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We All Have A Story

~ Naomi ~ 7 Comments

Every single one of us has a story. We’ve all been on a journey since the day we were born. We all have anecdotes of funny things that have happened. We’ve all had times where less-funny things have happened and life has thrown us a curveball which has changed the direction we’re travelling in.

But when our journey involves mental illness, it can be hard to talk about. Sharing it becomes a struggle. People ask us what we did last weekend and we haven’t got a clue how to answer because last weekend we were struggling to breathe under the weight of depression/in hospital/hiding under a blanket or something. You can’t really answer the question ‘wheat have you been up to lately?’ with ‘trying to survive’.

So our story becomes holey. It contains blanks. Black holes of difficulties, tears, resilience, strength, and courage.

My personal story is 24 and a bit years long. It’s had many ups and downs. It’s had lots of twists and turns. At times it’s been a comedy, there are times when it’s perhaps been more of a tragedy. But it’s mine.IMG_9155

I’ve been very open with some parts of my story (you can’t really hide the fact that your Mum is dying, or that she’s died). But there are other parts of my story that have remained hidden. Bits that I haven’t wanted to admit to myself, never mind anyone else. Bits that I’ve felt ashamed or guilty about. Things that get so messy in my head that I don’t have the worlds to put them down on paper.

Sharing our stories can be incredibly freeing. It can feel like pushing a ten-tonne weight off our chest, standing up and announcing to the world ‘This is me! This is who I am! I’m not going to hide any more!”. But it’s also so hard. It can leave us feeling very vulnerable. In writing them it can bring up a lot of difficult things.

I wasn’t going to share any of my story today, but in seeing all of the #WeAllHaveAStory tweets on Twitter, as part of the #BigBlurtathon, I’ve been inspired to share a little bit of things I’ve previously not shared. So with a deep breath, and a heck of a lot of coffee, here goes!

I’m no stranger to mental illness, or life being a bit of a knob. I’ve had depression since a very young age – something I’ve blogged about once or twice. My Mum was diagnosed with cancer when I was 18, became terminal when I was 20, and died when I was 21 – something I’ve blogged about extensively. I’ve also had an eating disorder for about 12 years. That’s the bit I’ve not written about.

I’ve not written about it because I feel/felt guilty. I feel/felt ashamed of it. I feel/felt like it was my fault, like I was doing it to myself, like I was ungrateful for intentionally starving myself when others have no choice but to starve. Keeping it secret helped the illness to thrive and I needed the illness for a long time. For a long time it kept me alive.

I’ve not been immune from the side effects of this constant attack on my body. But I barely recognised it as anything other than “oh well, this is how life is”. The fact that I was on 20+ medications at times, was at the GP every week, had bloods weekly, never had all my bloods in range, wasn’t allowed to drive far, and wasn’t allowed to exercise or camp (among a million other disadvantages), just didn’t register in my brain as anything at all abnormal for a twenty-something-year-old. People sometimes told me that I’d end up in hospital. But I always replied that I’d had this illness for over ten years and hadn’t ended up in hospital before so it was fine. I remained “functional”.

But this week exactly a year ago, all this changed. I received a call when I was at work asking me to come in for repeat bloods and an ECG. My blood test results were not good. I decided it would be fine but IMG_2972along I popped. On 22nd September, I saw my usual GP and she admitted me to hospital. I was terrified. I’d never been in hospital overnight before. The following 2 weeks involved a total of 10 days in hospital over 3 admissions. I would be discharged and then readmitted a day later. At one point there were less than 24 hours between being discharged and being readmitted (and I was asleep for about 12 hours of that).

I was desperate for help. The nurses on the ward were desperate to get me help. I cried more than I’ve ever done before. Ever. (Including when Mum died). I spoke to various mental health professionals. I had panic attacks in the middle of the night. I had some incredible nurses who I will never forget. One hugged me at about 3am and snuck me a cup of tea (I was on restricted fluids) until I could breathe again. One switched the room she was covering to make sure she was my nurse.

I had some atrocious nurses and doctors. “Professionals” who treated my like a piece of dirt on the bottom of their shoe. Who made snide remarks. Who made me feel like I was undeserving, like I’d chosen to be there, like I’d be less of an inconvenience if I’d hurry up and die. Some of the mental health professionals weren’t much better.

The following few months are still a blur. I was trying to get myself stable again. I was trying to follow a meal plan and a fluid plan. I wasn’t doing a great job, but I was trying. There were things I was doing which I didn’t think others would realise were me ‘getting around the system’. There were things I was doing which I didn’t realise were anorexia not me.

In January I was admitted again. The staff on the ward remembered me. I was lucky to largely have brilliant staff this time, on both of the wards I was on. Staff who went out of their way to find food I ‘could’ eat. I had an incredible pair of mental health professionals this time, too. I was still terrified. I remember at one point telling the mental health team that the meds the ward were giving me were coating my insides and contaminating me. This wasn’t psychosis – it’s what happens when your body doesn’t have what it needs.

