Resistance is huge for me. I have so many intentions to heal. Sign up to the latest programme that gives me hope, the latest therapist and engage positively up to a point and then something happens and I’m wading deep in old patterns of self hate and self sabotage. It manifests in watching too much crap reality TV so that I don’t have time to think, reflect and just be, so that my leisure time after the kids are in bed in focused around the TV – there’s no space for anything else. And socialising – so much resistance to that! And I have good reasons to back up my resistance – social anxiety is so uncomfortable, my alone time so precious, so why would I trade the relaxing and comfortable for the paranoid, heart racing unsettling. And yet I struggle with feeling lonely, with my life feeling barren of meaning, of sustaining life affirming connection. I get frustrated with myself but with some work I have moved from a position of habitually berating myself and giving myself a hard time for not being more open to new experiences because that’s an intense swirly downward spiral of self hate. And kicking my self up the arse never achieved much anyway – you can’t get much out of social connection when you’re in survival mode, it is just a matter of surviving it, and waiting for the relief of being back safe at home. But there is something about kicking myself up the arse I need otherwise I’d just be a formless blob on the floor.

Listening to Irene Lyon earlier about befriending resistance, which is not new, but I haven’t really looked much into the source. What am I resistant to?

  • Intimate relationships
  • Structured healing time
  • Healing
  • Finding life easier
  • Forgiving myself
  • Socialising
  • Going to bed
  • Dropping this private identity of someone who doesn’t cope well with life
  • Flow and fun
  • Living

Its hard to believe in the idea that resistance is there for a good reason, that it has developed in order to protect myself from something. It is easier to believe it is more a fundamental flaw in my character epitomised by laziness, fear and deep feelings of futility – the fear of failure, the acceptance that failure will be part of the outcome so why bother trying in the first place. So I stay stuck. How to befriend resistance, to walk alongside it? When I think about the feelings of futility, my ambivalence about my life despite having two great kids (how fucking ungrateful am I? roars that hateful voice in my head, and I agree) it does feel like a very young part of me. The part that kept myself as small as possible in all ways in an attempt to avoid the wrath of my dad. The part that learned I was too much, too needy and that my needs could never be met and there was only me to rely on despite the knowledge that I was fundamentally bad wrong and unlikeable. And when I think that, it’s no wonder I am constantly trying to flee from myself via TV, drugs, etc. My granddad was the only one to show me any softness and offer the comfort of his knee, but with that came his hands down my pants, so no wonder it’s hard to let my guard down, no wonder I have resistance to intimacy, to finding any safety there. So the resistance shouts NOOO!!! Don’t let go! Keep yourself locked in tight. Another part of me says, yes but all that stuff was so long ago – you haven’t had any contact with any of them for over 20 years, why are you still so stuck? And I guess that’s the thing, with a deep resistance to trusting life and the people within it, I keep myself very small and that in turn limits my ability to rewire those experiences, so it’s like a self perpetuating force shield – resistance means I keep myself safe, but also means I limit my capacity to grow and form new core beliefs. Oh to feel some sense of victory in survival instead of feeling so done in by it. I want to be better at surviving, I want to feel more flow, have easier access to happiness – especially when it’s right there for the sharing with my kids – instead of turning away, keeping myself perpetually mundanely occupied with petty “useful” tasks so I can justify being, trying to fulfil a role and keep going.

I understand my resistance to forgiving myself, I’ve done a lot of thinking about that and get glimpses of the grief under all the self hate, the shame and the blame. I have moved slightly, and I do actively remind myself that self compassion makes life easier and I have notes stuck up all over the place to remind me. So I guess understanding what drives that resistance has been helpful in trying to make space for something else. It’s not about tackling it full on, but about making space round the edges for something softer. Slowly slowly, and it’s hard not to get frustrated with the pace of it, of my ability to change. That aggressive voice of GO GO GO and the feeling that it will never be good enough, that I’m a waste of space piece of shit who will never amount to anything is always shouting at various volumes in the background. Another insight into why it’s so hard to believe in my capacity to change so that I can live life with more ease.

