On anger and housework.

Bone weary. The house unravelling around me. A month ago I had the downstairs looking reasonably clean and tidy to the point where I wouldn’t be embarrassed if someone called in. Now I’d have to barricade the door. The relentlessness of it is wearing me down, while frustration and resentment build up that the kids ignore the chores while I nag and nag until I’m screaming. When I finally crack and yell and get either of them to at long last do the thing I’ve spent days asking them to do – take a bath! Take your clean washing upstairs! Bring your laundry down to the basket! Please fetch the dirty glasses and plates from your room! – they look at me like I’m being entirely unreasonable.

This is not how I want my life to look. Or feel.

Last weekend I had to drop everything to take a friend to hospital, about fifteen miles away. I sat with her for two hours, until they decided she needed to stay in for 24 hours. She didn’t have anything with her, so I drove back again to pack an overnight bag, making sure I washed the dishes sitting in her sink so she wouldn’t have to come home to them. I stopped off to buy a couple of drinks and snacks to make sure she didn’t go hungry if the NHS food wasn’t up to much, and because there’s not a lot of choice of drinks other than tea and coffee. Back to the hospital, keeping her company for another hour until visiting time was over and she was being taken away for an X-ray. It was about six hours all in all, and I didn’t mind any of it, I’m glad to be of use to her. “This is the closest thing I’ve had to a night out in a long time,” I told her. I wasn’t even joking.

What I minded was texting the kids at 9.15pm to let them know I was on my way home, only to be told that they hadn’t cooked enough food for me after all and I’d need to stop off and buy some dinner for myself. Thank God there was a Tesco Express close to the hospital. Getting home after 10 to discover that no one had thought to wash the dishes but had just piled up more, and that the laundry – my bed linen – was still hanging on the line in the damp evening air. Lily was still playing on the computer in the living room – despite having assured me in an argument earlier that day that she was perfectly capable of self-regulating her computer time, breaks, conduct etc.

“Lily, you’ve been playing on it for over seven hours straight.”

“No, I’ve taken some breaks, I was doing Wii Sports with Ivy.”

Taking a break from the computer to play on the Wii is not what I consider a legitimate break. It took another twenty minutes to chase her off it and into her bedroom, then I sat down with a sad-looking microwave carbonara that went against all of my dietary rules, in a living room full of computers, wires, papers and general detritus.

This is not how I want my life to look. Or feel.

I wanted to flop down on my bed, exhausted, and go straight to sleep. I had to make it first, with slightly damp sheets. I tried to convince myself the dampness would be refreshing after another hot day.

Morning, and the messy kitchen still needs to be tackled, the dishes are still waiting to be washed. A mouldy glass of water appears overnight, brought down from someone’s bedroom. It takes some doing to create mouldy water. The garden needs watering, and the weeds need pulling before they take over. Another load to put in the washing machine, and when did Ivy last change her bedding? A meal plan needs putting together, a shopping list made and presumably shopped for. There are bricks to collect from a house around the corner, before the skip is taken away tomorrow, they’ve said I can have them for my garden to make paths with. I need to cancel my car insurance and hire a handyman and fill out the forms to reclaim the travel costs from Lily’s last appointment, and sort out a new password for my bank account. I’m still feeling angsty and agitated after a week in which several strangers saw fit to have a go at me over things that really didn’t warrant it – triggering as hell after 4 years of Simon blaming me for stuff that wasn’t my fault. Half of me wants to curl up under the sheets and not get up, the other half is screaming that I should just jump in my car and drive away, escape and leave it all behind. I’m going to have to have the talk with the kids again, the same one I keep having, the one that goes I need you to help me. You live here too. You know what jobs need doing. Please do some of them without me having to constantly nag and beg for help. I really can’t do everything on my own. I am so so sick of this one-sided conversation. I’ve left a sign saying No Computer on Lily’s computer, but I can hear her playing. When I go down, she’s on the Wii instead, no chores done, no studying done, wearing the same clothes she’s had on all week and when I try to remonstrate that she shouldn’t be playing games when there’s jobs to be done, she’s utterly unrepentant.

“Get off my ass,” I hear her muttering as I leave the room. I explode at her, pent up with all the jobs I’m trying to do at once.

Do I have to die? Do I have to actually die before someone helps me?

