manage these days of doubt without setting me back months of progress.

Autumn’s Last Smile

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 23 Nov 2016 22:57:00 +0000

“Autumn, the year’s last, loveliest smile.” – William Cullen Bryant

It has indeed been a most lovely autumn, the colours brighter, the leaves crisper underfoot and the soil less sodden. Well, that was until Storm Angus came along and took the last of the leaves from the branches and left piles of soggy leaves not at all conducive to leaf jumping, it seems winter truly is on its way.

With the boys home from school last week due to inset days we decided to make the most of the quiet at the local park and enjoy the last of autumn before winter takes hold.

It literately looked as though the trees were on fire.

I’m always amazed at the contrast in leaves in such close proximity, they look so striking together.

The majority of the trees had long since dropped their leaves, leaving tall and gnarly branches stretching high in to the clouds.

I love the reminder of how small we are compared to trees!

The boys took great delight in playing with the leaves, they were waiting for the wind to come along and over them in leaves!

Cardboard boxes and leaves do wonders for children who claim to be bored.

Every year a patch of fungi grow in the same place, this year there are 7 blobs of them. They’re rather ugly but still so fascinating. I did try a spot of research in to what type of fungi they are, but alas my super sleuth skills do not include identifying fungi, nor much of anything to be honest.

Before long it was time to head home and leave the peace and quite for someone else to enjoy. I shall miss the colours of autumn, this year has been a rather spectacular visual feast.

Why do you care?

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Mon, 21 Nov 2016 19:55:00 +0000

Like most of us I do enjoy a good rant and moan.

Usually I keep these to irate tweets which I delete before posting, the occasional conversation in my head or most often a rambling nonsensical conversation at Spencer. Note at and not with, he humours me and gives me the odd side eye before patting me on the head and telling me to get over it, which is most excellent advice.

Just lately I’ve noticed an uptake in the number of social media posts criticising the choices of others, and I get it, I really do. Despite our best intentions we do judge, it could be for a fleeting moment, but we all do it.

But we don’t always need to be vocal about that judgement.

Does it do anything except make the judgemental one feel superior? Is the aim to change attitudes, behaviours or opinions? Or is it simply to poke fun at and belittle people who just happen to partake and enjoy things which the judger does not?

People actively participating in hygge is the latest trend which is being ripped to pieces and in the run up to Christmas I dare say there will be whole slue of critical posts judging how others go about their Christmas. In the past we’ve seen them over Elf on the Shelf, how early decorations are put up, how early gifts are purchased and wrapped and how much is spent on a child to name but a few.

But before you start judging and belittling those who are finding some comfort in little rituals around their home and those like to make the run up to Christmas fun for their kids by utilising a naughty elf, those who decide to add a bit to cheer to their homes after what has been a pretty shit year, or those who decide to spread the cost of Christmas and those who choose to spoil their child with their hard earned cash, ask yourself why you care. Ask yourself how their decision impacts you in anyway shape or form.

You can scroll past and mute their updates on social media, you can walk past the houses all lit up and only decorate your own when you deem it timely. You can leave all your festive shopping to the last minute and set a modest budget and stick to it when it comes to gift giving.

What you don’t need to do it is make a snooty judgement on those who happen to make different choices to yourself.

Now, I shall take the excellent advice from Spencer and just get over it, or at least keep my rants to myself.

Onward

noreply@blogger.com (Amanda) — Wed, 09 Nov 2016 15:52:00 +0000

The world is a crazy place right now.

Hatred and fear seem to be winning the day, after years of progress and equality we seem to be chipping away at a frightening rate the freedoms of others which were so desperately and passionately fought for.

I shan’t cast stones on those who voted, in all honesty both candidates left much to be desired.

But the shock of both Brexit and Trump is surely a call to wake up.

How is a man who believes in conversion therapy, defunding AIDS research whilst disbelieving in evolution soon to take the Office of Vice President?

How has a man who has admitted to sexual harassment, been accused of rape and fraud, who doesn’t believe in climate change and wants to take away the right of women to choose, who opposes nation wide marriage equality and is likely to repeal Obama Care been voted as the future President?

It’s unfathomable, yet it’s happened.

One must wonder how a nation deems these men the best option for running their country? How did we think leaving the EU was a good idea? How has politics come to this?

It is too easy to place the blame for the current state of affairs on both sides of the Atlantic on illiterate, racist, misogynists. People have long been been dissatisfied with the status quo of the political elite, feeling marginalised and unrepresented by those who are supposed to represent them. Those in power now need to take a good look at themselves, the parties they represent, and question why the people feel so disenfranchised from their fellow country men and leaders. Politicians and media press must stop fuelling the hate filled rhetoric and instead start working to reunite the divides.

I’m honestly not sure where we as individuals go from here.

I know that spreading further hatred isn’t the answer. I know electing officials who strived to rip away the rights of others isn’t the answer.

But the votes have been counted and now, we must go onwards, and hope for a better tomorrow whilst looking at what has motivated two countries to set themselves back years of progress.