So what can I do about that? My foundations are built of all that stuff, no wonder it’s hard to be a solid adult. In terms of befriending the resistance, maybe it’s about using my imagination to sit with that young part and say I know that you are scared, and to stay frozen seems like the safest thing to do. If that was me with an actual child, I wouldn’t say “Get yer coat on, we’re going on a train to the city.” I would do things little by little to gradually build up a sense of internal safety, and of course there would be freak outs along the way – I’d try and go at the child’s pace, not push my own. It feels like what underlies all the things I feel massive resistance to is fear. For me, resistance is fear and I need to sit alongside that to understand what would help, to respect that being frozen makes me safer (not in reality, but in this concept of resistance), to listen to the pace that young part can tolerate instead of pushing through with the force of the sergeant major that’s so familiar.

Resistance is fear. It is the child in me knowing that the best thing I can do to survive is stay out of everyone’s way, be invisible, say small and frozen – it is definitely not standing up and saying I want more, I deserve better than this, which is what I’m trying to do now. That would’ve been very dangerous. Hence the resistance.


…..And so more pieces come together…..


Posted in healing, mental health, trauma, Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Glimpses of new possibilities


Change is a happening in me. In a good way. An unfolding, an opening, and uncurling unfurling. A new place. A new way of being with myself, a new way of dealing with things. Just starting. Glimpses of new possibilities.

I went to the dentist on Friday and did my usual thing lying in the dentist chair with my mouth open, telling myself over and over in my head that nothing bad is happening, it’s all ok. I’m lucky I get to see the same dentist every time and even luckier that he is a decent man who doesn’t seem to judge me. I told him when he first became my dentist that dentists were difficult for me and I had some related trauma and although we don’t talk about it, he heard me. On Friday he was looking at my x-ray a bit mystified and I started saying “I’m not making it up, but..” and I was going to say maybe I was overplaying it as I have a tendancy to trivialise and felt embarrassed and like I was wasting his time. He reacted incredulously with “I’m not in any way suggesting you are making it up”… Then I became aware of the tears, the feeling of utter devastation, the bottom dropping out as is fairly familiar. The glasses steaming, the tears silently torrenting. I couldn’t get them to stop for the rest of the consultation and he didn’t comment, and I appreciated that.

I felt the frustration of my own weakness and inability to do a seemingly normal thing without feeling traumatised. I knew I’d been triggered and instead of angrily batting it away, I gave myself little moments to be curious and by the next day I understood more about what had happened. It was something about the dentist and his tall male assistant walking round me lying down reminding me and making me feel very unsafe, and the echoes of being force fed with a metal jaw clamp in psych hospital as a teenager, and my dad pulling my tooth out with the red handled pliers when I was a kid; along of course with saying “I’m not making it up” and how that fits in with it all, cos still now I think I made it all up or exaggerate the truth. And the feeling of being in the way, of attention seeking, of asking for something I did not deserve. Zapped me right back to an overwhelming blend of those times. I’ve been here before, but there’s something new in being more open to it, to letting myself join the dots. Usually I am so desperate to regain self control and the most efficient way to do that has been via self contempt and self hate – a great and all consuming distraction. It feels much healthier and actually healing to let myself join the dots, but has been a surprise in how much pain there is, how much it hurts, how deeply. The loss, so much grief and loss, the physical intolerable pain of that – I remember living with that as a kid, how exhausting and soul destroying it was.