It’s the relentlessness of being a single parent that’s grinding me down. There’s no pause button, no support, no respite. Not a single day off. Not a single night off. I need a holiday from my life, basically. A week where the stress and struggle can stop. I may as well be asking to go to the Moon. And beneath all this – the hurt. The injustice. The anger burning a hole through my chest. Because this is what Simon has done to me. I’m struggling day after day after day with no hope of respite, no hope of any improvement, while he lords it up in their big house, with parking and garage, with holidays whenever they want, with absolutely no responsibilities, no kids to make a mess or interrupt their plans, while still claiming that he is the victim in all of this. I want to scream. I want to throw rocks at his windows and plenty of other stuff that for legal reasons I should definitely not admit to in a public forum. And I despair. Will I ever be healed of this? Of him?

This is not how I want my life to look. Or feel.

I don’t want my life to be a constant reminder of the abuse that I was put through. But it’s hard, when every single day the house is still too small, and I don’t have anywhere to park, and I’m bent double under the weight of holding it all together and raising the kids single-handedly …and Simon’s got away scot-free. Without Legal Aid, there’s no way I could afford to take him back to court to get a fairer settlement, even if that was an actual legal possibility, which it probably isn’t. There should be a free tribunal, a couple of years after divorce, that you could go back to if it’s obvious that your ex lied about finances and circumstances and have any imbalances redressed. Too often divorce settlements are based on equal childcare that somehow disappears once he’s won himself a bigger house and more money than he’d have got if the judge knew the kids would end up with you full time. Sadly I’ve heard too many similar stories to mine and the injustice burns; what I went through, what so many other women have been put through, or are going through right now.

Every time I struggle to find a parking space for the night while I’m exhausted and having to carry shopping bags a quarter mile back to the house, I think of Simon with his garage and driveway. Every time the house feels cluttered and overwhelming and I despair of ever turning our too small house into a comfortable home, I think of Simon with his four bedrooms and two receptions. Every time I give up and close the holiday websites, knowing I just can’t afford to take us away during school vacations, I think of Simon, able to jet away with Astrid off-peak, whenever he wants. Every time I’m faced with Lily raging at me over school work, or being asked to take a bath, or refusing to get off her computer for a break, I think of Simon, who never has to bother with her behaviour. And so on, and so on. How do you heal when the very cornerstones of daily life are a trigger?

This might not be how I want life to look or feel, yet I have no idea of how to get from here to there. So many of us are in that same boat, trapped by financial circumstances that we have little chance of improving, certainly not when other factors are in play; children, disabilities, divorce, trauma, illness, family, lay-offs. If you have money, a solution is affordable for so many of the obstacles in life. If not, the obstacles seem insurmountable, blocking the path to earning the money that would ease the situation.

My friend texts me, she’s going to have to stay in for another 24 hours and needs me to bring more clothes. Here I am complaining about my life while a friend is fighting cancer. Another wake up call, but I’m getting angry at how it’s the good people who seem to suffer most. Prayer, Lottery ticket, a giant red button to just make things stop for a while; I don’t have the answers to how to make life better right now. I really wish I did. In the meantime; just keep breathing.

Building up and slimming down; weight and image post-abuse.

One of the exercises we did together on the domestic abuse recovery course was to create an image of a victim of domestic abuse, sketched out on the flip chart by the facilitator. Our cartoon woman wasn’t necessarily covered in bruises, after all not everyone is a victim of physical violence, it was more about capturing the effects of living with long term emotional and psychological abuse. She was, we decided, either underweight from chronic stress and not being able to eat, or overweight from comfort eating. Bags and dark circles under her eyes from stress-related insomnia. Her hair was a mess, her clothes frumpy as she couldn’t justify spending any money on herself – even if she had any money to spend. She might be missing a tooth after not taking care or herself, or maybe she was grinding her teeth at night. Her shoulders were constantly up around her ears, stiff with stress and anxiety, causing tension that gave her migraines. Her expression was a rigid mask of fear, always worrying about what was going to happen next, scanning the horizon for the next attack, or frowning as her mind replayed what had already happened. She might well have developed an ongoing health complaint; as well as migraines and insomnia there could be IBS, panic attacks, hypertension, eczema as well as even more serious issues. She wasn’t looking good, in other words.

At home the decluttering continues, and it seems to be time to tackle the photos. As well as boxes of unsorted prints, CDs, memory sticks and folder after folder of digital shots, there are now several albums of unwanted memories. What do you do with your wedding album now that you’re divorced? Burn it? Keep it for the kids? Going through the pictures I’m struck by how unbelievably pale I look – some kind of iron supplement intervention was surely required – and how thin I am, my dress being taken in to a UK size 10 for the big day. Happy too, so very happy. In those days I had no problem posing for photographs, could look in the mirror and smile at myself. Now I shy away from cameras and tend to avoid mirrors, my reflection usually making my heart sink. Who is that woman? I don’t recognise myself – the extra weight, the thinning, frizzy hair, dull eyes and resigned expression. She feels so heavy, this stranger in the mirror, not just her bloated belly and aching legs but her spirit too. Can she possibly be the same person as the beaming young woman in her wedding dress? It doesn’t seem likely. She’s the woman from the flip chart, self esteem eroded and replaced by self-neglect, health suffering, defeated.

