“All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy.” Oscar Wilde

I am scared of the Oscar Wilde quote that ‘all women become like their mothers.’ Yet I agree if it is true then it is a tragedy. I dislike my mother, she has done awful things to me and others. She emotionally abused and neglected me as a child. Told me I was un-loveable and a horrible person. Things I can understand in the situation, have compassion for but cannot forget.

As a teenager I hated her. I felt I could not be her or become her. I had to prevent that at all costs. I became anorexic, partially because my mother is morbidly obese and I felt I could not be the least bit fat or I would become her. I wanted to stay as blonde as possible as she is dark-haired. I wanted to do anything I could to not be her. My teenage brain unable to process what was happening it learnt its own sometimes unhealthy coping strategies.

However I also craved her love and acceptance. I tried to please her and I did anything she asked. I tried to prove I was worthy of her love. I came at her call and followed her commands.

I was a complete contradiction. Caught between loving her and hating her. Wanting her acceptance and also my independence. It was so much for any teenager to bear. I grew depressed, anxious and more anorexic.

As a young adult it continued. I moved out of home at 17 years old to get away. Yet I was pulled back to help and support her. Being more parent that daughter to her. Then when I was 23 years old she got cancer. I helped, of course I did. I want her love and she is my mum. Continuously being pulled back in and pushed away.

Mum is now living with cancer and has had many other medical issues alongside it. High blood pressure, high cholesterol, two knee replacements, type 2 diabetes, back pain and probably more symptoms and illnesses besides. She is disabled and unwell.

I have had a lot of therapy to be able to understand I am not her. I will not become her, due to my own experiences and characteristics. I am generous, patient and kind. I am loving and I am not selfish, self-centered or exploitative. I do not use emotional blackmail, tears or anger to get what I want. I do not manipulate and use guilt to make people follow my commands.

However I do need regular reminding of this. This week I have started a new medication for my chronic migraines. As most medications it is actually got many uses, its main use is high blood pressure but it has recently started to be used for migraines. I do not have high blood pressure but somehow my brain is triggered to think I am becoming my mum.

High blood pressure runs in her family and she has taken something for this for as long as I can remember. My maternal granddad died of his third heart attack in his 50s and my Grandmother had three heart attacks. My brain tells me I must be like them if I take this medication.

Logically I know this is not true. I have to tell myself I am not her, I do not have high blood pressure. Even if I did have high blood pressure one similarity does not make me her. I share her DNA I will have some similarities. People have commented that I look like her on occasion and I find it hard to accept that.

I am sure I do share some similarities. She is my mother after all. I know she is the one who inspired my love of reading and encouraged my education. She made me who I am through her treatment of me. I am a strong independent women because I could not rely on her. Most of my character traits are in spite of her rather than in honour of her.

I still see her but we do not have a great relationship. I feel less obligated to her than I did before therapy. She made me think I owed her my existence but I know this is not true. She chose to have me. I do love her and will always help if she needs it. However I go running to her less and I will say no to her demands if I need to. I stand up to her when she treats me badly and call her out for it like I never have before.

Since I started therapy I have discussed some of it with her and although she will never truly understand what she put me through she has accepted some partial responsibility. She tries harder at times to know me but she cannot ever be the mum I deserved. She does the best she can and that is all I can ask of her. Instead I accept who she is and limit my relationship with her to one on my terms.

I do not think we have to become our mothers or fathers. We can break the cycle and change the ways. If you have an amazing mother then by all means become her. However if you had a less than perfect one then hopefully learn from her and become better. I know I try to be better in my life in this mental world.

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The Story of One Inspirational Woman I knew

In honour of International Women’s Day I wanted to reflect on one of the most inspirational women I have known. I know lots of fantastic women ,who battle illness and adversity in a man’s world. When I teach history I try to include all the women in history to show our important place in society. But one has always stood out to me.

From my childhood one lady was a constant inspiration to me, my Nan. She was an amazing woman and I loved to hear the stories of her life. Born in the 1920s she was the fourth of eight children. She was training to be a concert pianist until she met my Granddad and her teacher made her pick between boys and the piano. Full of teenage hormones as she was, she picked my Granddad. She always played the piano though, even in the underground stations during the Blitz. I still think of her when I hear Beethoven 5th Symphony or anything classical really. I loved to hear her play.

She remembers seeing Mahatma Ghandi when he visited London in 1931. She seemed to truly believe in equality and love. She talked about living near the Kray brothers and cycling down their street to go visit my Granddad when they were courting. She seems to have lived through so much history.

She went on to join the Women’s Army in WWII and supported a Canadian Airbase in the south of England. She stayed truthful to her engagement to my Granddad, even when Canadian soldiers proposed. She felt she needed to actually help at a time of when her country was at war.

Her family home in Lambeth was also bombed during the Blitz in London. Leaving just the porch and outside toilet, the only parts her father had built. She spoke about loosing every family photograph and her grand piano. It really helped show how material things were just that, memories and keepsakes were much more important to her.

