Anxiety, Self-care and Snow Days

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Self Care; sometimes a bubble bath just won’t cut it.

School knows best. I should probably just accept this and move on. Yet still, on Wednesday night, I found myself repeatedly checking the school’s website and Twitter feed in anticipation of the news that school would be closed the following day. Given that we’d had snow that day, that more was forecast, that an amber weather warning was in place, that most of the UK was already buried under several inches, that the local police were advising to cancel journeys, it seemed that surely a snow day was the right way to go.

No.

School would absolutely, resolutely be open on Thursday morning.

At this point, my anxiety was getting worse. We live 11 miles from school and are not on the bus route so I drive the kids to school every morning and also collect them most days. Most of that drive is on exposed, rural roads where there’s nowhere to go for help if you get stuck – there isn’t even a petrol garage on the way. Roads that feel the full effect of the bad weather, roads that could well be icy and treacherous.

Thursday morning, and it was still snowing – by now the snow was beginning to stick. Okay, not snow as someone in Canada or Finland would recognise, but this is the UK. We don’t normally get much snow, so we’re not prepared for it – there isn’t enough snow to make it economically viable for local councils, transport services or even households to invest in specialist snow gear. Even the YakTrax I bought a few years ago felt like a ridiculous indulgence. So while I was looking out of the bedroom window at the snow, I was aware that while I could probably drive the kids into school okay, there were 2 major problems with that. 1) There was no guarantee I could drive them home again later in the day if the weather got worse, and 2) I don’t have much experience driving in the snow and so the thought of having to do so was making me incredibly anxious. In fact, if I did drive them in, I’d either spend the day in a cafe close to school, anxiously watching the weather, fully prepared to make a snap decision to pull them out and bring them home again if it got worse, or I’d be stood at home doing the same thing, watching the snow pile up and feeling more and more nervous about the return journey.

I kept checking the school website, but remember: school knows best. School was staying open, informed by government pressure over targets and the insane notion that every pupil should have 100% attendance. School was very much staying open.

By this point, my heart was racing, my stomach twisting in knots. Both kids have been ill and missed a few days of school, my car broke down after a weekend visiting family resulting in missing another two days. Ivy is falling apart and basically refusing school at the moment. We are on the Attendance Officer’s radar, to put it mildly. I feel under mounting pressure to make sure that both children are in school, on time, all the time. This has meant no mental health days, even when they were much needed, and sending them in before they’ve fully recovered from coughs and colds, meaning illnesses dragged out for longer. School, in other words, is adversely affecting my children’s physical and mental wellbeing.

I looked out again at the snow as the wind blew flurries around the garden, and realised how stressful the drive was going to be. Even the street where the car is parked wouldn’t be gritted – I could be slipping and sliding just while trying to do a three point turn to get out onto the main road, followed by 11 miles of fretting about black ice and maniac drivers while snow blew across my windscreen and I struggled to see.

No.

Just no.

School, I firmly believed, wasn’t making the right decision. It wasn’t a decision made according to the safety and wellbeing of their pupils, staff or the parents. And I wasn’t prepared to put myself through the stress and potential danger of the drive, nor of spending a day anxiously watching the weather in case it got worse. I called in and said we weren’t coming – from the sound of the harassed tones of the receptionist, we weren’t in the minority, but again, I was on the verge of palpitations with anxiety while making the call, worried that this decision would land me in even more trouble with school.