Unfortunately, things continued to deteriorate. I was of the opinion that I had solved all the issues I was having in a very logical way. My GP did try to explain that crawling around my house was not a solution to fainting whenever I stood up, and that actually giving myself some food/fluid might be a better plan. I didn’t agree.IMG_0344

Looking back on it, I could have died. I was so poorly. Apparently I wasn’t making any sense. I was days away from permanent kidney damage. I had to stop going to my GP surgery for bloods twice a week because I wasn’t well enough, and had to go to the mental health place instead. I was admitted straight from there on my last general admission.

I was absolutely terrified. Not of dying, like you might think. But of the things that they were attaching to my drip. Of the fear associated with having things in my body. It didn’t register that I was, yet again, attached to a permanent heart monitor or that, yet again, I was the youngest patient in the room by about 50 years. I was terrified and trapped and the only reason I didn’t pull everything off/out and run home, was because I knew I’d get sectioned. The only time I was even remotely scared for my health was when all of my muscles seized up and I couldn’t move and struggled to talk.

Again, I had a mix of staff. There are some staff who I am forever indebted to. Who showed me pictures of their cat and spoke to me like a human. Staff who came back at the end of their shift to wheel me down to the gift shop to buy puzzle books. An amazing mental health worker who told me that I was “scared but motivated, and that’s the best place to be when going inpatient”. That got me through my first few weeks on the ED unit. There were also some horrendous staff. There are things from all of my general admissions that at some point I need to work through and process, because I still occasionally have nightmares about them.

You would think, given all of this, that I might have realised that friends and family might realise something was up, but I didn’t. I was largely convinced that I looked normal and that I was an excellent secret-keeper. I wasn’t.

A week later I was admitted to an eating disorder unit. It was the hardest 6 months of my life. I’ve gained 75% of my weight again. I’ve cried (a lot!). I’ve panicked. I’ve felt hopeless. I’ve eaten things I hadn’t eaten in years and years. I’ve sat with the most uncomfortable of uncomfortable feelings. I’ve talked. I’ve opened up. I’ve worked so unbelievably hard. I’ve developed a (real!) laugh. I’ve found hope. I’ve found some moments of peace. I’ve found my fight. I’ve found my sparkle. I’ve found my will to live.

My story is messy. It’s hard to read. It’s hard to remember. There’s a lot I don’t remember. It’s a bit of a disaster zone at times.

IMG_1342It’s the story of a girl who was lost. A girl who wasn’t remotely interested in being alive. A girl who thought that life couldn’t change. A girl who thought it was as good as it was going to get. A girl who was destroying herself to cope with a world that felt un-cope-able-with. A girl who didn’t believe in recovery.

But it’s also a story of a girl who didn’t get home until almost 1am last night after a meal out with colleagues in which she laughed for about 4 hours straight. It’s the story of a girl who went camping over summer for the first time in years. It’s the story of a girl who spontaneously decided to go to Whitby one day because she wanted to see the sea. It’s the story of a girl who jumped from rock to rock at Brimham Rocks a few weeks ago. It’s the story of a girl who went out, got tipsy, and danced for hours a few weeks ago. It’s the story of a girl who jumped in her car and drove 4-5 hours to Bristol because she wanted to see her cousin and his family. It’s the story of a girl who is now a sister, a friend, a daughter, a cat-mother, a granddaughter, a niece, a colleague, and a fighter.

It’s the story of a girl who now believes in recovery.

I hope that however hard my story is to read, that it’s one of hope. I hope that it shows others that life doesn’t have to be this way. That there is a chance (however small) that things can get better.

I also hope that my story shows what a difference good professionals can make (and that it prompts those professionals with prejudices about eating disorders to have another think). I wouldn’t be here without some incredible professionals who didn’t give up on me. But more importantly, without the most unbelievably amazing friends and family a girl could ever ask for. I wouldn’t be here right now without some amazing nurses and doctors, some amazingly lovely fellow patients on all of the wards I’ve been on, and my friends and family.

This is just one chapter in my story. There is so much more to come. It’s not always going to be easy. I’m not ‘fixed’. I’m not ‘cured’. I’m still on 10+ medications, under the mental health team, and have regular bloods and weight checks, and have to do things daily to keep myself afloat. But I’m excited for the future, now.

I’ve chosen to own my story and I’m excited to find out what happens next.

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Mother’s Day 2018

~ Naomi ~ 2 Comments

I’ve been thinking about writing this blog for a while. A Mother’s Day blog. I’ve written and deleted sentences in my head. I’ve opened and closed Word. I’ve scrolled every single social media site… again, and again… and again. I’ve searched my past blogs for things I’ve written before, wondering if past-me had any words of wisdom past that I could use (she didn’t). It’s now the day before Mother’s Day and I’m yet to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard).

The words aren’t coming this year. On the surface of it – Mum’s dead. It’s crap. What more is there to say?

But I think those surface thoughts are just masking the fact that I do have things to say. I have so much to say and I know this because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have this feeling that I need to blog. The problem is, the words are stuck. They’re joining the feelings in a place so squashed and so buried that I can’t access them.