After the war she married my Granddad and had three children of her own, although also suffering many miscarriages in the ten years between my aunts and my father’s birth. Whilst bringing up her own children she also fostered babies and toddlers. She seemed to have so much love to give. She was kind and thoughtful. She listened and cared. She was my sanctuary away from my own mother.

Although to my knowledge, she never did anything to change what my mother was doing, she helped me survive. She taught me to try to accept mum as she was. That anger only festered in myself and hurt me. That you could box up emotions and hide them away to get by. She also gave me hope that I would grow up and be able to move out and away from her one day.

When she died I was 16 to her 82 years old. I felt like my world had collapsed. I knew she had to let go, she was in so much pain from the pancreatic cancer she had to endure. Yet I felt so alone. My support, my love, my surrogate mother was gone. My heart broke and although I put on a brave face I fell into depression.

To have lived through so much change in the twentieth century. Maybe she is why I love history so much. She taught me so many lessons in life. Most importantly she taught me to be a kind and thoughtful person. I think of her everyday in this mental world.

A Woodland Walk

I walk through the woodland, an excited puppy running around my feet. Headphones placed in my ears, a voice tells me to slowly breathe in and out. Each muddy step feels like a journey in a novel, a wander through an enchanted forest. I feel my heart beats growing faster, so I focus on the breeze as it swirls through the leaves above me and across my face.

The raindrops feel refreshing as they fall around me. I watch as they flow down the leaves to the woodland floor. Each droplet has a journey, a destiny as it tells a story washing fears away. I look at the many greens and browns that surround me. Degrading autumn leaves fallen are beneath my feet, the puppies paws disappear into the squelching mulch.

The ground goes up and down as I follow the path into the depths of woodland. My mind turns inside and I feel the pain within. In this woodland I am alone in its peace and the loneliness closes in. I can feel each scar and wound left on my heart. Damaged over and over by the loves and losses of my life.

environment fallen trees forest graffiti
Photo by James Frid on Pexels.com

Thirty-three years of heartache; wounds, scratches, bruises and stabs. Betrayals, insults and losses have taken their toll. My heart feels battered like it has had a long career as a boxer. Round and round of fists until hearing the bell ding. Family, friend and lovers leaving their marks. Stabs, although no longer a seeping wound they have left deep scars.

Sometimes I feel these scars will never heal completely. Memories cannot be erased and self confidence is hard to regain. The wall of protection around my heart is concreted in place, yet lately I see the cracks appearing. I feel my heart calling from it’s locked box, yearning to be free. Screaming out for another love to nurture it like it has never really known.

I enjoy my solitude. I like to take my dog walks bathing in nature. It is like I crave my space and time with me. However, I also wish for someone to share this life with me. Supporting each other. To share a cup of tea. Friends are amazing but a love is something transcendent. A love not to cure-all, but to provide additional forces in the fight for our lives in this mental world.

man and woman having a tea conversation
Photo by Burst on Pexels.com

Worrying about Worrying

It seems like an oxymoron to say “I am worrying about worrying people”. I know the people who care about me will worry about me. I know it is normal for them to worry about me, as they love me. I would and do worry about them. But that does not mean I do not try to mitigate the amount of worry they have about me.

I keep the deep and dark thoughts to myself. When struggling with my mental health or unwell physically, I hide away from the world. Look after myself, in my world. Usually under my duvet with my puppy keeping me company (he is currently next to me, dreaming).

My Sleeping Puppy
Toby asleep – always a cutie

Does everyone else feel this way? I know I find it hard to ask for help. I am used to being the strong independent type. I am used to relying on just me. Being single and not always having a supportive family has left me posing as super woman. I have great friends, the absolute best, but in the past friends have left. So, it is hard to say with 100% confidence that they would to stay through the worst of a person.

If I was to say “I need help”, I would feel I am admitting that I am not the strong independent woman everyone thought. I am weak and helpless. I know it is not as black and white as this, logically I do. But then in these recent times, I actually feel weak and helpless. So maybe, I am not the strong independant woman I thought I was and want to be.

I also feel that when I am asking people for support, I am asking people to care about me. This brings me back into the ‘I am not worthy of love’ cyclone of thoughts. Leading to my belief that I am not worthy of the support and so I shouldn’t be asking in the first place.

tornado on body of water during golden hour
Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

How can I feel worthy of someones worry? What is even on the criteria for that?

It gets even harder when I know a friend is also going through a hard time. Adding to someone else’s burden is even more difficult. I feel I should be the support beam, not the earthquake that could make it all collapse. My own problems should be pushed down the priority and others needs are to be put ahead of my own.

These are the circling thoughts in my mind. No answer, no solution just problems. Here are my thoughts, just trying to find the logic within the chaos of my life in this mental world.

Toes dipped in or am I deep in the ocean’s waves?

I have been on anti-depressant tablets since late October. Lately I have been feeling blue again. Overcome by moments of overwhelming bleakness that wash over me without warning. It takes my breath away, while making me want to hide from the world under my duvet forever.

I know I find this time of year tough; it is cold, dark, wet, damp and the sun is hiding away. Everyone’s vitamin D drops and some even have SAD. Then you add in family, financial January and school pressures. It is a hard time of year, or is it just me?