This though, is what self care looks like. Not bubble baths or an early night with a nice book to read; activities which may well be enjoyable but aren’t the sum total of what self care constitutes. Self care is the decision to put your own wellbeing foremost, rather than squeezing it in around the edges of your life. It often looks like being difficult, or awkward, of going against the grain. Mostly, it’s about listening to that quiet, scared voice inside, the one that is begging you not to do that, to please do this instead – a voice that we so often have to override out of a greater fear of what will happen if we give in to it. Fear that we’ll be in trouble – with a boss, with school, with our ex, or our mother. Fear, all the time, fear. I’m getting so fed up of living my life in constant fear, yet this time, the fear of driving through a blizzard (actual weather forecast) outweighed the fear of what school might say if we didn’t come in. Self care meant allowing myself to avoid a scenario that I’d find terrifying. Similarly, a few weeks ago, self care meant taking the extra time to drive through the town to the garage after dropping the kids off, as my petrol gauge had dropped down to one bar – and while intellectually I knew that there was enough petrol to get me back home and to the far more convenient garage, I also knew that I’d be worrying about it for the whole 11 miles. Inconvenience beats anxiety and stress in the self care equation.

At 9.40 am, less than an hour after the start of the day, school sent out a text to parents to announce that it would be closing at 11.30, and so everyone would need to make special arrangements to collect their children early. By this point, it was clear we were within a few miles of the Red Zone that the newscasters were warning us about, and snow was coming down hard. School made it very clear that this decision had been taken by the bus companies rather than in-house, as the bus firms were worried that they would not be able to operate and get the pupils home safely that afternoon. Seriously? If school had paid attention to the weather warnings, to the police, to plain old common sense, then they would have announced the decision to close the night before, and saved everyone the added stress, worry and potentially dangerous journeys.

School, in other words, doesn’t always know best. Doesn’t that ring true for so much of the daily stresses that we have to deal with? When what we seemingly have to do is in direct conflict with what we really need to do, but we’re forced to go along with it all anyway? And for someone who is essentially in a state of recovery after a traumatic situation, it’s crucial to take the actions that will make you feel safe, the actions that will reduce that overload of stress and anxiety. There are times when it’s right to expand your comfort zone, and there are time when feeling safe is paramount. Self care is essentially about pegging out the boundaries that you need in place to feel safe, to protect your wellbeing. The soft and fluffy end of the self-care stick – bubble baths and the like – are enjoyable reminders to be good to ourselves and to boost our sense of wellbeing. They’re not much use if we’re sabotaging such core feelings such as safety by pushing ourselves too hard in stressful situations, against our own intuition. A hot bath will not outweigh the stress of driving 11 miles through a blizzard.

Listen to your intuition. Stop fighting yourself when it comes to the basic human right of feeling safe. Self care isn’t a luxury, nor is it always fluffy. If you need a snow day, take a goddamn snow day.

Healing from PTSD

Healing PTSD after Domestic Abuse

One of the surprising revelations that came from the recovery course I took with my local domestic abuse service was that it’s been proven that victims can suffer from a form of PTSD. Why this should be a surprise I don’t know, abuse is a form of trauma after all, so let’s put it down to the fact that Simon had been telling me for so long that he wasn’t being abusive, that I was being unreasonable etc. For a brief summary of PTSD symptoms head to www.adaa.org – I will hopefully eventually put together a list of helpful resources as there’s a lot of info out there, but for now, they sum it up as:

• Re-experiencing the trauma through intrusive distressing recollections of the event, flashbacks, and nightmares.

• Emotional numbness and avoidance of places, people, and activities that are reminders of the trauma.

• Increased arousal such as difficulty sleeping and concentrating, feeling jumpy, and being easily irritated and angered.

(www.adaa.org website.)

To which I will say yes, yes and yes again.

On a day to day basis I’m constantly re-living the abuse, whether that’s the actual events or more often, endlessly looping over what I should have said, what I should have done, the argument I should have had in court. A memory will sneak in and I’m suddenly triggered, lambasting both Simon and his new partner, Astrid, for what they’ve done to me and the kids. This will happen silently if I’m with others, my mind doing its own stuff while I drive the kids to school, or I’ll find myself yelling with rage as I drive back home again alone. At night, unable to sleep, I’m holding an imaginary conversation with the judge, telling him what he needs to know, trying to persuade him of my case. When I wake, none of it has been magically swept away in my sleep and I’m straight back into remembering how they are both insisting that they are the innocent victims of my abuse and harassment. Seriously? Was I coming into your home and spying on you? Was I taking photographs of your private documents while you were out of the house? Was I throwing out your possessions? Was I making malicious calls to the police and social services? Was I? …and now smile and make breakfast.