Body positivity seems to be a new trend, with fashion models ranging from what can only be described as normal (rather than seriously underweight) to curvaceous to overweight now being called body activists. I’m all for a healthier depiction of female bodies rather than only young, skinny, flawless forms being shown in the media, but frankly? Fat is fat. Right now, I’m overweight. Fat. Not a body activist. I’ve gone up from a size 12-14 to a 16-18, perhaps even larger at times. Most of my clothes no longer fit. And while I could embrace body positivity and learn to love myself the way I am, that’s not going to help my arteries, or my pre-diabetic state. Being overweight isn’t healthy. Being underweight isn’t healthy either. And while we shouldn’t be shaming each other over our weight, let’s not pretend that being obese is good for you, no matter how lovely your Instagram posts look. I hate feeling this way, heavy and bloated and tired, no energy or enthusiasm, no shine in my eyes. While I will never be that skinny girl in the photos again, it’s time to change, both inside and out. I need to lose around 4 stone – 4! – to get down to a healthy weight. I want to wake up in the morning feeling energised rather than exhausted. Above all, I’d like to be able to look into the mirror and smile at myself again. The mission; building myself up inside, while slimming down the outside.

Progress is slow and it’s hard not to rely on sugar as an emotional crutch, particularly when Lily is is giving me a hard time – and generally Lily is always giving me a hard time. A couple of times previously I’ve tried to start losing the weight, only for life to crash and burn around me; out came the chocolate again. This time I’ve lost maybe two pounds, but the scales seem to already be stuck, not moving any further down. But I have to go gently, have to trust that this will work, that I’m capable of succeeding. After years of hauling myself through a marriage devoid of affection, after living with a husband who never reached for me, after enduring the emotional and psychological torment of the past few years, I’m not willing to put myself through more. No more abuse, no beating myself up, no blame, no shame. I reached for food rather than the bottle during a time of unbearable stress, even while knowing there would ultimately be a price to pay. But now it’s time. It has to be. My journey back to wellbeing has to come from self-kindness rather than a form of self-hatred. To make healthier choices out of love for myself, wanting to heal my body, rather than punishing myself or feeling deprived. And to do it while loving myself – or learning to love myself – rather than hiding from my own reflection.

How will I know when I’m healed?

Reading Think Small has reminded me of the need to set achievable, measurable goals (SMART goals) that I can tick off as they’re completed. Although I try to do this with the daily To Do list and often add tasks that I’ve already completed just so I can tick them off, Think Small has helped me to see how big dreams need to be broken down into daily habits if they’re ever to be achieved. As I’ve designated this to be A Year to Heal, it got me thinking about what steps I can take in order to help myself heal – I can’t guarantee that at the end of the year I’ll be 100% better, but I’m keen to move forward rather than stagnate. First things first – how will I recognise that I’m healed, what are the main issues that are currently causing problems?

I think the main clue that I’ve healed will be when I no longer feel the desire to drive a pickaxe through Simon or Astrid’s skulls. I wish I was joking. Anger and injustice still burn through me on a daily basis whenever the details of what happened creep into the back of my mind. At first I questioned why I felt so bad, so unsafe, after all there are many women going through far far worse and I wasn’t facing physical violence. However, the Domestic Abuse recovery course explained to me that the way Simon and Astrid were spying on me and stalking meant a violation of my sense of physical safety. That’s fundamental in terms of Maslov’s Hierarchy of Needs, the need for shelter and safety. Which means we’re dealing with something primal; the need to protect yourself and your children. If an intruder entered your home, went through your possessions, took things, threw things out, and threatened your and your children’s right to feel safe in your home, you’d wind up pretty angry – if you caught them in the act, you would be permitted by law to defend yourself, which basically equates to physically attacking them. The fact that the intruder was my ex-husband and his girlfriend doesn’t make the situation any more bearable – in fact, the violation is deeper, more personal. I trusted him. He betrayed my trust again and again, and for that I basically want to hurt him; of course I would never act on my homicidal urges, but at times the intensity of my feelings makes it feel as if I will never heal. The anger has nowhere to go, other than creating havoc in my mind and body. I will know I’m healing when the incessant rage dissipates.

