This week has been Mental Health Awareness Week. 

The good news is that more people are more aware of mental health. 

The bad news is that’s probably because their own mental health has suffered over the last few months. 

The theme this year is nature, and I have mixed feelings on this, as on many, many things. 

On the one hand I know that trees and blue skies and horizons and improbably solid-looking clouds make me feel better; on the other, like most Brits, I’m sick to the back teeth of Going For A Forking Walk. 

I think if I’d have been picking a theme I’d have probably picked connections. People. Because that’s the thing that’s been missing for so many of us, and that has actually tipped so many people over edges they never knew they had - isolation. 

It’s good to talk, we’re told, but we weren’t told what to do when we ran out of things to say. When we couldn’t face yet another zoom quiz. Another bloody walk... When we couldn’t hug our Mums and Dads. 

When we were set adrift from everything that made us feel like us. 

And yes, that’s supposedly ending now, but no, it hasn’t instantly made everything better. Because that sort of damage doesn’t just… undo. 

Because lonely isn’t just about other people, it’s about what’s happening inside of you.

So whether you’ve had poor mental health before, or you’re struggling for the first time, here are my 
personal top tips for dealing with it when it gets bad. 

1. Feel it

Feel your feelings. Even the bad ones. Not feeling them, bottling them up, denying them, will end up hurting you more. 

If you don’t acknowledge them they can come out in odd ways, at odd times - and they can look different. Lots of times sad can look like angry. And it can hurt the people around you, too.

2. Talk about it

‘I’m not great.’

It’s just three words. Sometimes you don’t feel like talking. Sometimes it’s all too much. Sometimes making connections, making plans, admitting weakness - it’s all hard. It’s also worth it. One text. One phone call. One meet up. One day at a time. Three words. 

How are you? 
‘I’m not great.’ 

3. Write about it

Clearly I write about my problems. But this is actually a good idea for everyone. It’s fancy name is ‘journaling’. Writing down what you’re feeling helps you sort it out. And maybe leave it behind a bit... And maybe remember it, if you need to go back and check yourself.  

And sometimes, it’s there if you need to go back and BELIEVE yourself. 

4. Stop it

Just… stop. For a moment. Sit. Rest. Give yourself time to think. Give yourself some grace. 

5. Admit it

The only three words harder than ‘I’m not great’, are ‘I need help’. Everyone needs help sometimes. That’s what your GP is there for. That’s what your work EAP helpline is there for. That’s what Samaritans is there for. MIND. There’s help out there. Please use it. 

6. Walk it off

DAMMIT ALL TO HELL!!!!!
Unfortunately, it does help. Moving your body in general, preferably in the great, if currently rainy, outdoors. 

Just… remember you’re not struggling alone. You’re not lonely alone. I am, too. 
xxx

Your children can’t be your whole world. And you can’t be theirs. 

God, it took me such a long time to learn that. 

And it’s one of the hard lessons of my divorce that I’ve sort of un-learned over the last year. 

At the time, my world had shrunk to them. Because nothing else in my life was any good. It was all falling apart around my ears, bricks smashing to dust at my feet, and I clung to them like a lifeline. I didn’t matter any more, only them. 

I can’t remember what came first, now, chicken or egg; if the awfulness of everything else made me narrow my focus to them, or if my focus on them was part of what shrivelled the world and triggered some of the awfulness… I think now it was probably a bit of both. (And I think it’s something that happens to lots of women who have babies after infertility). 

But anyway, it turns out you cannot build your self-worth, your life’s hearth, your soul, inside other people. 

It won’t fit. 

And it will break you all, in the end. 

The thing is that your children aren’t yours - they belong to themselves and all their other connections too, old and new, and they will eventually follow those those threads away from you - and you will be only what they leave behind. 

If you don’t fill yourself with something else, if you are not you for your own sake, you will be nothing. 
And this example and this experience will hurt them. 

When my kids first started going to spend time with their dad and I was without them I honestly felt like I was going to die from it. I remember writing something of the sort on this blog and somebody telling me to stop acting like they were dead. It hurt at the time, but she was right... Thank you if you’re still here. 
Very gradually I learned to see the space as a good thing not just for them, but for me. 