It’s like when you have a bin, but the weather is grim so you don’t want to go outside and empty it. Instead, you squish down the stuff inside it to get more in so that you can hold off taking it outside for another day or two. But the weather doesn’t pick up for a while, so you keep squishing it down and shoving more in, until the day comes when you do want to empty it but you can’t, because everything’s stuck.

I don’t actually mind Mother’s Day itself.  In some ways, it’s quite nice. Social media is filled with people celebrating their Mum’s, Grandma’s, and honorary Mum’s, and it can be really nice to see that. It’s a welcome break from the sheer number of depressing and frustrating news stories that often occupy my feeds.

I think the thing I find difficult is the expectation that I won’t be okay. That it will (and should) be difficult.

Some of this expectation comes from others. The posts on social media entitled ‘for those of you without Mum’s this Mother’s Day’, or ‘for those of you grieving’, or something like that. The tweets with helpline numbers. The kind and thoughtful messages from friends and family members letting me know that they’re thinking of me (thank you, lovely people!).

All are very well-meaning, but all are a reminder that while others can take their Mum out for a nice lunch, or buy them a box of chocolates, the life-to-death postal service isn’t currently in operation, so I can’t do those things.

Some of the ‘you should feel rubbish’ expectation comes from myself. I almost feel like if I don’t struggle with Mother’s Day, then it means that Mum wasn’t as much of a Mum as she might have been. It’s stupid, because how I feel or don’t feel on Mothering Sunday or any other Sunday of the year has no bearing on what Mum meant to me, how Mum was as a Mum, or anything much else related to our relationship.

Tomorrow is just another day. It’s 24 hours and it will pass just like every other 24 hours does. I won’t be buying any chocolates, sending a card, or going out for any meals. I’ll remember Mum, I’m sure. But I remember Mum every single day, because she was a big part of my life for 21 years, and has continued to be part of my life since she died.

To those of us who do find Mother’s Day difficult, please try and up the self-care a little bit. To those of us who don’t have a Mum we can take out, but aren’t really struggling with the fact it’s Mother’s Day – please remember that it’s okay. It’s okay to feel okay. (It’s okay not to feel okay). To everyone else – celebrate your Mum. Give her a hug. Send her a happy text. Have a lovely Sunday.

Grief Doesn’t Wait For A Person To Die

~ Naomi ~ Leave a comment

Whilst walking to an appointment today, I was wondering why the ‘I need my mum [insert tears here]’ feelings had been stirring again over the last few days. Part of it is the state of my life right now. But then I realised that today marks four years since I found out that Mum had a terminal diagnosis.

One day. One conversation. One car journey. My life hasn’t been the same ever since.

‘Diagnosis day’ was a weird one. I was volunteering in Leeds (following a very early morning). Dad text me asking me where I was, which was weird, because I was at uni so he no longer ever needed to know where I was. He drove over, picked me up, and told me while he was driving. I looked out of the window. I didn’t want him to see me cry. We got home and didn’t talk about it. Mum and I took a selfie. I went back to uni later that afternoon.

My grief started that day.

It’s a difficult one to articulate. How can you grieve for a person who’s still there? How can you grieve for your old life, when nothing’s really changed (yet)? The only thing that’s changed is that you’ve received a new piece of information. Everything else is the same.

But you do start grieving. In and amongst all the oh-my-goodness-shock-confusion-trying-to-work-it-all-out, there’s grief. It’s been four years, but it’s something I’ve struggled to come to terms with. That is until I started listening to The Grief Cast podcast lately. Many episodes have people who describe their grief starting while their loved one was still alive. It’s helped me realise that it’s okay. It’s okay that my grief began that day. I’m not alone.

From the moment you find out that your loved one is dying, everything changes. I mean everything. The solid foundation of ‘Mum will always be there’ disappears from beneath your feet. You become more careless with money (can’t take it with you when you’re dead). Assignments feel pointless. Relationships develop new importance. Jobs can feel worthless. Sleep can go out of whack. Food can go a bit wonky. Every time your phone rings, you’re convinced that someone else you love is dying or has died. Your anxiety can skyrocket. You start crying at random objects. Everything changes.

You become a member of a club you never wanted to be in. Grief begins.

You grieve your old carefree life. You wish that the most important thing on your mind was still what to wear for a Friday night out. You begin to miss the person your loved one was, as you watch them fade away in front of your eyes. You watch your family change, too. Morphing into a different family from the one you grew up with, as everyone tries to work out how best to cope. You spend night after night mulling things over, crying, getting angry and bargaining with the unknown. Later on you begin to wish that your loved one would die. You can’t stand seeing them so unwell, and your life is on hold until the point of death. Then you feel guilty and angry at yourself for feeling that way. Grief is well and truly present.

We need to move away from the assumption that we can only grieve once a person is dead. We need to move away from the stereotype that grief is a whole load of crying for a while, then it’s finished and you move on. It’s damaging to have these stereotypes because it makes it so much harder when you do have to experience the reality of grief. It can also cause people to react to our grief in insensitive (and sometimes bizarre) ways.