Fundamentally I don’t feel safe. I don’t feel safe in my own home despite having moved house, a hangover from the past few years of being afraid to go out, of worrying that Simon or Astrid were waiting to swoop in and invade my home yet again. When we’ve gone away for the weekend to visit family I still worry that they will try to break in to my new home, I won’t let Lily have a key for this very reason. When I’m out and about, I don’t feel safe either, other than in a very few limited places that I’m fairly sure Simon and Astrid don’t visit. Hyper-vigilance is ever present, scanning the horizon like a meerkat sentinel, ready to dart back underground at the first sight of anyone who might be them. My chest is always tight with anxiety, my heart fragile and fast to the point where I’m scared about my health. I will know I’m healing when I start to feel safe in the world again – although given current global politics, this may be heard to achieve. At least, I will know I’m healing when I no longer carry this constant burden of anxiety and fear, when I don’t have a panic attack every time I see someone who looks like either of them.

My mind constantly replays the abuse, trying to explain what’s happened, trying to reason with Simon, rage at Astrid, rehearsing what I should tell the judge if I’m dragged through court again, and what I should have said last time. I struggle to get to sleep at night, resorting to listening to meditations and sleep hypnosis videos on YouTube. I wake in the early hours and my mind immediately picks up where it left off. This is part recrimination against my failures to achieve justice in court, and part preparation in case it happens again, protecting myself. In counselling, we discussed how Simon essentially tried to destroy me with lies and accusations, and that this constant inner voice arguing against him is a survival mechanism determined not to give up. Silencing it means killing off that small part of myself that has endured, has fought back. I need to find it a healthier channel, switch from PTSD 24/7 to Peace of Mind. I will know I’m healing when my mind is no longer caught in this incessant loop of recrimination and replaying.

Physically, I’m a wreck. I’m overweight from comfort eating and horribly unfit – particularly after developing plantar fasciitis last year which made it hard to walk. I have insomnia and am still prone to anxiety and panic attacks. It’s not possible to be this stressed for this long without a serious impact to health. I’m permanently exhausted, a combination of said anxiety and insomnia, plus two demanding teenagers and perimenopause. Self care has fallen off the bottom of the To Do list – I feel fat, frumpy and tired. I will know I’m healing when I start feeling fitter and more energetic, and able to better take care of myself. This includes a healthier relationship to food and making sure I get some form of exercise.

The house move was impossibly hard, made far worse by being bedridden with severe flu for the best part of two months while having to downsize to a house that was about a third of the size of our existing home. The stress around the move was unbearable, but I told myself that this was the worst part, once I’d moved I could look forward to a fresh start and take my time putting things in order, there was no hurry. What should have then been a year of gently setting up home turned instead into a second year of having to fight my corner in court and being consumed by stress and anxiety. Overwhelm is not a helpful emotion when trying to set up home. It’s now time to create a home that nourishes us, to reclaim my environment. One of Simon’s accusations was that I was a hoarder, which has resulted in a year of obsessively watching the Hoarders TV show – I think I can safely say that I’m not a hoarder, but ADHD means that I struggle with organisation and tend to be somewhat messy and cluttered, it’s hard to make decisions about what should go where, what to keep and what to let go of (and don’t get me started on the donate/sell issue.) When the outward circumstances of your life are acute stress, anxiety and chaos, it’s no wonder that your home environment begins to reflect this. I will know I am healed when I’ve been able to deal with the remaining clutter and feel like I’m managing on the domestic front; when our home feels nurturing rather than a source of stress, when I can let go of the feelings of guilt and shame that Simon’s accusations engendered. Also Simon – given the amount of old crap in boxes that you’d stashed in the attic which I discovered two days before the move, you should maybe not be throwing around accusations.

Previously I used to have friends round for impromptu bring and share gatherings, food, wine, laughter and good times, but that’s not happened for a long time, it stopped even before I moved house. It’s not just that my house is now too small, it’s also that having people in my home makes me feel anxious and on edge. Inviting a friend over for an Easter dinner was a major achievement, and even then I found it hard not to watch the clock. Having a workman here to fix the boiler was unbearable, particularly when he had to go into all the rooms, including my bedroom. I will know I’m healed when I’m able to have friends round without feeling that I’d rather be undergoing major root canal surgery.

My career, tiny though it was, has been destroyed. A post-divorce name change didn’t help, it feels like starting over, plus several of my existing contacts have moved on to pastures new. Stress meant having to stop working, I couldn’t focus on writing. My previous blog was used against me, a story of mine was used as evidence in court and I had the joy of a potential client turning out to be Simon and Astrid using a fake alias to try and entrap me. Now, at the point where I could be returning to work, it feels like my brain is entirely addled. It’s hard to focus on anything, hard to stick at things, difficult to know where I should be putting my energies. My confidence is at a low ebb, particularly with Simon’s insistence that I was deluded about my abilities as a writer. It’s hard to reach out to former colleagues, never mind forge new contacts – no, not hard, impossible in my current state of mind. More than that, I’m scared of putting anything of myself out into the world again in case Simon finds new ways to use it against me. I will know I’m healed when I’m able to write again, consistently and professionally.