I looked at the rubble, the bricks and blocks that had shed from me over much longer than I had realised, and I picked some of them up. I fixed them. I found new ones. And I started building. (All of which is pretty much code for remembering old hobbies, reading and writing a  lot, leaning on friends, and shagging strange men). 

Anyhoo, I started building ME. Not their mum. Me. And without the rotten stones I thought my foundations were stronger than ever. 

And then, all this...

And I realised my tower was far from finished, and far from stable. 

Like so many others, my world shrunk again to my children. They have been the only in-person people I’ve seen regularly (apart from one walking friend and Boynotquiteonthenetheredge, both of whom I only see twice a month) for more than a year.

And I’ve lost the balance it took me so long to find. I’ve lost the space to be me, the space to think clearly.
The Smalls have become too much my everything because there hasn’t been anything else. 

And I can feel that the boundaries with them have blurred and the emotions have heightened and I’m not parenting with deliberation and thought and measure - I’m parenting with loneliness and too much of my own unfiltered emotion. And that’s wrong. It warps things. 

I was still building me, you see. I was still recovering from all the awful. And now I’ve gone backwards... Because it turns out you can’t keep building your way out of the rubble when all your building blocks have been taken away - nights out, and friends, and cups of tea, and banter, and cocktails, and road trips, and visits, and classes, and hobbies, and places, and sights, and trying new things, and seeing and feeling and learning and growing and filling yourself up so you can float. So you can fly. 

And yes, some of those blocks are coming back now, but they feel heavier, unfamiliar in my hands. They’re pulling me down, not raising me up. I’m not sure how to use them, where to start, how to mix the cement of connections and small talk and action and planning. There are so many fragments I am afraid to pick them up in case I drop them and I have to start all over again, again. 

What I do know (now, finally) is that I cannot be the best mother to my children when I am not being the best me for myself. 

And that means donning the hard hat, rolling up my sleeves, and picking up each block, one at a time, and layering them up until they are a wall, a shield, a whole, a home. A place where my children can feel safe and loved, but that will also exist when they leave. A place the awful can’t reach me - where it will look far away once more. 

And I will grow ivy up the walls, plant blossom trees, scatter cushions and hang fairy lights. I will tend it and maintain it, keep building it higher and brighter, and it will be a thing of enduring beauty and peace.

(Until it gets ants and masonry bees, but that’s another [recent] story).

xxx

Five hard things about the easing of lockdown:

1. Remembering social skills

Gosh it’s been a long time since I socialised. And if my performance on the school run is anything to go by, I’m really, really rusty. 

When I have seen friends I’ve been walking two meters parallel with them, and I’ve lost the fine art of eye contact. Plus I have nothing to say as I’ve done nothing of note for 12 months, other than worry a lot and fail at homeschooling. 

2. Finding a loo

It’s all very well meeting in people’s gardens for cups of tea or something stronger - or a bit of a picnic in the park while it’s mild - but my pelvic floor was already completely forked after the children, and now my bladder has gotten very comfortable never being more than 30 seconds away from its own dear loo, thank you very much. 

Where exactly are you supposed to go? Or take small equally bladder-challenged small people? And don’t tell me a wild wee because I don’t get my butt out in public spaces (often), I can’t pee straight anyway, and quite frankly picnicing in urine soaked trainers puts me right off my sandwiches. 

Plus most of my friends don’t want human wee on their flower beds. Weirdos. 

3. Figuring out the rules

As a communications professional (lols) I can tell you officially that it’s NOT just you, and the communication of what the F the rules actually are IS shockingly bloody awful. Which is why most people are making them up for themselves, which means you have to figure out what everyone’s personal rules and comfort zones look like - in particular if they’re going to let you upstairs with a mask to use their toilet. 

4. Finding somewhere for the worry to go 

I know there’s lots of happy party people out there celebrating in the sun but it’s just not where I’m at. I’ve been in firefight mode so long that having nothing to fight, no crisis to respond to, has left an awful lot of un-tethered worry flying free and latching on to anything and everything. 

Currently brain blood clots, dying of ovarian cancer, and WHERE THE HELL I’M SUPPOSED TO WEE.

5. Not being able to hug a friend when they’re crying

While not much has happened in some ways, so much has happened in others, and a great deal of it has been really bloody awful. Seeing people is great, but those wells of grief and worry and trauma brim over in person more than on zoom. 