My mind is not my own, they have hijacked it. I have panic attacks, often while in the supermarket. I don’t feel safe. Hyper-vigilance is another constant, making me irritable, nervous and jumpy as I scan both real and imagined horizons for more threats. There are a limited number of places where I feel safe, there are places I avoid going. I feel drained, angry, exhausted and yet often numb, detached from those around me, unable to raise a smile when one of the kids tells a joke. Depressed.

And then, in the middle of it all, hopefully I become aware. Simon and Astrid are not actually here with me, unless my mind decides to let them in.

Mindfulness. Touted by my counsellor, by the domestic abuse team and endless Pinterest pins. Very effective, but so hard to achieve, particularly when all attempts at meditation are invaded by thoughts of Simon and Astrid AND ALL THE BLOODY THINGS THEY DID TO ME.

My mind is my own.

This is the basic tenet for healing. My mind is my own. They don’t get to take up valuable retail space in my brain. Beyond that, there’s a choice. Do I let thoughts of them continue to hijack my brain, or do I push them out? PTSD becomes a habitual mindset. Constantly re-playing events can feel like a safety valve, you’re preparing yourself in case it happens again. Because of course, there is no point in telling someone with PTSD not to worry, it might never happen- It has happened. It did happen, it was deeply traumatic, and now their brain is trying in its own screwball way to not let it happen again. Be prepared.Try and figure out what the heckity-pie you did wrong so you can stop it from happening again. So it’s easier to continue to allow those thoughts to dominate, even once we’ve become aware of what we’re doing – in effect, it doesn’t feel safe to choose a healthier mindset.

Healing requires that we push those thoughts out. And boy, at times it’s not easy to do so. We are entirely justified in our anger, in our anxiety, in our overwhelming sense of injustice. We can’t just let go, or move on, or forget about it – it doesn’t feel safe to do so, even if we knew how. Deep down, we can even worry that by letting go, we’re actually absolving the abusers from what they did, as if we’re now having to admit that none of it mattered, it’s all okay; this is particularly hard to deal with when it’s taken so long to recognise and admit the abuse in the first place.

My decision to heal does not make what they did any less wrong.

My decision to heal does not make me less safe.

My decision to let go does not mean that they were right.

My decision to move on does not mean that none of it mattered.

My mind is my own.

My top 10 tips for coping with PTSD repetitive/intrusive thinking:

  1. Recognise your main trigger activities – these are the times of the day when your mind is more likely to start chewing over what happened. For me, this is while driving or washing up. Make sure to plug up your brain against unwanted thoughts by having something else to focus on during these times, eg by listening to an interesting audio book, watching a movie (although not while driving!). I wouldn’t recommend just listening to music unless you’re going to sing along with it at the top of your voice as otherwise it’s still too easy for your thoughts to drift.
  2. Create a visual for pushing those thoughts out of your head. I literally imagine Simon and Astrid being swept out of my head by a large broom. Hell, sometimes I stick two fingers up, pull back the elastic and catapult them over the nearest hill. This visual helps to break up habitual patterns of thought. Whenever you catch unwanted thoughts creeping in, stop, take a deep breath and visualise getting rid of them; make this your new habit.
  3. Set aside an allotted time of the day/week where you are allowed to think about it. This can help to reassure the wounded part of you that fears being forgotten and therefore re-traumatised. Okay, I’m having intrusive thoughts. I’m not willing to go there now, but I’ll reschedule them for Tuesday at 7pm. If it makes you feel more secure, literally write it into your schedule. Tuesday, 7pm; worry, obsess and freak out. On Tuesday at 7pm, you might want to have a journalling session and try to process what you were feeling – or you might have forgotten all about it by then. Which is a good thing, by the way.
  4. Take up a new hobby, or deepen your skills with an existing one. Beginner’s mind means having to concentrate, which leaves no room for intrusive thoughts. Learn a new language with a free app such as Duolingo. Take up knitting or tackle a really tricky pattern or new technique if you’re already a knitter. Photography is a wonderful way of literally having to focus on something else. Soufflé. Yodel. Whittle. Don’t take any of this too seriously – the aim isn’t to stress yourself with a big new creative goal that you must achieve, but to gently distract your mind into a better place. Make sure it requires enough concentration though -colouring in probably isn’t going to get the job done.
  5. Chanting. Particularly while doing chores. Download a few Deva Premal tracks and chant along – it demands enough of your attention to distract you from your thoughts, but doesn’t stop you from doing what needs to be done. Try this also if you feel like you’re about to fall apart and don’t know what else to do.
  6. Use a mantra/gesture. Press your thumb against each finger pad in turn while chanting This too shall pass – one finger per word. Use whatever mantra/gesture combination works for you, although it’s best to keep it simple. Do this on repeat until it’s safe to stop.
  7. Beauty. More beauty. Even more beauty. No, not a new mascara, unless that particularly helps you. Surround yourself with gentleness and beauty. Avoid life’s harsher, uglier “truths,” stop watching the news until you’re feeling stronger. Be very mindful about what you’re taking in, and whether it’s ultimately going to heal or harm you. Go to beautiful, peaceful places such as flower gardens, sit and drink it in. You’re aiming to create a protective, beautiful bubble around yourself so that you can heal. Scary documentaries and depressing Oscar-winning dramas aren’t your friends right now, no matter how worthy. It’s also not the right time for grass-roots activism and protests. You can get back to fighting the good fight once you’re healed, otherwise you’re surrounding yourself with triggers and pain and will be sod all use to anyone.
  8. If the voices in your head are telling you that you’re at fault, you’re useless, worthless etc, don’t listen to them. Sounds obvious, but it’s not easy. Secretly, at least part of you believes you’re at fault, you’re useless, worthless etc – your abuser has invested a lot of time and energy into persuading you that this is the case. So you’re going to have to fake it until you make it. When you catch yourself thinking this way, just speak out loud, forcefully; No. I refuse to think this way. I’m healing and my mind is my own. It can be too hard to get ourselves to believe the opposite of the negative voices – I’m a precious Child of God! – meh –so focus on interrupting them and destroy the hold they have on you. Repeat; I’m healing and my mind is my own. No matter what counter-attack the voices make, what evidence they hold up in front of you; I’m healing and my mind is my own. You don’t have to start debating whether or not the negative voices are true, you’re saying that you’re not willing to be sucked into this particular argument, am I to blame or not? It doesn’t help and you’re not doing it. No debate, end of. I’m healing and my mind is my own. You might want to stick a Post-it of this on your mirror.
  9. You have insomnia, right? It’s really hard to control those thoughts at 3am when you’re exhausted and depressed. Use YouTube on your phone or tablet to play sleep hypnosis or meditation tracks, preferably ones with a voiceover rather than just instrumental. This can really help to drown out the unwanted thoughts, and who knows, maybe they’re having a positive effect while you drift off. A Gratitude journal just before bed, listing at least 3 things you’re grateful for, is also a good idea for putting yourself in a more positive mindset before sleeping.
  10. It goes without saying – get the support, help and therapy that you need. Don’t feel guilty about spending money on yourself as part of your healing. You’ve been through a trauma, you’ve been through abuse – these are things we shouldn’t have to deal with alone. See a counsellor (you can get a limited amount of counselling on the NHS here in the UK), go see a therapist. Talking therapy is known to help with PTSD and it’s soooo important to have your story witnessed and validated, especially when your abuser has tried to convince you that you’re the one at fault. Look into low-cost and pay-what-you-can-afford solutions. Contact your local domestic abuse helpline. Call The Samaritans if you’re struggling. Someone else’s actions have buggered up your brain, and you’re going to need help to un-bugger it (technical term.)