I will know that I’m healed when I start looking forward to the day ahead instead of dreading it. When I no longer have to fight hard to find reasons to go on living, beyond looking after the kids. Ultimately I will know I’m healed when I’m able to leave the past in the past rather than having the abuse creep into every aspect of my daily life with its poisonous, painful reminders. And right now, it’s the hope that one day I will be healed that’s keeping me going.

Quest for Fun

Fun. I puzzle the word over, chewing on it. There is precious little fun in my life and I’m trying to figure out why. Oftentimes during the marriage we’d set out to have fun, but somehow miss it – I’d always put this down to having to deal with Lily’s demands and outbursts, leaving us tetchy and exhausted. Now I wonder whether there was more going on, whether the dynamics of our relationship were skewed against any positive outcome. Certainly after the split my happiness quota went through the roof; suddenly I had friends, a social life, I held gatherings at The House in the Sky full of laughter, shared food, homemade wine and kids running amok in the lanes. My overriding feeling was of being me again, after years of losing touch with myself. But gradually Simon’s abuse began to curtail this newfound happiness; I was soon lost, confused, exhausted, fighting for my survival. I stopped having people over – I didn’t have the emotional energy to deal with others, there wasn’t enough of me left over to give out to anyone else. More than that, I’d raised the drawbridge. With Simon bringing Astrid into the home behind my back to spy on me, I no longer felt safe. I didn’t want to go out, nor did I want anyone else in my home. As soon as anyone arrived, I’d feel edgy and anxious until they’d gone again; sadly that’s still the case. If I went out, I’d worry that Simon or Astrid had snuck into my home again, were going through my papers – I took to storing all the divorce documents in the boot of my car. I felt like I was being watched wherever I went; Mum sent me Starbucks vouchers to go out for coffee, but I worried that someone was recording each bite of cake, that being able to afford a latte would be used in court as evidence that I had too much money to spend. In reality, it was a generous gift from my Mum, doing what she could from a distance to help with my increasing social anxiety. Paranoia began to take over – but is it really paranoia when you’re actually being stalked?

Abuse is isolating. It’s insidious, creeping up on you without you realising what’s happened – by the time you wake up and realise what’s going on, your confidence and wellbeing have already been deeply eroded. By the time you’re able to find the right labels for the confusing mess you’ve found yourself in, your life has already fallen apart. Stress – by which I mean full blown panic attacks, uncontrollable crying, insomnia, severe anxiety and palpitations – meant I had to sign off work. Although that was over two years ago, it’s only just this week that I’ve begun to realise the full implications. It’s not just the loss of my career, I’ve lost the social side that came with my particular line of work. Previously, most weeks I’d have some kind of event to attend – a reading of someone’s work, a workshop, a networking event. Now – nothing. I’ve lost touch with my former peers and colleagues, most people have no idea about what’s been going on. Before, I had something that was purely for myself, something that I was passionate about, something that bolstered my self esteem, that gave me purpose. Something that was ultimately fun, if at times demanding. To have all that systematically destroyed by Simon has been devastating. So; social life destroyed, career destroyed, confidence and self-esteem destroyed, home gone. It’s only now that I’m beginning to add up the full cost of Simon’s abuse and realising just how much I’ve lost; fun seems to be one of the many casualties. I’m no longer able to do a lot of the things that used to bring me joy, plus my now precarious mental health means it’s harder to find enjoyment in whatever I try.

Not much fun then. There are moments when the kids and I will be in hysterics over our own daft jokes, yet these are counterbalanced plenty by the number of arguments and conflict. I’m doing my best to appreciate the good moments, to count my blessings. Next minute I’m triggered and having to walk out of the Stress and Anxiety course session, breaking down in tears. Near constant conflict with Lily means that the good mood I’ve tried so hard to achieve is wiped out in seconds. The rest of it is the daily grind, the struggle to keep up with the endless round of chores and duties.