Grief is ugly. Grief is painful. Grief is messy. Grief is unpredictable. Grief can come in waves. Grief can rear it’s ugly head unexpectedly. Grief doesn’t have a nice, neat, end point. Grief is a life-long experience that affects us from the moment it begins. And that beginning is the moment our life changes. Not necessarily the moment when person dies.

One of the couple of selfies I’ve found that we took that day.
Featured on Huffington Post here.

Grief, Two Years On

~ Naomi ~ 4 Comments

I can’t quite believe it’s been two years since Mum died. In some ways, her death feels like it happened yesterday. In many ways, it feels as though it happened a lifetime ago.

Is it getting easier? Maybe.

I’ve always believed that you don’t get over grief, you get along with it. You rub along with it as best you can. Two years on and I still hold this belief. I’m not over grief, I haven’t come through it, but I’m learning to live life alongside it.

I no longer burst into tears when I see a Mum-aged person chomping on a cheese straw. Or when I see a cancer-ridden-body making their way around the supermarket. The grief attacks are becoming further apart. There aren’t as many times that I pick up my phone to text or call Mum, before remembering I can’t.

But that doesn’t mean it’s gone away.

I still cried when I found out that Dad had donated one of her favourite Christmas cookbooks to a charity shop (thankfully I have a wonderful auntie who replaced it within a week – queue more tears!). I still sobbed when I had some significant health challenges recently and wanted nothing more than a Mum hug. I still struggled when faced with a stranger receiving a cancer diagnosis right in front of me.

Mum hasn’t disappeared from my life. She has become part of it.

She’s part of the Christmas cake I baked a few weeks ago. She’s part of the bread I’ve made the last few weeks. She’s part of the birthday food package delivered to my brother. I see her in the crunchy leaves – remembering walks we had and the time we played football one October half term. I hear her steady advice in my ear when I’m faced with horrible life challenges. I feel how proud she is, through the pride I feel for my brothers and all they are achieving.

She’s everywhere.

Life changed when Mum was diagnosed. In some ways, the five years since her original diagnosis have been the worst five years of my life. However, they’ve also been the best five years. I’ve become closer with my brothers. My life has been propelled in a completely different direction – but despite the agonising decisions at times, I firmly believe that it was the right thing. I’ve met some amazing people. I’ve inherited many Mum figures. My outlook on life has changed. I have fallen back in love with art. I’ve been through tears, sobs, sleepless nights, medications, therapy, major health challenges, jobs, houses, flatmates, long phone calls, dog walks, driving tests, exams, panic attacks, laughter… the list goes on.

I’ve learned what’s important. I’ve learned how much I love my family, but that they’re not always right. I’ve learned that family aren’t necessarily those you’re related to. I’ve learned that I am stronger than I ever imagined – however much I don’t believe it at times. I’ve learned that crying is okay. I’ve learned that people can be amazing. I’ve learned that some people are not amazing, and you have to let them go. I’ve learned that it’s okay to let people in. I’ve learned that every emotion is okay, you just have to learn how to manage them. I’ve learned that you have to do a job that makes you happy, even if it doesn’t pay as well as other jobs, or doesn’t live up to other’s expectations. And that’s only the start.

I don’t have anything profound to write to mark these two years. I can’t tell that grieving ever goes away. You probably don’t want to hear yet another ‘it gets better’ platitude, but I can tell you that it becomes cope-able-with. I can tell you that however you feel is absolutely okay. I can tell you that your grief is your own, to cope with as best you know how. As my Mum always said: be kind to yourself

Featured on Huffington Post
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Two Years. Sleep well, Mum. ❤

 

You Are Succeeding By Surviving

~ Naomi ~ 2 Comments

It’s that time of year again where people happily share their incredible uni results, graduation photos are imminent, GCSE and A-Level results are just around the corner, everyone seems to be passing their driving tests, getting new jobs, getting promotions, getting engaged, moving house, and digging wells in African villages, all at the same time.

For some of us, none of these things are true.

Some of us are trying our best to stay alive, and that’s pretty much all we can manage. Many of us have dropped out of university degrees (if we ever got there in the first places). Lots of us have had to put our GCSEs or A-Levels on hold (or if we do manage to sit them, we don’t achieve anything close to our potential). Some of us are unable to drive until our medication settles and/or our health improves. Lots of us aren’t able to hold down a job, or if we can, we’re on reduced hours. If we do have a job, it might be miles away from our dream job – we’re just not well enough to even apply for those kinds of jobs. Many of us struggle to maintain friendships, never mind even attempting a relationship. A lot of us are still living with our parents or other family members, because we need them to help care for us. Many of us can’t travel further than the end of our garden without a panic attack, if we can move ourselves at all.

Being in our late teens/early twenties, we’re expected to be carefree. We often don’t have responsibilities for anyone other than ourselves. We’re expected to spend time having fun, going out, working out who we are and what we enjoy, and generally making the most of life.

But that’s not always the case. Sometimes we don’t have that luxury, because we’re simply not well enough. Life can play a cruel hand at times.

It doesn’t mean that we’re not achieving and succeeding, though. Our success might just look a little different to others.