Basically, PTSD is like zombie mind-rats have taken over your brain. Your mind hasn’t been your own. You can barely remember what it was like before the zombie mind rats broke in, and have no idea how to stop them. All you can think about is Zombie! Mind-rats! In! My! Brain! It doesn’t help that everyone else is telling you to forget about the Zombie Mind-rats. They’re in your brain! They’re running the show, how can you forget them? No matter what you do, they’re still going to gnaw their way in and run round inside your head, causing havoc and pissing all over your mental health. You’re so used to them now that you don’t even question their right to be there. They’re your friends, after all, they’re trying to protect you from the even bigger monsters out there, or so they say, and even if you wanted to get rid of them, you’ve no idea how to do it.

You have to sweep them out. Every. Single. Day. As soon as you realise they’re there, sweep them out and plug up the gap to stop them from diving back in. No matter how overrun your mind has gotten, keep sweeping them out and filling up the holes, finding new positives to fill up the gaps. You deserve a brain that’s free of Zombie Mind Rats. You deserve a life that’s not ravaged by PTSD. You are healing and your mind is your own.

I am healing and my mind is my own

Mossy Cottage and the House in the Sky.

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again…

Our homes have such a hold on us, our subconscious minds pulling them into our dreams no matter how long it’s been since we lived there – sometimes even homes we’ve never actually lived in, like my Nana’s council house, the place of sleepovers and family gatherings. In dreams, the home might not look anything like the house we know, and yet we still recognise it as home, despite the extra room that has appeared halfway up the stairs, or the fact that it’s now beneath the sea and a shark has taken up residence on the sofa. These can dreams infuse our waking state with nostalgia, longing or regret; hiraeth, a Welsh word with a sense of longing for a lost home or home we’ve never had.

Mossy Cottage is my hiraeth, the house of my dreams, a far cry from the Victorian two-up, two-down that I’m currently living in with the children. Our last home – the place that was bought on the basis of it being our forever home – is sorely missed. During the divorce I struggled to decide whether or not to fight Simon for the right for the children and I to remain living in the family home. Friends urged me not to give it up, that he can’t kick you out of your home. The domestic abuse support worker warned me to stay put, that we’d never get a place that was anywhere near as nice. My mother, horrified by the lack of gas central heating, the thought of me shovelling coal early in the mornings, and the overgrown, uncontrollable garden, tried to persuade me to get the hell out of Dodge. The children pleaded to stay. The mediator took a brief look at the figures and assured me that there was no question about it – I could keep the house, Simon would keep everything else. Even if all I fought for was a stay of execution, Simon retaining a charge on the house until Lily had finished school; Lily, our Aspie child, who had developed epilepsy shortly after we separated. I worried what a house move would do to her, particularly an unwanted one. I even offered for Simon to keep the house while the council rehomed me and the kids, knowing at least they’d still get to spend some time in their home. For me, a different house might be a lot easier to run, especially if it had central heating, which only added to my ambivalence. And yet – it was our home.

The House in the Sky. At a creative writing workshop I went to shortly after we moved into the family home, I met an older woman who had considered buying the house a couple of years earlier. Her daughter had very sensibly talked her out of it, listing the many difficult practicalities, but the house haunted her dreams – The House in the Sky, as she called it, high up on the hill, with the sweeping panoramic view of the valley beneath, the hills climbing up away in the distance. “There was just something about it,” she confessed and I nodded. There was. The first friend to visit stood in awe of the view in front of the massive window in the living room – a window so large that the double glazing firm we brought in told us it was the largest single panel they’d ever installed into a domestic setting. “Ah, you’ll take it for granted soon enough,” she told us.

I didn’t.