 It is so fantastic having a break from work and routine, it is so what I need. More space. Enough space to feel like I can operate from a place that isn’t perpetual overwhelm. I am realising how much I depend on that routine to keep myself scrubbed up clean. Yesterday, I washed my hair and body for the first time in two weeks. I have always hated washing and not enjoyed baths, but after a weekend in a field, I eventually managed to get myself in there and it was a good experience. I had lots of bubbles, lit a candle and rolled myself a joint. I have been doing fortnightly sessions with a trauma therapist via skype since Easter, working on the level of the nervous system and my startle reflex has really calmed, which is profound for me as that has been one of the most horrible daily symptoms I have lived with. It has been amazing at times to realise I didn’t do the electric shock jump jolt to an unexpected noise, and others have noticed and commented on my lack of reaction too. A big focus of this work is about trying to be in my body more, which I have a lot of resistance to and it’s frustrating how difficult I find it to feel bits of my body and what’s going on in it. In the hot bubbly bath, I became aware of how uptight I’d been holding myself physically and emotionally for ages and willed and talked myself through letting it go, “It’s ok, everything is ok. There’s nothing to be stressed or worried about. Everything’s ok. I’m ok. I’m safe” etc. Then I moved on to feeling my body in the water, and for a while I was able to inhabit it and it felt ok and even nice in parts and I talked to myself some more “This is what it’s all about. Feeling ok in this body right here right now. This is what it’s all about. This is what it means to be ok, to feel ok” and some tears and surrendering. How awesome to be able to feel that. I feel very grateful.

 There’s a big hunger in me for being witnessed at the moment, I guess it’s always been there, but it feels like it’s shouting in a different way now. Like I have all these intrusive images and I want to be able to hand them over to someone with all the physical details and the emotional devastation, just hand it to someone for them to put in a box and bury it deep in the ground. I don’t want to have to look at it anymore, I want it gone. I have a fantasy that this is possible via a morning with an understanding therapist and some MDMA. The fantasy of handing it over, of being in control and not feeling retraumatised, being done with it, having it gone. Having more moments like I had in the bath.

Posted in dentist, healing, mental health, ptsd, trauma, Uncategorized | 9 Comments

A day out with the kids

I wanted to write this to share some of the ways past trauma leaks into my life today. Not in a poor me type way, just to share how it manifests in subtle ways, as it does in many of our lives creating additional challenges others might not imagine.



A close friend had taken suddenly very ill a few weeks ago, (thankfully she is slowly getting better). She is a generous and supportive friend and fairy goddess mother to my youngest, who turned 11 this week. They both share a birthday and as a way to celebrate, she had booked a day for her and my two kids to go to Bricktastic, a Lego convention in Manchester. Because of her poor health she could no longer take them, so it was down to me.


I was looking forward to it, as her and the kids were so enthused about it when they got back last time – the amazing models built by hobbyists, the freebies, the big builds they could get involved in, etc. I was anxious about one thing and that was getting there. I played this down, but looked it up on map and planned our route, thinking that the most straightforward way would be on a bus from the train station. It looked like an easy route, and my friend assured me it was indeed very simple.


We got off the train in Manchester in good spirits and headed for the bus stop. I tried to make sense of what the route map was trying to tell me, which was difficult, but I was reassured by the fact that it was a circular route. When I am stressed, even just a bit of ordinary stress, my brain finds it very hard to make sense of things, to take in information. This gets compounded in an unfamiliar place around lots of people. In order to cope with the stress and stimulation, I seem to shrink in my awareness, so it’s like I’m in a globe ball and everything outside it gets shut out, but it’s very isolating and hard to make contact with anyone, which I find pretty scary anyway. So, we got on the bus, and after about 10 minutes, I plucked up the courage (this sounds pathetic I know – I am an adult woman, a mother) to ask the driver which stop we needed to get off at. He said we’d got on the bus going the wrong way and that what we needed to do was to get off at the next stop and catch the bus going in the opposite direction.


That sounded simple enough, so we all got off. For a reason I can’t explain, I could no longer trust we would get there on the bus, so our best option seemed to be to walk. I was calm at first as we walked in a random direction whilst I tried to get a map up on my phone. The boys were calm and fine with not knowing where we were or how we were going to get there. My incompetence with technology frustrates me at the best of times, but to be in this situation where it could be really helpful if only I had the basic skills to use it fed into my rage at myself and added to my stress. Eventually I gave up trying and took another deep breath to go and ask for directions. I’m not sure why, but I always find it really difficult to ask for directions, scary and unfamiliar – something about asking for help and how visible that makes me. And then of course, I can’t retain the information.