Sometimes success is taking PRN, even if you feel like we are ‘giving in’ by doing so. Sometimes it’s getting to bed by 10pm each night, even if it makes us feel like a granny. Sometimes success is learning how to say ‘no’ to things that hurt us. Sometimes success is forcing down 3 meals and 3 snacks a day, however loud our heads scream. Sometimes success is getting our notifications down to zero. Sometimes, success is taking our meds as prescribed. Sometimes success is dragging ourselves down to the GP even if we feel we don’t deserve it, or we’re wasting their time. Sometimes success is making it into town alone. Sometimes success is letting our family members and carers help us. Sometimes success is navigating the benefits system. Sometimes success is just showing up – whether it be to school, to work, to a class, or somewhere else. Sometimes, success is allowing ourselves to do the things that we enjoy.

Sometimes success is simply doing what’s best for us. It’s taking care of ourselves. It’s continuing to stay alive, whatever is thrown our way.

To all of you who are feeling pretty rubbish at the moment because everyone seems to be succeeding and progressing, and you feel like a sad, stuck, blob… I want to remind you how wonderful you are. Continuing to wake up every day despite all the setbacks you encounter is so brave. It’s so admirable. It’s so incredibly strong. You are succeeding by waking up every day, by showing up, by never ever giving up. You are awesome.

Featured: http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/naomibarrow/you-are-succeeding-by-sur_b_17292692.html

Grief Is Not A Mental Illness

~ Naomi ~ 7 Comments

At the moment, thanks to the work of Heads Together, there are a lot of people talking about both mental illness and grief.

It’s great – it’s so important to talk about these things. Both can come with a huge amount of stigma, and by talking about it we can help to reduce that stigma, and to remind people that it’s okay not to be okay.

However, one thing that I’m seeing time and time again, is people writing about mental illness and grief as if they are the same thing. I’m not entirely sure why this is – I think it might be because the royals unveiled their mental health campaign whilst also talking about their Mum’s death, and the counselling they had for their grief.

I don’t know the ins and out of the royal’s mental health, and I don’t know whether they have had a diagnosed mental illness, but, what I do know is that grief and mental illness are not the same thing.

Grief is something that will happen to nearly everyone at some point in their lives. It can bring a range of emotions that you’ve never felt pre-grief. It can be distressing, it can cause upset, tearfulness and low mood… but it’s normal to feel that way. It’s normal to miss someone who was a big part of your life. It’s normal to cry. To an extent, it’s normal for it to affect your eating and sleeping habits, at least for a little while.

It can reach the point where you feel you need counselling to give you the space you need to talk about it, and to help you learn how to deal with the emotions it brings up, and that is absolutely okay, but even at that point, it’s not necessarily a mental illness.

Grief could trigger mental ill-health. It can contribute to depression, anxiety and other mental illnesses, especially if you’re already predisposed to them, but it is not, in itself, a mental illness.

Mental illness affects one in four of the population at some point in their life. Mental illness is when the feelings and emotions that we have go out of the spectrum of ‘normal’. If we have a diagnosed mental illness and then go through grief, it could exacerbate the pre-existing illness, but the grief itself isn’t an illness.

It is important to talk about mental health and mental illness and to encourage people to seek help when and if they need it. However, it’s also important to understand that it’s okay to feel. Feeling sad or upset in response to difficult life events – included, but not limited to grief – is absolutely normal.

It’s important to be open with each other when we are struggling, and to reach out for help. It’s important not to squish it down, ignore it, and pretend it’s not happening, because it’s likely to just blow up at some point. It’s important to go to your GP if we feel as though you’re struggling with mental illness. But it’s also important to remember that feeling is normal, feeling is okay. It’s normal to feel sad, upset or low at times, especially if someone close to use has died.

Featured: http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/naomibarrow/grief-mental-health_b_16345246.html

Can We Please Talk About Death?

~ Naomi ~ 1 Comment

My Mum died. I didn’t lose her – she was in the lounge. She didn’t pass anything, death isn’t an exam and what does ‘pass away’ even mean?! She died.

You can talk about her and mention her name without whispering it. It’s okay. I like talking about her. I like remembering her. I like hearing stories of her.

I’m sick of people treating grief like a broken eggshell. Talking about it will not cause your own parent to die. Death happens to everyone, so surely we need to work out a way to talk about it?

I posted the above on one of my social media channels the other day. I was really surprised by the response. So many bereaved children commented saying how much they agreed. They also included the awkwardness that comes when someone says ‘I’m sorry’. How do you respond to that? I always say ‘well it wasn’t your fault’, but that sounds callous. As does saying ‘well it was a long time ago’, or ‘it’s okay’.

Nobody knows how to talk about death. We resort to nonsensical euphemisms. Nobody knows how to talk about grief. People whisper. Or they blank words out of sentences. It’s awkward and uncomfortable. Death and grief seem to have become one of the biggest taboos in our society. It’s really quite odd, because death and grief happen to literally everyone, so of all the things which could be taboo, it’s a bit bizarre that death has become one of them.

Rio Ferdinand did a fantastic documentary the other week where he spoke about the death of his wife, and the grieving process that he continues to experience. He spoke about his worries for his children. He spoke about his resistance to therapy, and later his need for it. It was raw, open and honest. It was refreshing to see an honest account of grief on a national TV channel. We need more of it.