And not being able to hug someone you love and be there when they need you is one of the hardest of the all the hard things in this very, very hard year.

xxx

Smile love, it might never happen. 

Well here’s my list.

There were the older boys who took me and my friend Becky aside into the library at school, and talked to us about our body parts. They showed theirs. Age 9.

There was the neighbour we all instinctively knew not to go near at community barbeques. And we knew not to leave anyone behind. Age 11.

There were the guys in Spain on Spanish exchange who would drive past repeatedly and shout at me out the window about my chest and blonde hair. I was 14.

There was the bloke on the bus to that club, who squeezed us into a seat, refused to move at our stop, and helped himself to a handful of our vulvas as we climbed past. We were 16.

There was the driving instructor, who took me for walks, put his shoulder on my head to ‘see the speed dial’, and took me home to meet his guinea pigs. I thought I could handle him. I was 17.

There was the friend who comforted me when I was upset and made a grab for my tits when he got the chance. 18.

There was the scary Big Issue guy, who approached me alone, and then followed me yelling about my privilege, when I wouldn’t stop to talk in a dark corner. 21.

There was the friend’s boyfriend who got drunk and told me how much he liked me, and wanted to check if my breasts were real. I couldn’t prove it unless he felt. 22.

There was the bloke on the busy train who sat next to me, and kept ‘accidentally’ brushing my breast with his arm, and pressing his leg against mine. It wasn’t that busy. 24.

There were all the blokes at the parties and clubs who came up behind me to rub themselves against me, or cop a feel. Who worked in teams to separate the target girl for their mate. 15-25.

There was the guy at work who just got a bit too friendly at the Christmas do, with hands where they shouldn’t be. I laughed it off. 26.

There was the airport security guy in Egypt who pulled me out of line and complimented my partner on my boobs and hair. Holding an AK47. Fun times. 27.

There are all the builders who have ever wolf whistled, all the blokes in cars who have beeped when I’ve been jogging, alone, at twilight, all the times I’ve been told to smile. 

I wrote this list in 2017 at the beginning of #MeToo. I’m writing it again after Sarah Everard’s murder. 

Smile, love, it might never happen.

Well it does happen, more than you think. It’s still happening, and it’s starting younger than you think, too. 
Not every man, but EVERY woman, every single woman has a list like this. Every single girl. 

Whether you like it or not, cat-calling and rape ARE on the same curve. Consent, and domestic abuse, emotional and physical, are part of the same problem, too. And maybe those lists are even longer...

There was the man I dated who kept trying to slip off his condom. He called me mad when I called him out. 39.

There were the men on dating sites who told me I was boring and frigid for not wanting to share my number or meet up immediately. 40+. 

There were all the times I had sex with a partner when I didn’t want to and didn’t feel like it, when it hurt, but I couldn’t face the consequences and recriminations if I didn’t do it. 

There were all the times in relationships I was told I was lazy, and useless, and not ambitious enough, or supportive enough, and too intense, and showing too much cleavage. 

There were all the times I was told I was crazy, or over-emotional, or remembering it all wrong. 

There were all the times I wasn’t believed. 

Smile love, it might never happen. 

Well it did happen, and I know I’m not remembering any of it wrong. 

Attitudes to women matter. 

Misogyny matters. 

WE matter. 

And it kills not just on the streets but inside homes, too. 

The truth is that a lot of women are not safe, a lot of the time. All of them have the lists to prove it. 

And frankly, right now, it feels like there’s very little to smile about.

Tomorrow is International Women’s Day. It is also the day home schooled children go back to school, which perhaps makes it National Mother’s Day - a week ahead of the real official thing. 

And boy do we deserve two this year. 

It is ALSO exactly a year to the week since we first went into lockdown. And I think all mothers, and all women, are coming out at this end very different to how they went in. 

The theme of this year’s International Women’s Day is ‘Choose to Challenge’ inequality. And it’s either super important or super ironic that the last year has shown us how un-challenged gender inequality really is, when everything else is stripped away - and how big a challenge we are still facing. 

This pandemic has hit women far harder than men, mothers harder than that, single mothers harder than THAT, and poor and black or ethnic minority mothers hardest of all. 

Like many other people I want to join in the end of home school celebrations, the bottoms up, we made it, things are only going to get better, wa-hoo party-time club.