I was grateful to my friend for that phrase, for pointing out the dangers of familiarity, how soon we get used to the very thing we once longed for. For me, it was the lure of green that had me aching to leave the city, tired of looking out of my window and seeing only grey. Once she’d said it, I decided that I would never, ever take my new view for granted. Every single time I looked out of my windows, I would appreciate the beauty of those views. Simple pleasures can bring the greatest joys in life if we take the time to relish them and for me that was sitting on the huge, snuggly sofa, cup of tea in hand, looking out at the view. Watching the tiny subtle changes that grew day by day marking the seasons go by, the bare sticks of winter gradually studding with tiny green buds, unfurling into leaves and blossoms, the colours shifting from bright to darker green, to reds and oranges until Winter brought bare branches again and the wonder of a landscape altered by frost and snow.

In the end I had no choice. We had to move. It was clear that Simon’s abuse would not stop until he got what he want, which was to sell our home and buy a new place with his girlfriend. Their actions meant I no longer felt safe, meanwhile he was subjecting the children to emotional abuse. Agreeing to the sale seemed to be the only way I could protect us; Simon clearly believed that the house was his, not ours, had no thought as to what was best for the children, and would never allow us to live there in peace. Naively, I thought the situation would improve once he’d got his way. I was wrong.

My God, I miss my home. Miss it more than I thought I would, like a void inside me, something hollow in my belly that can’t be filled. A huge part of this hiraeth stems from the fact that the new place is now too small, too impractical for the three of us. When I chose it, the tenth house that I had been to view, the children were only supposed to be living with me for half of each week, meanwhile the available houses were flying out of the estate agents’ windows in a sellers’ market. It didn’t matter so much that the place was small – after all, the kids would have half of their possessions at their father’s new house. It didn’t matter that there was nowhere to park, or that it wasn’t as convenient for the school run – I would only be taking the kids to school for half of the week. And so on, and so on, with all the difficulties I could list about the place. But of course, both children now live with me full time, and so it matters. You should have fought him, the voice in my head now tells me. You should have fought to stay. Yet the abuse would have continued, would have worsened, and at least he doesn’t have a key to my new place. At least we are safe here.

I miss my House in the Sky. But this tiny terrace is my home now, and I must make the most of it. Despite the regret of having to move, I welcomed the security that the new house would offer – I looked forward to making it a home. Unfortunately, my first year here was instead marred by Simon’s second malicious court case, my time and energy wasted on legal battles. I struggled to just make it habitable and functional while dealing with the endless statements, correspondence and admin that court required. Now that court is hopefully over, with only a few remaining legal issues to clear up, it’s time to turn my attention to making my house our home. Except of course, a year down the line, I’m even more drained and exhausted, without having had a chance to heal. The house feels overwhelming, the struggle being to manage to just stay on top of the daily chores, never mind improve the place. Is it possible to find gentleness and healing in creating a home, rather than stress and overwhelm? The question seems to merit an obvious yes, and yet I find myself exhausted before I start. During counselling I could think of nothing that was a possibility for my new life, other than perhaps I might enjoy creating a garden for myself. And so: Mossy Cottage, my attempt at creating both home and healing, starting over while trying to leave the past behind.

And so I wait.

It’s no use pushing on too hard, trying to get back to normal without feeling all the feels. Neither does it help to stay in the dark room, wishing it was light.

“And so I wait. I wait for time to heal the pain and raise me to me feet once again - so that I can start a new path, my own path, the one that will make me whole again.”(2)

What doesn’t kill you doesn’t necessarily make you stronger. Often it leaves you curled up in a foetal position, or sat rigid, staring into space, immobile. Fight, flight, or freeze. I have frozen.