Grief is horrible and unpredictable. It will affect everyone differently, and different people will need different approaches when it comes to talking, or helping. But rather than projecting your idea of what constitutes ‘help’ onto another person – why not just ask them what they need, or what they would find helpful?

The only way we can start to break down the walls that death puts up, is to talk about it. The only way we can begin to ‘trial and error’ our way through the language surrounding death, is to begin to try, experience a few errors, and slowly work out the best way for these conversations to happen. Death and grief aren’t a big black hole that needs to be avoided at all costs. Talking to someone about it won’t make you fall in the hole and keep falling until you can’t get up.

Please ask your friends if they would like to talk about their dying family members. Please ask your friends and family if they would like to talk about their dead family members. It might be awkward and uncomfortable, especially to begin with, but death happens to all of us, and slowly, together, we can work out a way to talk about it in a more comfortable way.

Featured: http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/naomibarrow/can-we-please-talk-about_b_15940260.html?utm_hp_ref=uk-universities-education&ir=UK+Universities+%26+Education

Mother’s Day Fundraising

~ Naomi ~ Leave a comment

Mother’s Day is next Sunday – last year we did some fundraising for Yorkshire Cancer research. This year we are continuing our fundraising for Martin House Children’s Hospice. Mum worked there for many years before later becoming a trustee. We are trying to raise £5000 to restore the lighting in the corridor of the children’s bedrooms which will not only brighten it up for them, and highlight the incredible artwork on the walls, but also reflects Mum’s light and bright personality.

This Mother’s Day we’re asking you to donate the cost of a card in memory of all the Mums who can’t share Mother’s Day with us this year.

To donate, please text ‘LOVM53’ followed by your donation amount to 70070 or visit our Just Giving page.

 

Art Journaling

~ Naomi ~ 4 Comments

A few months ago, I started art journaling. I now journal most days, and I absolutely love it.

I’ve decided that one of my new life goals is to be one of those people who always has some paint somewhere on their body/hair/clothes. I do it for myself, not others but I’ve started to post some of my pages on 04.jpgInstagram, and sometimes also share them on Twitter and Project 365. People often thank me for sharing them, comment that they can relate, tell me I’ve inspired them to start journaling and share their journal pages with me. I absolutely love hearing from all of these people, it’s wonderful. I’ve shared it with my GP, and other health professionals a few times, which I’ve found to be really useful because sometimes I struggle to communicate with words, so paint can help. The response I’ve received, coupled with the amount I felt it was helping, but also challenging me, and some great sessions doing it alongside a friend, have inspired me to keep going.

Quite a number of people have asked me how they could start art journaling. I am by no means an expert on the subject (I make it up as I go along to be honest), but I thought I’d attempt to write some tips on how you could get started, and to answer some of the questions that people have asked me, so here goes…

What is art journaling?

According to Wikepedia, art journaling is ‘a daily journal kept by artists, often containing both words and sketches, and occasionally including mixed media elements such as collages.’. I wouldn’t really say I was an artist… to me art journaling is expressing myself in a vaguely arty way, in the form of a book, so I suppose the whole concept of ‘keeping a vaguely arty journal’ is open to interpretation, and up to you to make it what you want it to be.

The Book

However you decide to journal, you’re going to need to start with a book in some form. For17270804_1159074677538533_1120881872_n some this could be a lined notebook, or a book with black or coloured pages, others might like to do an altered book. You’ll also need to decide what size you want it to be, and what sort of binding. I personally use an artist sketchbook because the pages are a bit thicker, and I tend to use a lot of paint/glue/things, mine is A5 because I felt like I’d get overwhelmed with anything bigger, and smaller would be too fiddly, and mine is casebound but if I was buying a new one I think I’d get a spiralbound one because it’s exploding a little at this point.

Equipment

05.jpgOnce you’ve got a book, you need some things to help you fill it. I’m a big fan of paint – it features on most of my pages. I personally use acrylics, but I’m not really bothered about brand or anything like that. Sometimes I add water to it, sometimes I use it in a thicker form, I often paint over other things. You don’t need to use acrylics, though, you could use poster paint (which is usually cheaper) or any other paints that take your fancy.

A printer can be useful to print your own photos, or letters, or anything else you fancy popping in. Magazines can be good for those sort of things as well – free campus newspapers are a good start, or I often use the Aldi specialbuy magazines. You can always pick up gossip magazines pretty cheaply (or if you’re feeling brave enough to ask, you might be able to inherit some from a doctor’s surgery).

Wallpaper can be great for different textures and patterns. I’ve never actually bought any, I just collect samples from B&Q, Wilkos, Homebase, and The Range.

27.JPGIn terms of a hierarchy of journal needs, I’d put some form of marker/pen near to the top. This can be sharpies or felt tips… anything you fancy writing with. I started with some glittery gel pens which I picked up from Morrisons which are good because they wrote over paint. As time’s gone one, I’ve picked up sharpies in different colours and thicknesses, some metallic markers, and a white pen.