But I can’t. 

Because I’m really, really broken. 

There are too many cracks to hold the hope in. It spills away like water. 

Let’s look at some stats, because this is the internet, and you can’t make a statement like ‘Covid hit women hard’ without evidence - particularly if you ARE a woman, because your opinion is automatically offensive and needs seeing to (What about an International MENS Day?), all of which also needs challenging, but that’s another blog. 

Some examples: 

* Women are one and a half times more likely to have lost their jobs than men because of Covid - Institute for Fiscal Studies
* Women took on 78% more childcare than men during the first lockdown - ONS
* 79% of homeschooling fell to women - Mumsnet
* 18% of women reduced their hours, 7% took unpaid leave - TUC
* Calls to domestic abuse helpline went up 66%, visits to the website 950% - Refuge.

Look - you get the picture. 

When the chips were down, when the brown stuff got really REALLY real, women stepped back down from the progress of the last 30-60 years to become the 1950s housewives they never thought they had anything in common with, caring for children, caring for elderly relatives, cooking, cleaning, and mental-loading. 

Oh, AND working (when we still could) AND schooling.

And some did (and are doing) all that trapped in a few square metres with abusive partners. 

And we were set up to fail - fail at all of it - over and over again, on repeat, for a year, because having it all is impossible, and doing it all is impossible, and multi-tasking isn’t actually a thing - just more tropes to trap us and boxes to define us and what success for women should look like - and we were told to only do our best but to do everything at once and we drowned in expectations, and contradictions, and overwhelm, and fear and GUILT.

And it ain’t over yet. 

Now we will be picking up the fallout of reinforcing routine, back to school anxiety and fatigue, post-school restrain collapse, interrupted friendships and rusty social skills, the education gap, the next period of isolation/lockdown personal, local or national, all while picking up the tatters of our jobs and our own lives, and all while doing so much more. There is always more.

And there is still no rest or recuperation or restorative, no village, no back-up, no real-life connections to anchor us. I know it’s around the corner, I know other people are planning and booking and hailing normality, but I can’t see that far. 

The cracks blur my vision. 

The impact of the last year (plus) on women’s collective vision, on our mental health, our careers, our relationships with our children, with our partners, our confidence, our understanding of ourselves and our parenting will last a long, long, long time. 

And I don’t have the energy to choose to challenge any of that, right now. 

I’m not even sure I have the tools or wherewithal to start shoring up my own cracks, let alone those baked into the system. 

The good news is that I’ve been broken before, so one day I know the cracks WILL cover over, will fade to scars, and then fade again to a few extra wrinkles, probably on my brow, where my trauma collects.

One day I will be able to see beyond them. 

One day I might even think they are beautiful. 

But right now they are raw, open wounds, and tomorrow I will retreat to lick them. 

And I will celebrate International Women’s Day (and National Mother's Day) by glorying in just doing one thing at a time only, fully, properly, and well. 

Even if it is only drinking a cup of tea. 

Which is about the only challenge I feel like I can really get behind. 

xxx

Half term was supposed to be a bit easier wasn’t it? 

Well there was clearly less battling over school work, but emotions at casaonthenetheredge were still running pretty high. 

The thing is that you can’t just turn off months of trauma and boredom and monotony and isolation and weirdness and have a week OFF. 

Especially when you can’t go anywhere or do anything different. 

And all of that continues to burst out in odd places and weird ways. That cartoon leaky pipe. Those #weirdtears. 

Here are just a few of the random things that made people in my house cry over the last week or so:

* Being made to go on a walk. 
* Being made to wear appropriate clothing for inclement weather.
* Being too hot on the walk.
* Being too cold on the walk.
* Having to come home at the end of the walk. 
* Having to spend an hour cleaning all the dog poo off the car seats, shoes, coats and actual children after someone trod in it on the walk, and then trampled it over the ENTIRE WORLD. 
* Their sister looking at them funny. 
* Their sister treading on their hair.
* Their sister punching them. 
* The unfairness of being told off for punching one’s sister.
* The unfairness of being told off for being rude about being told off about punching one’s sister. 
* The unfairness of you never tell her off only me. 
* The unfairness of LIFE. 
* How much they hate their mother, she’s the worst EVER, and they don’t want to be part of this family anymore. 
* Getting a letter from their mother telling them they are loved. 
* Receiving a Guinness cake and a sausage casserole from a stranger. 
* Not getting equal turns at being a blanket burrito. 
* Their favourite Masked Singer going out.
* A lack of croissants. 
* Not being able to find any tuna in the cupboard.
* Losing Cluedo.
* Annoying their boyfriend.
* Not being allowed to cut up items of their own clothing. 
* Being forced to watch Pooch Perfect against their will. 
* Not being allowed to watch Pooch Perfect. 
* Slime not being slimy enough. 
* Having to work late.
* Not wanting to watch Rebekah Vardy do a headbanger in case of blood.
* Random fear of a non-existent blood test.
* Random fear their mum’s boyfriend is moving in. 
* The end of Mamma Mia 2. 
* Being attacked by a book sticking out of a bookshelf they literally just put there themselves.
* Racism. 
* Tidying.
* Feeling misunderstood.
* Snow in Texas. 
* A bunch of tulips from a friend. 
* Unshrinking shrink plastic. 
* Tight clothing.
* Being bitten by the cat. 
* Not having the cat on their lap as much as their sister and it liking her more. 
* Not seeing the hamster as much as their sister and it liking her more.
* Seeing the hamster bleeding out of its backside. 
* Trying to catch the bloody hamster to give it tiny drops of antibiotics after it started bleeding out of its backside. 
* The internet not working. (X approx 127).
* Not getting enough time with their mother and it being unfair.
* The unfairness of LIFE, AGAIN.
* Devices running out of battery at inconvenient moments. 
* Their Barbies not being sisters any more. 
* Unripe avocados. 
* Imagining random and highly detailed disaster situations late at night. 
* The hardness of the sofa once all the cushions have been removed for a fort. 
* Liv and Maddie leaving home at the end of Liv and Maddie on Disney Plus. 
* Hearing about a friend who’s parents are really sick and can’t see them. 
* Finding out their Dad’s cancer might be back. 
* The hoover wire getting tangled up AGAIN and not responding to violent yanking and actually toppling furniture over and creating YET MORE HOOVERING. 
* Flat pack furniture. 
* Feeling tired. 
* Running out of shampoo in the shower.
* Hearing their ex is getting re-married.
* Finding out an immuno-comprimised friend is getting a vaccine. 
* Someone being kind and telling them it was all going to be okay. 
* Being given baked beans. 
* Not being given baked beans. 
* The existence of sharks and witches. 
* False nails. 

I would love to hear about the #weirdtears at your end. 

Because I’d like to know it’s not just my kids acting out left right and centre. 

And I’d particularly like to know it’s not just me being a lockdown basket case, too. 

xxxxx

What I really like about Pandemic Mark XXVI, or whatever we’re on now, is constantly discovering its new and debilitating side effects. And I’m not talking about losing your sense of smell and taste.

I’m talking about losing all the other stuff along the way… And finding that as you shed each piece what’s left of yourself underneath is uglier than you knew, or ever wanted to know. Which just adds to the super-duper fun of it all!

Here are some of the things I’ve lost this time around:

1. Patience

I used to be patient. Well, patientER.Now I am driven COMPLETELY WILD by the use of random capital letters mid word/sentence, and particularly by an inability to count things from one pile to another in a neat and organised way that actually leads to getting THE RIGHT FREAKING ANSWER. Homeschool rage is a thing. And I’ve discovered my true Kryptonite is not TRYING. I don’t care if it’s wrong, I do, apparently, care very much if it’s because you did a slap-dash half-arsed job of it.

2. Perspective

This week I cried about technology not working at least 56 times. (Actually an improvement on last week).

3. Control of my weight

My homeschool rage has gone straight to my hips.

4. Social skills

The thing with every day being the same AND not seeing anyone is that a) you have nothing to say and b) you forget how to say it when you DO see people. I have most definitely lost the fine art of regular human interaction, which to be fair was never what you’d call a CORE strength. I already struggled with filters: now I will overshare with and make inappropriate remarks to the Amazon delivery guy.

The other day I did speak to a friend, and within two minutes had poo poooed her well thought out baby names. (To be fair they were guinea pig babies, and I pointed out that if she called them Liquorice and Butterscotch they’d be Lick and Butt for short).

Still. A year ago I probably wouldn’t have been so damned rude. Outside my head. Probably.

