Black Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday...

January feels sad. 
Everywhere I look people are struggling with black moods and depression and I know better than anyone just how hard it is function in the dark.
My past is no secret, the post below has sat on my blog for quite some time but following a few conversations I've had with people this week it felt right to revisit it.
If you are struggling, I hope that it gives to the strength to carry on.


Mine is not a standard birth story but it is one that I have been trying to write for the last seventeen years, unable to know where to begin.

For the people who know me now, as a wife, mother and successful business woman my words may be even harder to take in but after seventeen years of procrastinating here is the story of my birth.

The morning of Thursday 5th May 1994 began like every other day except that was the day I was going to die.

I had suffered in silence (mostly) with an illness so sever that it was about to erase me and at the same time leave an innocent little boy without a mum.

Of course with hindsight, I know that I'd been suffering from sever post natal depression for the three and a half years since I gave birth to my son when I was little more than a child myself.

I'd travelled a long, dark and unhappy path in those three and a half years. Littered with excessive excess and fraught emotions. Living on tinned tomatoes and toast so that I could buy nappies and baby food.

But it was too much for me. 
Even though I was in constant contact with my family I was living on a fragile deserted island and I couldn’t take anymore.

That Thursday morning I dropped my boy at my sister’s house explaining that I had a few errands to run. I kissed him, held him and willed him to be strong.

I drove my fathers car into the city and parked it where I knew it would be easily found and made my way to the top of the car park.

The fine rain had turned into that horrible wet drizzle and the street below me was mostly void of shoppers. I stood there looking, thinking, crying. I was so angry with myself, with the world, with all of the people who could have helped me, that should have made me better.

I felt weak, useless, pathetic, a nothing.

One side of my head was screaming JUMP, JUMP, JUMP but I was scared. Really scared, really, really scared.

I realised that I couldn’t do it. I didn’t have it in me. I was so useless that I couldn’t even do this, the one thing that could make it all go away. I couldn't even end it.

And so I jumped.

The irony is that I didn’t manage to end it, I even messed that up. 
I've since been told that I'm the only person ever to survive jumping the 75ft from the top of that multi-storey car park

I was conscious and able to give next of kin details to the paramedics that came to save me and then things get a little fuzzy. I remember the pain and a strange floaty feeling as I looked down seeing myself lying on a trolley, as the electricity shocked me back to life.

Then it was a week later. I'd spent twenty hours in theatre as three surgeons tried to put me back together again. 
My leg injuries were explained to me by a doctor;

“Imagine if you hit a Crunchie bar with a hammer,” he said. “That's what you have done to your feet.”

I was numb.

Then came the spinal surgeon – totally lacking in bedside manner.

“Well young lady, what a totally selfish and stupid thing to do. You do realise that with your injuries, you will never walk again.”

I was devastated.

Irony number 2...
I was a dancer. I'd been dancing all my life. I danced through school and on to post sixteen dance training. I won a coveted place in the National Youth Dance Company. I was a dancer – full stop. It defined me. It made me me.

So here I was. In hospital and not only wasn’t I dead but I was now facing life in a wheelchair too.

For the medically interested, I smashed both of my feet into a million pieces and my right ankle too. I landed so perfectly that my spine did its primary job as a shock absorber and crushed four of my vertebrae in the process. (All those hours of ballet training kicked in and I landed in a perfect plie. 

Of course I should have been dead. But I wasn’t. It took me a long time to come to terms with what I'd done to myself but it simply wasn’t my day to go. 
I'd been given another shot at things and although my progress has been slow and painful I had to decide to make a better life for my boy and me.

Over the years journalist friends have tried to coax my story into print but my fear of being judged and condemned for what I did has always kept my silence.

In truth, I've been selfish by keeping my story because do you know what?

I can walk. I can cycle, I can swim, I can work, I got married, I had babies (3 of them!), I have a business, I have friends, I have love and more than anything I have hope.

My recovery has been long and painful. I have screamed and cried and I live with the ongoing pain of my injuries and the pain of not being able to dance every single day. But if I did have the ability to go back to that morning, I would take the very same route.

I know now that I was given a chance that day to right all of my wrongs.

Sure this is a condensed speed blog version of my story but in its brevity or entirety the result is the same. A personal triumph over adversity – my rebirth.