This is no good. The realisation of how much I’ve lost was a bitter blow, bringing further feelings of what’s the point? The feeling that I don’t have anything in my life that’s just for me. Wondering whether I will ever find happiness again, whether I can rescue my sense of fun. A Quest for Fun is in order, and so I’ve nominated Fridays as Fun Fridays – the one day of the week that I’m reclaiming for myself, with the sole purpose of doing something that I enjoy. As they say, if you always do what you’ve always done then you’ll always get what you’ve always got. If you want something to change – ie to enjoy life more – then you have to change something. It won’t happen on its own. So Fridays are now dedicated to rebuilding my long lost sense of fun, which actually requires some planning in order to make sure that this happens – at the moment I’m thinking I’ll attempt to visit some of the many gardens, stately homes etc that are in the area, as well as art exhibitions. Taking a camera is key – I don’t know much about photography, but I know that having to literally focus on taking a picture means that my mind isn’t focused on my problems but on something beautiful instead. One small shift at a time in the journey towards creating a life worth living, one small step towards self care: I matter, I have the right to take the steps necessary to heal, I have the right to a full life, I have the right to be happy.

Breaking point

I’m painting the fence bit by bit, stopping before my body aches and demands a break. In general though a break would be good. Any kind of break, except for the ones involving bones or water pipes. A lucky break; the Lottery, please. A holiday break. But most of all a break from constant problems. Even just a week or so in between problems would be nice, but no, they keep on flying relentlessly towards me like oversized gnats with fangs and awful body odour. So, on the happy happy day that I got my new boiler, I also got a call from school to ask whether I was aware that Lily was self-harming and appeared to be having schizophrenic episodes?

Oh boy.

Please, just a week? One week without fresh trouble? One week in which to live as close to normal as is humanly possible?

No.

Lily insists she can see shadowy figures appearing in her bedroom, that someone is there, in the corner of her eye, taunting her. She’s using a shark’s tooth I gave her years ago to carve deep scratches in her arm and hands, says she enjoys it. Says she feels like she’s losing her mind and that most of her friends are too, and that the scratching makes it feel better.

None of this is good news. And if it was Ivy saying this, I’d be freaking out and rushing to the nearest child psychologist I could find (although frankly, referrals are rarer than unicorn eggs in our overstretched child mental health services.) But it’s Lily and therefore much more complicated. We’ve just come through a couple of months in which Lily has been lurking in the shadows, complaining that the sunlight hurts her skin – thankfully this was Winter, so there was precious little sunlight to deal with. Momentary concerns that this was due to a reaction to her epilepsy medication were pushed aside when Ivy explained that Lily has been writing her own manga comic about a Japanese vampire. She’s also been putting a considerable amount of effort into learning Japanese, and has mentioned a few times that she likes the taste of blood. So – no side effects, just Lily playing out being a Japanese vampire. She’s been asking for a parasol to keep the sun off her face – this has also been inspired by Abby, her favourite character in NCIS, who doesn’t seem to venture outside without a parasol and ear protectors. The inside of Lily’s mind must basically look like an acid trip, all neon colours, dancing squids and fantasy and reality blurring into one.

Lily has recently decided that she is now an Emo; all black clothes, Panic at the Disco, My Chemical Romance and such. Combine this with a bit of a wave of self-harm passing through school, a few friends with issues, and there we have it; Lily’s latest obsession, played out in all its glory. Hello Aspergers/ADHD. In the past it was cars and dinosaurs, now it’s Emo, madness and self harm. And although the scratches are disturbingly real enough, I suspect the madness is make believe. Except of course, it’s complicated – Lily then believes her own fabrications. What she invents then becomes real to her; she will swear blind that she really really did go to a parallel Universe and discover that she was actually dead in that reality. It really happened, and woe betide anyone who dares suggest that it didn’t. So how on earth anyone can start to unpick whether or not she’s really seeing people in the corner of her room, whether she really is losing her mind or whether she’s playing out an elaborate fantasy, I have no idea.

Another day, another call from school. Lily has been banging her head against the desk in an alarming and bewildering way. She’s threatened to cut someone’s throat. She’s been belligerent in class and answering back to staff. Her cuts are seeping through her school shirt – are they fresh scratches or has she been picking at the scabs?

I don’t know. I’ve run out of answers when it comes to Lily. Even though I suspect it’s make believe, I feel I’m in way over my head. The school nurse calls me in for yet another chat – there are probably some lucky parents who don’t even know that the school has a nurse. “I know it’s not my place to say this,” she tells me, “but I found I was questioning whether this real or not?”

I nod. “I don’t think it’s real,” I tell her. The trouble is, I don’t have a clue what to do about it. The scratches on her arm are too obvious, she’s been showing them off rather than hiding them. But still, they’re there, and it must have hurt.

“I always tell parents not to worry about it so much if you can see the marks,” the nurse reassures me. “It’s when they’re doing it more in secret that it’s a problem.” Although thinking about it, how would you know if they were doing it secretly?

Not real and yet all too real.