I repeated to the kids immediately what the man in the shop had said, and we headed off in a promising direction. After a while we got to a really busy shopping area with roads going off in all directions and again the disorientation of sensory overload meant I couldn’t think straight. I had no idea. I asked a couple of people for directions who couldn’t help and that was my courage spent. We scrutinised sign posts, and stood about in a sea of people whilst I tried to work out what to do next. I spotted a map board in the distance so we headed there and I managed to look up the place we were heading, but couldn’t make any sense of the map. My youngest suggested we should head off back in the direction we had come, which we did for a while, but then it became clear that was not the way, so went back again to the map. I knew I had to do this, that this was our best option and stood there willing my brain to unfuddle. Eventually I managed to do what I needed, which was flip the map in my head so we could work out which way to go, and this time we headed off with hope of getting there.


By this time the stress and overwhelm was such that tears flooded my eyes and then wouldn’t stop. As we walked away from the crowds, my youngest looked up to me and said “Mummy, are you crying?” The shame. The shame of feeling so easily overwhelmed, of having the ground disappear from under my feet, of the physical fact of being lost and how that triggers my own internal disorientation. “I can’t even do this. I’m forty fucking four and I can’t even take my kids on a nice day out without going into melt down.” Etc, etc. The map of two straight lines I’d studied the preceding day taunted me, “Not even that. What’s so difficult?” The shame of people seeing me in the middle of Manchester crying with two kids in tow. We stopped at a shop to buy drinks in a bid to normalise and try to pull myself back together and stop the tears falling. My eldest said, “It’s ok mummy, we’ll be there soon.” I usually manage to keep my meltdowns hidden from them and felt bad that they were the ones reassuring me. Walking again, I thanked them for being so lovely, because they really were heart warmingly lovely to me, and apologised for being in such a state and the tears slowed down.


We got there and we had a good day – the kids had a lovely time, and I was really glad and grateful we did something nice together, something different. But it reminded of me of why my life is so small, why I don’t arrange to do such things off my own back with the kids. It makes me feel so pathetic, but it’s the reality of my limits, which I pushed at a cost and won’t have the resources or the courage to do again for some time. It reminds me of how getting a GPS for my car a few years ago felt extravagant but has totally transformed my experience of driving, taken the stress away, a visual contradiction to my raging self doubt at the smallest decision. We did it though, we got there! We got lost again on the way back, but it was tedious and tiring more than stressful. A messy disorganised brain makes it challenging to step outside my comfort zone. I need a life GPS, telling which way to turn, what decision to make – that would take the stress away. And I guess that’s what I’m trying to do – rewire my brain – it just takes a long time and a lot of commitment.


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A letter to my dad

It’s Mental Health Awareness week here in the UK, and also locally there’s a festival Pushing Up Daisies: creating conversations around death, dying and bereavement both of which inspired me to write this letter to my dad today. He died a few years ago. I cried a lot when I wrote it, which is new for me and feels healthy and healing.chasm

Dear Jim, my dad,

Four years ago, when I found out you’d died, I was visiting Karen in France with my 2 kids. I was confused when we got there, because despite the anticipation it was clear she didn’t really want us there. We stayed in a caravan with no windows adjacent to her’s in a dilapidated, once upon a time, barn and she would drop us off by the nearest river where we would entertain ourselves as best as we could for the day while she went about her usual routine. It was isolating and stressful and I felt angry with her for inviting us when she so clearly couldn’t handle us being there. As the days unfolded, she told me you had prostate cancer and on the day before we left, she got a phone call from mum to say you had died. She couldn’t look at me. I tried my best to be there for her, to offer my condolences as angry tears spilled down her face. I felt like a hypocrite and she assumed the same and could take no comfort from me. There was just hot spiky anger and I felt like an intruder as she blanked me and I disappeared and tried to explain to the kids and keep them quiet.