In Britain we have a strange attitude to snow. Old news reels will show freezing winters, people trudging to work through drifts of snow, or skating on frozen ponds (I don’t know anyone who owns a pair of ice skates, so this one always puzzles me.) That was the Old Days though, and I can only remember one severe snowfall in my childhood; for the most part we’ve gotten used to Winters being relatively mild. We’re not Canada, or Norway, snow isn’t guaranteed, so when it does hit us, we’re completely unprepared. The entire nation stops. There are no buses, no trains, schools are closed. Snow Day! If you’re lucky, you live on a road that the gritters have passed through. If not, you have to question what is more important to you; fresh milk or your intact hip bones. As a child it’s soooo exciting to get in the snow and play. As an adult – especially as a single mother – it’s terrifying. Do we have enough food in the house? Will it be safe to drive if school opens tomorrow, or will there be ice on the hills? Is there a clear route to the shops? What if I fall and break my leg, how on earth will I look after the kids? It’s not economical to create the infrastructure necessary to keep the nation moving in heavy snow, when snow isn’t guaranteed every year, or might only sit for a couple of days. It snows, we stop. Frozen. We don’t seem to expect snow.

We don’t expect trauma.

We don’t expect a once loving husband to become a sociopathic stranger intent on destroying us. I didn’t.

We don’t know how to cope with trauma. Instantly we’re in a survival situation, the usual rules and routines no longer useful or appropriate. The ship has hit the iceberg and we’re left floundering in the icy water, trying to grab on to whatever will hold us up. Sometimes it takes a while before we even understand that the ship has gone down and we can’t understand why the usual routine isn’t working, why we’re up to our necks in water instead of sitting on the sofa. Overwhelm can drown us before we’ve got our bearings.

I fought, initally. I fought to hold my position, to prevent myself and my children being crushed by his selfish, vengeful actions. I refused to quietly give in and do as I was being told.

It just got worse.

Each of his lies was an attack, undermining me, destroying my reputation, maliciously unpicking the life we’d created together. Massive court documents with lie after lie on page after page. Literally every single statement was a lie, or a gross distortion of the truth. Reading it was traumatic. Trying to constantly defend myself was exhausting. Running around trying to get proof of my innocence was both exhausting and humiliating, writing to people I’d previously worked with, asking for statements confirming that I was no longer under any kind of contract to them. More running around trying to get proof of his guilt, struggling to get evidence from the police, the schools, the hospitals, the GP; the inability to afford a solicitor means that you’re easily ignored and no one will risk sticking their neck out. Meanwhile, the attacks kept coming. I no longer felt safe in my own home. I didn’t feel safe outside the home either.

Eventually, I broke. I froze. I don’t even remember the precise moment. Just the awareness that the most recent court papers required me to complete my statement. Now. Trying over and over again to put into words everything that had happened, to counteract all his lies, to set down the truth, each time giving up and starting over because it was taking too long, the judge wasn’t going to bother to read it. Sitting curled up on the sofa, unable to face opening the laptop and trying again, while time ticked away and the panic grew larger. My lawyer announcing two days before court that he wasn’t going to use any of my evidence. Lily, threatening to run away to her Dad’s in the week before court after an argument with her sister – not because you’ve done anything Mum, I just need a break – and me begging her not to leave because Simon would use it against me. The horror of fresh allegations thrown at me in the waiting room and realising that Simon had already won before we even set foot in the court room. Realising how stupid, how naive and trusting I’d been. Realising he was laughing at me. Realising that he had got away with it. All of it.

Life carries on. No matter how bad your situation may be, the world doesn’t stop. You want it to, you desperately want to press pause on your life, catch your breath, rest, but you can’t. Eventually you realise that life has become a series of days to get through rather than something to be cherished. You go through the motions, dragging your weary body out of bed, trying to push yourself through the tasks of the day. Usually, only the barest of essentials get completed. Time seems to disappear. You’re not sure where it goes, what’s happening to you. You feel like a failure. Frozen. If only the world would freeze alongside us.