If you know anyone who is suffering from PND or any kind of depression, please, please try and reach out to them. They would never admit it but they could really do with your time and attention. And if you think that you have PND, please, please, please tell someone how you are feeling. It may just save your life.

Speak up... break the silence

May 5th is a difficult day for me... you see today is the anniversary of the first day of the rest of my life.

Sixteen years ago today (5/5/94), I was engulfed by a very dark cloud that took me to hell, tossed me around and then spat me out.

Many memories of events past are hazy. A result of the archaic mental health 'treatment' forced upon me in the following years but I can recall every single moment of that day like it was yesterday.

I stood at the top of the car park for at least an hour. I was teetering on the edge - over the edge.

It was grim, grey and from my roof top view the whole city looked like it wanted to die. I was terrified of what lay before me. Exhausted by the events that led me there. Helpless, hopeless, defeated.

So I jumped.

Every year I get reflective and every year I feel a little differently about how my life came to that. I'm filled with dread at the thought of the anniversary that tips my time scales, when I will have lived longer with pain and disability than without.

Did you know that last week was Mental Health Week? There is help available. Don't suffer in silence like I did.

If depression affects you stop by Breaking the silence. It is a brilliant blog, full of information and support.
Here's a link to my original post about my battle with post natal depression. Thank you for the comment love - it makes a difference to me to know that I have friends.

The article

Lots of you have been trying to get hold of the March issue of M&B mag, but as it's about time for their next issue I can share with you.

No comments about how rough I look in the pics please. I'd been up for most of the night working....

Memory Monday Meme...

I know that lots of you read and commented on my post about my battle with Post Natal Depression and the amazing support that I received for speaking out made me take my story to print. 

I had a few offers but I decided to offer the story to Mother & Baby magazine. It made me a bit jumpy as that's my industry but I knew that if it went anywhere than that was where it should go.

In all honesty - I thought that was that. I didnt expect any comeback at all but I have had emails (sent through to the magazine), I have had emails sent to me personally, I have been sidelined in the queue in Sainsburys and WH Smiths and today I had a call from someone that I know to tell me that reading the article in Mother & Baby has made her face her many years of depression and finally ask for help.

People keep telling me that I'm amazing and inspirational but let me tell you right now that I'm not. I'm just a regular person who chose not to be defeated - and simply took one day at a time for, well a long, long time.

My Memory Monday is two fold really. I wanted to share this picture of me, aged 19 and just a baby myself to show that anything is possible if you put your mind to it. It's also directed the brave lady that called me today. You know who you are. You are taking fairy steps in the right direction and that is all you have to do. xx

Ten months after this picture was taken I nearly died.

Chapter 2?

In all honesty I have been on a real roller coaster since posting 'My story' a couple of weeks ago. I have been approached by some magazines and a literary agent but the whole thing has sidelined me some what. After all - I had, have drawn a line under the whole thing. That was me in 1994 - a long, long time ago. It has been suggested that I should write a book about how I over came my problems and it has been said by at least 50 people (thank you) that my story has been an inspiration to them. But I am still left not knowing where I should take the next chapter.

For that post was just the beginning and having built the strength to write it I kind of feel that right here is the best place for it all to unravel.

What do you guys think?

Where to next?

You may have noticed that I have been a bit quiet since I dropped my big post natal depression bomb shell on you a couple of weeks ago. The problem is that I have been struggling to know what to say next.

My story had an amazing response. I've had emails from other women who have found themselves in that same dark place, from their friends and family asking for advice on how to help those dear to them and from journalists wanting to take my words to print.

It has been an unexpected and humbling time.

I've never seen my story as inspirational and until I laid it down here with the comment box open I don't think I've ever given anyone the chance to tell me how it has effected them. After all, what do you say to someone who has just told you that they jumped off the top of a building?

It's a conversation stopper let me tell you.

Hitting the publish button was a real leap of faith for me. Was I doing the right thing? Was it going to impact on my business? Was I going to regret it later?

Who could say? But I was right to speak out and by doing so I feel like I am finally standing up to be counted - and that feels pretty good.

Thank you to everyone who took the time to leave their thoughts and tweets. I'm still in total shock that every word left was positive. The post had over 6,000 views in just three days which proves that it is a subject that deserves a wider audience.

Thanks xx

Post Natal Depression suicide and me....

Mine is not a standard birth story but it is one that I have been trying to write for the last fifteen years, unable to know where to begin.