I have been trying to use my coping strategies to help. I am meditating (almost) daily, blogging on here and trying to enjoy nature on dog walks at the weekends. I am trying to savour company with my puppy and taking in the mindfulness of a cup of tea. But none of it has been working…

I have ideas to help my students but cannot get up the energy to have any enthusiasm. I am acting ‘happy teacher’ at the front of my classroom. I am finding noises particularly annoying and frustrating. Children’s chatter, adverts on the radio and even my dogs barking at the postman/neighbour/bird. I feel heavy and achy. My feet feel like they are burning.

One big sign for me, is that I am tearful. This might not mean much to many but for me this is huge. I do not cry, well rarely and when I do it is a few tears. I am like Amanda Woods, the Cameron Diaz character in the film The Holiday. Sat trying to make myself cry, making wailing noises in hope for just one tear.

My lack of tears are from being bullied by my family for years. As a child apparently I cried a lot so much I was teased for it. Called a ‘cry-baby’, ‘melon head’ or ‘lemon head’ repeatedly and frequently. I was an emotional child but learnt not to cry, hold in the emotion. Now, I am emotional. I just can’t express it on the outside.

So, how do I know when I am having a bit of a bad patch or if I need help through a higher medication dose? When is self-help not enough? My natural instinct is to sort it out myself, to be independent and not complain. As a child I was given a list of chores whenever I was off sick. I had to look after myself when I was ill. Now I find it hard to rely on others and ask for that help. It makes me feel like a hypochondriac or being seen as someone moaning.

But how do I know when it is more than I can cope with, when to ask for help? How long do I leave it? A week, two, more? When is it ok to moan, groan and complain? When does it become too much to bare alone?

Last time I waited months and waited until I was broken and curled up in a ball. I am trying not to get back there but sometimes I do not know if I am on the brink of the cliff…

 

 

Uncomfortable, necessary and embarrassing…

WARNING: Female health issues mentioned (the squeamish may want to avoid or they might know more about the vagina than they wanted to)

Today I had to go to my routine smear test, every three years in the UK. For the those that haven’t had the pleasure, or can’t as they do not have a cervix; this is a routine scraping of a ladies cervix to check for ‘abnormal cells’ which could be early cancerous or HPV.

Why am I talking about this? Well, as you can imagine it is not the most comfortable experiences from the onset. Preparation has to go into this appointment; being clean and tidy is just polite. Then your name is called from the waiting room, here I always feel my first words should be “sorry”, it seems natural to say this to the person whose job includes scraping the insides of ladies.

The nurse at my GP practice is lovely. She talks, almost constantly, which helps ease some of the embarrassment. First came routine advice to reduce my risks of ‘abnormal cells’;

  1. No smoking – Tick for me. I have never even tried it (my uncle died of lung cancer when I was 12 and my nan smoked like a chimney – enough to put me off).
  2. Reduce Alcohol – Another Tick, feel like I might pass this test! I do not drink due to the Fibromyalgia medication, plus it always fed my depression.
  3. Avoid having many sexual partners – Well, how many is too many? What are we talking here? I joked at this point, “no problem here, no one is interested at the moment”. The nurse gave me a stern look and told me I was probably better off as there are few good men.

This question also led to the nurse telling me about another lady she chatted to whilst in the stirrups. This lady had been mocked by her friends as she had been dating a man for 5 months and had not slept with him yet. The woman was asking if this was SO strange? I am not sure my nurse is an expert, but I said, “Waiting 5 months, must be a keeper”. The nurse told me off, raising the issue but sometimes the waiting can be like a challenge to men. She advised waiting for a ring on that finger. I changed the subject by removing my pants and jumping onto her examination bed. It really does change the atmosphere of a room.

For me her anecdote this made me think; how long do people wait? What is expected of us as women/men? I am not currently dating anyone but have heard of the; 3 date rule, 5 date rule, just on on the first date rule and who cares rule. Thinking back my self-esteem was low as I became attractive to the opposite sex and so I let the guys lead, although never on a first date did I go all the way.

I think the main problem I have with this story is the judgement her friends had. To me there are no rules and people should do what they want. But then do we know what we want and do we do it? I know I often was following the lead of others instead of my own desires. This doesn’t mean it was non consensual just I didn’t know what I wanted. I was desperate for someone to love me that sex became love. The old ‘actions speak a thousand words’ for me became ‘sex says love’. I was wrong, I am happy to admit it now. After years of therapy and beautiful hindsight slapping me around the face.

Now I feel more worthy of love I take less sh*t from men and so would be able to know my own wants. But even then, there is the pressures of keeping the person, pleasing them, and wanting them to like you. A relationship is a mixture of two peoples needs, wants and desires, which is why it can be so hard to navigate. although always remember ‘No means No’, something I repeat to teenage boys at my school worryingly often.

Ok so smear test over for another three years. Uncomfortable, necessary and embarrassing – sounds like loosing my virginity, but that is a hilarious story for another day in this mental world.