What do you do when your child is pretending to have schizophrenia? This is now just the latest problem, the new normal. Something has gone wrong with the kitchen light switch and none of the lights are working, I’ve rigged up a lamp so I can see to cook and wash up. The shower still isn’t fixed and I need to chase up the builders for a quote. The car is making a strange noise. Lily’s still not doing enough homework. There’s a damp patch in the hall. Ivy’s nervous tic has returned. A garbled message is left by the Child Maintenance Service, sending me into a panic that Simon’s found another way to pay less. One at a time, please.

I need a break from adulting. I’d like to resign, at least for a week or so, put my hand up and admit that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. This is the reality of single parenting. I can’t go to Simon to discuss Lily’s problems; this is a man who has previously written to doctors to try to undermine Lily’s diagnoses when he thought her disabilities might get in the way of his plans to sell the family home. Instead, I worry that he will see her arm and call Social Services again; ammunition is more important to him than Lily’s wellbeing. It breaks my heart that it’s come to this, that the father of my children can’t be trusted to do right by them. That the responsibility for their wellbeing now rests entirely on my shoulders, the double whammy of hoping that I can do a good job of raising them while worrying that not only am I failing, or unable, but also that any mistakes will lead to further attacks from Simon. Parenting is hard enough without the other parent actively working against you.

Thankfully, a letter arrives from the local Young People’s Services offering us an initial appointment after a referral from school. Successful referrals are so rare that this is truly miraculous. The fantasy is that this will lead to Lily getting the help she needs. The reality is that it might go no further than this initial appointment. Fantasy, reality, normality. It’s not just Lily who feels she’s going mad, at times my head feels under so much pressure that I’m sure my skull is going to crack; the wrong kind of break. I’ve been at breaking point so many times in the past couple of years that broken feels normal.

Last Autumn the fence blew down. Ivy helped me to repair it, hammering new posts into the ground and patching up the broken, rotting fence as best we could. This past week I’ve been painting it, trying to make it look nicer while wondering whether I’m wasting my time, whether it will make it through another winter. Knowing I don’t really have a choice, I can’t afford to replace it – I’ve just got to make the most of what I’ve got. The pretty sea-green paint now reaches halfway down the garden, post by post, brushstroke by brushstroke, plodding on with it when I can. The broken fence was a problem; we dealt with it, and for now it’s holding. For now, I’m making the most of it while it lasts. For now, I’m being the best Mum I can manage to be. Maybe Lily really does have schizophrenia, or maybe this is the follow-up to the Japanese vampire phase. There’s no break from any of it; the challenge is learning to accept that and carry on regardless. That broken fence isn’t going to fix itself. No one else is going to paint it for me either. Just keep going. Paint while the sun shines, hang a lamp so you can see in the dark.

The Easter Rebellion

The kids make their feelings known. They are NOT too old for an Easter egg hunt, apparently.

Remember that year when you wrapped huge long pieces of string all over the house and we had to follow it and it led to our eggs? Can you do that again?

Remember that year when you wrote all those clues and we had like a treasure hunt to find our eggs? Can we do that again?

“Can’t I just buy Easter eggs from the shops and give them to you like any other normal person?”

NO!

They tell me I did an indoor egg hunt last year. I have no memory of it, having been caught up in the ongoing court case with Simon at the time, but I’m glad to hear I was still capable of making an effort. A small bell starts to ring somewhere in the dim recesses of my mind as they go on to remind me that one of the eggs was hidden in a mug in the kitchen and it took ages to find… ah, yes. It did happen, after all. I remind Lily that when she came home that long ago Easter to find string wound everywhere, she burst into tears, threw a massive tantrum, and refused to play. The joy of Aspergers; it’s only taken about six years for her to come to terms with that idea. I also remind them that it took them about three hours to solve my evidently more cryptic than intended clues in the year of the treasure hunt, and that this year I don’t have enough brain left over to attempt it.

This year Ivy can’t have dairy, so I had to resort to getting dark chocolate eggs, and a few small packets of Haribos. The rain stayed away long enough for me to quickly hide everything in the garden. Ivy bounced about like a toddler and demanded a proper basket to carry her stash in, then they both shot off outside like fireworks. Lily, as usual, rocketing past all of the eggs and sweets in a bid to be fastest, while Ivy gathered up packet after packet into her basket and examined places that I’d never thought of hiding anything in. I had to point out that it was not very likely that I’d risk life and limb climbing through the large patch of rosebush trimmings and brambles, but Ivy was determined to search there. We marvelled at how Lily had managed to run straight past the packet of Haribos dangling from the washing line without hitting herself in the fac, while Ivy unpegged it and dropped it into her basket. The last couple of eggs required a few hints, then they were back inside, giggling and ripping into their chocolate while I retreated to the kitchen sink.