For the people who know me now, as a wife, mother and successful business woman my words may be even harder to take in but after fifteen years of procrastinating here is the story of my battle with post natal depression, suicide and the birth of my new life.

The morning of Thursday 5th May 1994 began like every other day except that was the day I was going to die.

I had suffered in silence (mostly) with an illness so sever that it was about to erase me whilst at the same time leave an innocent little boy without a mummy.

Of course with hindsight – I know that I had been suffering from sever post natal depression for the three and a half years since I gave birth to my son when I was little more than a child myself.

I had travelled along a dark and unhappy path in those three and a half years. Littered with excess excess and fraught emotions. Living on tinned tomatoes and toast so that I could support us both.

But it was too much for me. Even though I was in constant contact with my family I was living on a fragile deserted island and I couldn’t take anymore.

That Thursday morning I dropped my boy at my sister’s house explaining that I had a few errands to run. I kissed him, held him and willed him to be strong.

I drove my fathers car into the city and parked it where I knew it would be easily found and made my way to the top of the car park.

The fine rain had turned into that horrible wet drizzle and the street below me was mostly void of shoppers. I stood there looking, thinking, crying for an age. I was so angry with myself, with the world, with all of the people who should have helped me, that should have made me better.

I felt weak, useless and pathetic.

One side of my head was screaming JUMP, JUMP, JUMP but I was scared. Really scared, really, really scared.

I realised that I couldn’t do it. I didn’t have it in me. I was so useless that I couldn’t even do this - that I couldn’t end it.

And so I jumped.

The irony is that I didn’t manage to end it. I have since been told that I am the only person ever to survive jumping the 75ft from the top of that multi-storey car park. It happens a lot more than you know.

I was conscious and able to give next of kin details to the paramedics that came to save me and then things get a little fuzzy. I remember the pain and oddly I remember a floaty feeling as I looked down seeing myself lying on a trolley, as I was shocked back to life.

Then it was a week later. I had spent 20 hours in theatre as the surgeons tried to put me back together again. My leg injuries were explained to me by a doctor;

“If you hit a Crunchie Bar with a hammer,” he said. “That is what you have done to your feet.”

I was numb.

Then came the spinal surgeon – totally lacking in bedside manner.

“Well young lady, what a totally selfish and stupid thing to do. You do realise that with your injuries, you will never walk again.”

I was devastated.

Irony number 2 – I was a dancer. I had been dancing all my life. I danced through school and on to a post sixteen dance training. I won a coveted place in the National Youth Dance Company. I was a dancer – full stop. That was me.

So here I was. In hospital and not only wasn’t I dead, but I was now facing life in a wheelchair too.

For the record, I smashed both of my feet into a million pieces, and my right ankle too. I landed so perfectly that my spine did its primary job as a shock absorber and crushed four of my vertebrae in the process. (All those hours of ballet training kicked in when I least expected it!)

Of course I should have been dead. But I wasn’t and it took me a long time to see this chance for what it really was for me.

It wasn’t my day to go. I did have another chance and although my progress has been slow and painful I have come through my self inflicted misery and built a better life for myself and for my boy.

Over the years journalist friends have tried to coax my story into print but my fear of being judged and condemned for what I did has always ensured my silence.

In truth, I have been selfish by keeping my story because do you know what?

I can walk. I can cycle, I can swim, I can work, I got married, I had babies (3 of them!), I have a business, I have friends, I have love and more than anything I have hope.

My recovery has been long and painful. I have screamed and cried and I live with the pain of my injuries and the pain of not being able to dance every single day. But if I did have the ability to go back to that morning, I would take the very same route.

I know now that I was given a chance that day to right all of the wrongs.

Sure this is a condensed speed blog version of my story but in its brevity or entirety the result is the same. A personal triumph over adversity – my rebirth.

If you know anyone who is suffering from PND, please, please try and reach out to them - they could really do with your time and attention. And if you think that you have PND, please, please, please tell someone how you are feeling. It may just save your life.

Me dancing

After months in hospital I'd dropped from 10st of muscle to under 6st. I was like a bag of broken bones.

Please do leave comments on this post. I really didn't know if writing it was the correct thing to do. But I know now that it was. I have had emails and tweets from people with PND and people who have friends with PND and if I can be of any help please do let me know.

Your comments (good or bad) really show the support that is out there for this dreadful illness.

thank you.

xx

Feature in Mother & Baby Magazine