5. Friends

The lick-butt friend is still my friend, I think, but I feel like I have lost others. I am spread so thin I don’t have the mental energy for correspondence, and I am so near the end of my own rope, I cannot help anyone else hang on to theirs. I am lonely, and I do not have the energy to reach out for support. And neither does anyone else.

6. My temper

I am angry. And not just about home schooling. About everything. Every minor inconvenience and major political idiocy are all the last straw and it is boiling in my stomach, and pricking behind my eyes and curling in my fists ALL THE TIME.

I am SO ANGRY with the people (especially the non front line ones) whose children are still living relatively normal lives in school while I watch my kids struggle with work and friendships, and hear them tell me they feel useless, and know that I am not doing a good enough job of keeping up their spirits or their confidence. And I know that’s not fair. I know it’s not reasonable. I know it’s not anyone’s fault. I know I’d send mine in a heartbeat if I could… But it is there, and the jealousy is barely under control.

I am SO ANGRY at the government for where we are, for staggering mis-management and incompetence, and most of all for pretending that none of that’s actually happened, or that in fact they’re doing a jolly good job. And then I am angry with people for believing them.

I am SO ANGRY with non-maskers and the rule-breakers and the anti-vaxers, and social media evangelists, and trolls, and warriors. And I know I should stop looking and mind my own business, but it’s hard.

I am SO ANGRY with my ex, all over again, when I thought I was (mostly) over it all, because he has someone to help him, because he’s not doing this on his own, because the life I was only just starting to rebuild after him has ground to a halt, because all my support and recovery avenues have been Covid cut off, because he gets the nicer less acty-out kids at his end who aren’t shouting and screaming at him (as much), and because I’m stuck in HIS city with no family help, no friendship or school gate back-up – and all I really want is my mum, and she’s too far away and too vulnerable and I haven’t seen her in a year now.

I am SO ANGRY with me for not being able to shake this off, this anger, and control it, and do better, and be better than I am.

7. The ability not to cry at adverts/news/videos

Oh, the other side of the anger. When it wanes, and it ebbs and flows constantly, all that is left on the other side is sad.

It is sadness under pressure – like a cartoon leaky pipe where the water always finds new holes and gaps to spray forth from – usually Youtube pet rescue footage, Captain Tom, videos of babies getting hearing aids for the first time, or anything remotely heart squeezing, however contrived or stupid. (I should probably stay away from Long Lost Family).

8. The plot/My mind

My focus, my concentration and my memory are all shot. I can find myself stood in front of the cooker trying to remember what steps I need to take to make sausages and mash, and being completely overwhelmed at having to do everything at once and make it all come together.

And I am supposed to be being an effective employee, teacher, mother and housekeeper at the same time, and I can’t even remember to put the frozen peas on to boil.

9. My sense of self

I can’t remember who I was when I wasn’t stressed, overwhelmed and lonely. Because I’m not fun. I’m not energetic, I’m not creative, I’m not optimistic – and I’m not particularly kind. All of the things I liked about myself have started coming off in the pandemic wash. And I know I am not the only one.

10. My phone

Apparently I cannot keep track of everything in my life that there currently is to keep track of, AND my phone, all at the same time. Fortunately, Boynotenoughonthenetheredge enabled my Alexa to ‘Find my phone’. One day last week my home screen showed me I’d used this service 21 times. A personal best. So I am winning at something…

11. A hamster

Okay well I haven’t LOST a hamster. (Yet). I’ve gained one.

Meet Mr. Tulip.

Because sometimes when everything is falling to pieces both around you and within you, what you really need is something cute and fluffy to take care of and to take all your minds off it. And some cardboard and hot glue…The one thing my kids are actually really enjoying at the moment, and I’m actually enjoying with them, is craft. So we are going to spend our lockdown time making this little fluffball Hamster Mazes. (Look this up on Youtube. You won’t regret it).

Because, surprisingly, one thing I am refusing to lose to knob-wombling Covid is my own ability to TRY. So I am still TRYING to make the most of this time, to do my best, to wring out some joy, to remember to be grateful, to find perspective, to breathe through the angry and the sad and stand back up and keep on going and set an example of resilience even when I don’t feel resilient at all.

Try or cry. Or sometimes both at once.

xxx