Am I, as Jack Canfield says, waiting? Or am I frozen? Unable to make decisions, unable to move forward. Wanting to heal, but not knowing how. Does time really heal? From where I sit, it seems as if I could easily spend the rest of my life in this frozen state, alive but not really living. Surely it’s life that heals, not time? The decision that I will heal, that I won’t allow him to destroy the rest of my life. I have faith that it will get better. That one day, I won’t feel the tension and anxiety in my guts at the merest thought of him and all that he’s done. That perhaps one day, I won’t think of him at all. And yet, I’m not so sure that it will happen just by waiting. Healing is an active choice that needs to be made moment after moment after moment. We take as many steps back as we do forwards, and yet we must continue to move on. We have to learn to sit with the pain, allow our bodies to process what we’ve been through. It’s no use pushing on too hard, trying to get back to normal without feeling all the feels. Neither does it help to stay in the dark room, wishing it was light. It’s a balance – dark, then light, then dark again. Trusting that the light will shine again, while also doing our best to strike the match and hold the flame to the candle. Taking each gentle, tentative step, no matter how small, how slow. Waiting, yes, but also moving. Rubbing our frozen fingers over that tiny flame, encouraging the warmth of life to seep back in.

I will heal. I will find that new path. I will be patient with myself, knowing that it takes time. But I won’t wait, unmoving, in the hope that time itself will do the trick. My waiting will be born of self compassion and faith, not of being frozen in fear. I will learn to listen to my body, my heart, my soul and start to give myself what I need.

I choose to heal.

A Year to Heal

So much healing is needed, while the demands of daily life force us to carry on as normal, pushing our own needs to the bottom of the To Do list.

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Mossy rock, Dartmoor

The last couple of years, I’ve basically been living through the Apocalypse. A divorce that wasn’t merely painful but actively abusive. Being dragged through court twice and having to fight a battle over maintenance and custody, being stalked and spied on by my ex and his new partner, watching my children suffer emotional abuse and his attempts at alienation. Trying to get to know my estranged biological father while he died of cancer. My eldest child developing epilepsy, plus an ADHD diagnosis to go with her existing Aspergers. My younger daughter developing severe anxiety, depression and worsening OCD as a result of our experiences. My career destroyed by my ex, my finances wiped out on legal fees. Having to leave what we thought would be our forever home, with a stressful enforced downsize to a two-up two-down, less than half the size of what we had – a house move made far worse by developing severe flu and barely being able to stand up, never mind pack up.

The result? Exhaustion. Depression. Anxiety. Panic attacks. Insomnia. Confidence destroyed. Trying to look for the silver lining, I convinced myself that the house move represented my new start, my new life. It didn’t matter that every room was piled high with cardboard boxes, that we were all sleeping on mattresses on the floor, that the washing machine was 5mm too tall to fit beneath the worktop and the kitchen was barely usable. I could take my time putting it right and creating a home for us, slowly beginning to ease myself into my new life, resting, healing, rebuilding. Instead, only two months down the line, the second court case was thrown at me, along with my youngest’s suicidal depression. I had thought the battle was over, that I could put my weapons down, but instead was forced back into the fray at a time when my priorities needed to be on hearth, home and kids.

End result? More exhaustion. More depression. More anxiety. PTSD. Anger and cynicism about the Family Court system, the abuses and failings that we’ve endured. Constant fear that it will never be over, that my ex will find yet another thing to bully me with, drag me into court again. Heartbreak over what this has done to the children. The desperate need for healing, for rest and renewal.

These are the bare bones of my story. Sadly I know I’m not alone, too many of my friends have endured abusive and controlling relationships, have been forced into starting over at a time when they thought they would be happily settled. So much healing is needed, while the demands of daily life force us to carry on as normal, pushing our own needs to the bottom of the To Do list. While I want to retreat to the House of Grief, scream, rage and weep before falling into a deep hibernation, re-emerging months later calm and healed, the reality is that I have to get up in time for the school run.

In the midst of all this, a home that was never properly moved into. Boxes yet to be unpacked, rooms thrown together in a haste born out of emergency. A house that functions rather than a home that nourishes. A barren wasteland of a garden. A new life that never got a chance.

This, then, is my journey towards healing. My journal of this new, undiscovered life, waiting to be lived.