I’d intended to leave the kids to their egg hunt while I cracked on with the chores, but instead found myself standing watching them, laughing. There hasn’t been enough laughter recently, and so a few moments in the sunshine watching while the kids ran about and everyone was happy and joking… it was well worth the extra bit of effort, and the slight delay to the washing up. Easter egg hunts weren’t that common when I was growing up. My Mum occasionally apologises for what must have been an incredibly boring childhood when she sees me frantically trying to make events like this happen – yet things like egg hunts just weren’t part of the culture at the time. At times I question whether I’ve made a rod for my own back when I’m making Halloween costumes or planning treasure hunts, but when everyone is laughing and enjoying themselves, it’s all worthwhile.

This is recovery too. Taking time out to celebrate, to create new, positive memories together. Picking and choosing so as not to overburden myself (no string, no treasure hunt) while still making enough effort to delight the kids. In many ways, it’s an act of defiance, a chocolate-based rebellion; we will be happy, no matter what.

Spring Healing

I did it! Finally, I gave myself permission to get outside and garden, despite the chores piling up in the house; thanks too to the comments I’ve been left encouraging me to go for it. The goal was to plant a couple of snowdrops; one I’d bought this year, and two stragglers that have survived a full year in their little pots, as well as a pretty snakeshead fritillary, Lily’s favourite flower. I managed to get out a couple of times last month to attempt to prune the apple trees at the bottom of the garden, at which point the one existing clump of snowdrops was in full bloom. This time around, the snowdrops were well and truly over, but signs of Spring were peeking out – the celandine beneath the trees, daffodils, primroses beginning to awaken. Somehow it was a surprise to see them, perhaps the snow threw off my sense of timing. Seeing the first of the primroses out brought an instant craving for primrose tea, my Springtime ritual; put 4 or 5 flowers in a mug and fill with boiling water. It’s a very subtle, slightly sweet taste that feels like drinking the Spring sunshine. I’m looking forward to my first cup, another thing to lift my spirits. If you’re going to try it, be mindful of where you get your primroses from, avoid anything that’s been sprayed, including any new plants as you’ve no idea what’s happened to them in the nursery, and don’t take too many flowers at once, leave some for the bees.

In the end, I managed about an hour and a half before grabbing a cuppa and setting off on the school run – I planted out a few things that had been sitting too long in their pots, replanted one of the tubs that sits outside the front door and gave myself permission to buy a few more little violas or similar in the next week to replant the second tub. The plum tree close to the house got a prune as the branches were getting very long and whippy. I’m not sure if I’ve done it any good or not, but it was getting too tall. I’m not even sure whether it’s actually a plum or not, maybe a damson – all I know is that the fruit wouldn’t ripen on the tree and fell to the ground still green. Maybe it’s a greengage? Maybe they’re supposed to be green? I’ll have to do more research this year.

What’s more important is that my instincts were correct; I felt so much better for having spent that time out in the sun, getting my hands dirty. Yes, I still forgot to do the other stuff I’m supposed to be doing; the important email I should have sent a month ago, the payments I should have made by now, the laundry… but hell, I would probably have forgotten to do them anyway, and at least this way I’ve got something to show for it.

Back in the House in the Sky when I didn’t have a clue where my life was heading after my marriage broke down, I vowed to follow my instincts, listen to my Soul. The first time I sat still and tried to listen to what my Soul was telling me, expecting it to involve meditation and inner peace, I was surprised to hear her clearly telling me to tidy up the back porch. We tended to use the back door as the main entryway, and the small porch/pantry/utility had become a dumping ground – things had landed there when we first moved in and just stayed put. It didn’t seem like the most inspiring thing that my Soul could say, but I went with it, clearing everything out, stripping down the ugly brown gloss woodwork, painting it all white, sorting through the stuff and reorganising the shelves. When it was done I realised the value of having followed my instincts in this way – now when we came home, we were met by a tidy, welcoming space rather than having to squeeze past the hoover, the step stool and the kids’ scooters. Previously the clutter had dragged me down whenever I came through the door, now I felt uplifted, with a kick of pride in my achievement.

Until now I’ve tried to do right. Be sensible, follow the rules, trust the System. It’s got me nowhere. Following those small whispers of Soul has proved to be the right direction every time. While I desperately want my house to be fixed up, decluttered and calm, my Soul is telling me I need to be outside. That healing is in the soil, the flowers, the wind and sky, not in sitting inside, anxious and overwhelmed, trying to summon the motivation to carry on. Healing needs to be my priority this year; healing first, organising later.