You’re likely to need some sort of glue – pritt stick for paper things, PVA for tissue paper, cocktail sticks, or bits of sponge, and bostik if you need something a bit more hardcore for sticking bits of CD or things like that. I also have Mod Podge, but I’m still a little undecided on whether I’m a modpodge fan or not.

You might like to use some other art things like chalk, pastels, pencils, colouring pencils, ink, graphite pencils, watercolour pencils, or anything else you might associate with ‘art’, but they’re not essential, it just depends on the sort of thing you want to create.

If you want to do more mixed media type things, it can be good to pick up random bits and bobs. I use a17092837_1151419201637414_765826869_o lot of found objects like sponges, cut up CDs, cocktail sticks or toilet roll – I just collect them when I find them and keep them in my ‘box of stuff’. I have other things in there that I’ve bought specifically, too, like ice lolly sticks, tissue paper, and string. Personally, I also love polyfiller – it’s not made specifically for art purposes, it’s for fixing hole in walls among other things, but it’s really good for creating different textures.

Another thing you might want to buy is some form of plastic sheet (if you’re like me and tend to journal on the floor…). I just picked up a kid’s party tablecloth from the 05.jpgsupermarket for a couple of pounds which does the job and makes it easier to clean up.

If you don’t feel like using a lot of stuff, or getting much out, then that’s okay, too! Do a sketch page, draw something and colour it in, print a few pictures and write something over them. I love messy journaling, but I know lots of others don’t, and that’s absolutely okay.

Where to buy stuff

A lot of people art put off starting a journal because of cost, but it really, really doesn’t need to be expensive. Personally, I do own a fair amount of artycrafty stuff, but I’ve been collecting it for about ten years. You really, really do not need to break the bank. You also don’t need to go out and 10.jpgbuy everything all at once, I tend to just pick up little bits as and when I feel like it (or as and when I have money…), and have built up my collection that way.

The Works is good for cheaper art bits. They also often have mixed media bits for a pretty good price.

As well as having wallpaper samples, The Range do a lot of art bits, normally at a pretty decent price.

Supermarkets often have a stationary/kids craft section now and I often find things there, whether it be pens/markers, or fun things to stick in. They also often sell glue and string.

Poundland sometimes do acrylic paint and often do washi tape or other things you can stick on.

WH Smith do a lot of traditional art things, sketch books, and some children’s art things which are sometimes cheaper and can often be quite fun.17236856_1159084200870914_1478726121_o.jpg

Hobbycraft is heaven in craft form. They don’t tend to do things quite as cheaply as The Range or The Works but they have some wonderful and exciting things which you can treat yourself to.

B&Q sell polyfiller, and have wallpaper samples. They also have lots of paint chips which you could use for the names or the colours.

I live in York, so I’m lucky that we have a lot of local independent shops. But there may well be some in your area so it can be good to have a potter. They often have owners who will chat to you and offer advice and tips, they might even know of local art/craft groups you could go to which can be great for meeting others and finding inspiration.

Inspiration

I am constantly inspired by those around me. There are some fantastic art journals on Instagram and Tumblr. Some of us have started using the tag #journalthefeels, but there are loads of other tags out there that people are using such as #artjournal, #arttherapy and 16990766_1147368452042489_1259755976_o.jpg#journalpages.

Whenever I find a quote or lyric that I relate to, I copy and paste it into a word document. It’s an ongoing thing, about four pages long now – others might write them in a book or something, I just find a word document easier because I can delete them when I’ve done them. I tend to find the quotes/lyrics on the usual social media sites (pinterest, tumblr etc.), through books that I read, or through songs that pop up on the radio or my Spotify discover.

Pinterest has a lot of journal prompts, too, if you’re struggling for ideas.

Top Tips

As I said before, I’m by no means an expert on all of this, but I’ve come up with a few top tips which are hopefully helpful:

  • Let your book evolve with you. When I started, my book was a bit more ‘formal’. The front page is my safety plan and there are other pages in there like ‘Coping With Flashbacks’, but as time’s gone on I’ve done it in a much ‘looser’ way. I don’t tend to do specifically therapy-type pages and just go with how I feel in07.jpgstead, because I find it works better for me. Others will be different though and will prefer the more ‘formal’ type of approach. You might start your book one way and then move in a different direction and that’s okay! Let it grow with you.
  • Do it for you, first and foremost. We spend so much of our lives trying to please other people, or trying to do what we think others want us to do. If you start posting photos of your work online, especially, it’s very easy to fall into the trap of trying to do pages you think others would like to see, or ones you think will get you the most ‘likes’. It can also feel like once you’ve started posting, you have to post every page. You don’t. This book it yours, not anyone else’s. Hate paint? Don’t use it. Not a fan of quotes? Don’t use them. Want to just paint a page black? Go for it. It’s your book.
  • Just start. Staring at a blank page or a blank book is super hard. If you’re anything like me, a white page invokes fear and ‘argh’ feelings. Get rid of the white, even if you don’t know what you want to put on the page.
  • Everyone is creative, and you’re not bad at art. So what if your school art teacher never gave you a decent mark? Who cares if the arty mess that you make on a page doesn’t fit your traditional perception of ‘art’? If you enjoy it then it doesn’t matter. If you find it to be a helpful way of expressing yourself, who cares what it looks like? I personally don’t believe that there is a single person on this planet who ‘has no creativity’, it’s just that everyone’s creativity looks different.
  • It’s never going to be perfect, so don’t even try to make it that way. I really, really struggle with this and it challenges me daily. I can always see ways I could improve things, or just think things are rubbish, but perfection is an impossible goal, so there’s no point even attempting it.

This has become incredible long, but hopefully it’s readable and helpful. I absolutely love seeing other people’s journals and hearing their ideas, so if you journal too, or this has inspired you to start – please share it with me if you feel up to it!

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The Sound Of Grief

~ Naomi ~ Leave a comment

Mum was a bundle of energy. As I frequently say to people – I’m not sure I remember her ever really sitting down until she became ill. She was always moving, always on-the-go, always running from one place to another doing various activities.

Our house was always a busy one; three children, a handful of friends, a collection of musical instruments, a pet or three, and every now and again an extra ‘borrowed’ pet. It never was going to be the quietest of places.

If there wasn’t a hum of voices filling the house, there was music. Mum played the saxophone (foghorn) and was part of a band. My Dad and one of my brothers played the piano and we had a drum kit in the lounge. When people weren’t making their own music, the CD player was on in the kitchen – Mum often put Caro Emerald on and danced round the kitchen whilst cooking or baking. There would normally be music coming out of the lounge, too, and at least one bedroom.

When Mum first became ill, the house only became noisier. I had moved to uni by that point but would come home most weekends and whenever I did, there were visitors. I don’t think there were ever just five of us in the house. Mum’s friends from uni would visit, or some family would have travelled up North. At the very least there would be some friends from the village or a neighbouring town popping in.

A year after Mum was diagnosed as terminal, she ended up in a coma in hospital. At that point, she was silent, but her room wasn’t. You would imagine someone being in a coma in the middle of the room might result in a bit of a sombre atmosphere, but it really wasn’t. We would spend most of our time there with various combinations of family and friends. It was almost a happy atmosphere – people were sharing stories and memories. There was laughter. I remember tearing up at times, but on the whole I remember feeling like although we were separate from the world and time lost all meaning; laughter and smiles prevailed through it all.

Once Mum came home from hospital, the noise subsided. We still had visitors, people still came to see her – in fact I only remember a single day between her coma in February 2015, and her death in October 2015, when I had some time alone with her – there was always someone around. It was quieter, though. Visitors would sit in the lounge with Mum just talking, or with the TV on in the background. There were occasions when it was busier and louder, but on the whole I remember it being more still.

On the one day that I was alone with Mum, the silence was almost loud. Mum slept for most of the morning. There was nobody else in the house. It was still and so quiet. It no longer felt like my house.

I remember staying over at a friend’s one night, and in the morning we were woken to a clattering in the kitchen and the sound of general family life. Until that point I hadn’t realised how much my house had stopped sounding like a home.

When Mum died, the house was full of people. The church was full of people. There was hardly space to breathe at times. There were words, there was music, there were children running around, adults talking, people generally catching up and exchanging memories and condolences. People speak more softly when someone dies. I’m not really sure why, but they do.

Mum died in October, her funeral was November and then it was Christmas. Throughout all of this time I carried on living at uni. The house I grew up in wasn’t home any more. The sound of it was wrong. Life became quiet. Having too much noise put me on edge and made me feel horrible – grief sensitised me to sound and I just couldn’t deal with anywhere particularly busy or noisy.

I’ve well and truly moved out now, but each time I pull into Dad’s drive, I still expect to see Mum running around the kitchen or working in the office. The house doesn’t have the ‘right’ sound any more.

Mum had so much life, love, and passion in her. She lived every single day. She tried new things, loved her job, cared for each of us, had fun with her friends, and picked up various hobbies. She wasn’t quiet, and neither was her personality.

Grief is so loud yet so quiet at the same time. Slowly, slowly, I am able to listen to, and enjoy music again. I can have the TV and the radio a little louder. Some songs or sounds will still set me off. I’ll be trundling along and out of nowhere a song or a sound will hit me, my chest will explode, and I will cry and cry. That can often be a relief in a strange sort of way, though. Sometimes you really need to cry.

I’m not ‘there’ wherever ‘there’ is. I will never live another day without grief, but I am learning to live alongside it. It doesn’t go away, but it does get better. The ‘I can’t breathe’ moments become further apart. I’m able to listen to music again, I finished a book the other day for the first time in years, I can put the radio on, and at times I can play the music super loud in my car and have a good old sing-a-long.

One day, I will have my own kitchen, I will embarrass my family by cranking up the CD player (or whatever magical invention exists in the future) and singing along to whatever music takes my fancy. I will have a house that is a home. It will have its own sound. It will be full of love and light, just like Mum was.

This was originally written for Let’s Talk About Loss, a safe space to talk through taboos and address the reality of losing a parent when you are young.

Featured: http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/naomibarrow/grief_b_15181620.html