Karen’s friends gave us all a lift to the airport the next day and they hugged and kissed her and told her how sorry they were. With the wind blowing in my face in the back of the car, I was struck how no one had ever said sorry to me for the things you did and it was like the cultural silence once again deafened me. She was relieved to say goodbye as we were dropped for a long wait at the airport where I tried to answer the kid’s questions about you – a man they’d never met but were intrigued about.


Back in the UK, I started to sift through my feelings and watch as new ones arose over days and weeks. I had been estranged from you and mum for over 20 years so I didn’t expect to feel much, as cutting you out of my life had been a very positive decision and one that was no doubt easier for you too. Without your hatred and your blame, I had been able to grow stronger and healthier, but you were harder to banish from my head and lived loud, doubting everything I did and telling me how crap I was. Initially, after your death, I felt a massive relief, a liberation that I would never have to fear you again, a sense that I could move on, that this was a new chapter. And then came an unexpected grief as I realised a hope so dormant it had long been forgotten. It was grief from the tiny child part of me, the one who had left those scribbled love letters by your bed telling you how sorry I was for being such a bad girl, and how I would try harder to not make you so angry. I thought she had been killed off by your beatings, by your hateful insults, by the hopelessness, but she was still there. At some deep down level, I still hoped you would tell me that I was ok, loveable even, so that I could have that voice inside me too and start to believe it. I grieved the loss of that whisper of hope.


I wish the things you said to me in anger and hate were as easy to lay to rest as your body must’ve been, because although it happened so long ago they stay with me, are part of me like the blood coursing through my veins despite years of therapy. You broke me Jim, and it is hard to believe I will ever mend. For the stuff you did to me, and the stuff you let others do to me I don’t blame you for, I blame myself. I still believe if only I’d have been better behaved, been more compliant, been less compliant, I could’ve stopped those things happening – I could have stopped your prodigal son, my brother from raping me, etc etc. I know you had a cruel and loveless childhood and were the scapegoat in your own family, and I know how that feels and can understand how hard it is to parent after that. That’s the bit I can’t forgive you for – how you have impacted my beautiful innocent kids, despite them never having met you. Parenting with PTSD brings up your voice loud and clear, the one that says I contaminate everything I touch, that whatever I give will never be good enough. Triggers spin me out less and they get older and I have had years to acclimatise, but still I hate you for handing me this legacy, for the way that despite my best efforts and conscious parenting, I know that my trauma runs through them in a more diluted form. I will have to hand the baton of “breaking the cycle of abuse” onto them as I have not entirely managed it. At least I’m trying though.


I have no doubt you rest in peace, if there is such a thing, and I wish you no less. I do wish we’d been given the opportunity to have a better relationship though, and that is what I mourn, rather than the one we actually had. Through you, I have learned determination – to keep trying when I fail – because I want more for my kids, and I am in the position to commit to that. I traverse the chasms, cling on by my finger nails, at times frozen in cowering terror, at others putting one foot in front of the other left, right, left, right; still trying to silence your voice in my head.


From your daughter, Ruth.

Posted in healing, mental health, parenting, ptsd, sexual abuse, trauma, Uncategorized | 8 Comments

My ideal mum

Image result for nurturing mums

I’ve been really struggling again recently, like existentially. I find it so difficult to find any peace inside myself and life feels like a perpetual slog to the next bedtime. A few weeks ago I was thinking about how I am not suited to life, how I’ve rarely found a comfortable place to sit within it. And that’s the crux of it – I just want to feel ok, to feel relaxed and at ease and like it’s ok to be me and be here. I’ve been reflecting a bit on my relationship with my mum recently and realising the impact of not feeling welcome. I’ve always been resistant to mother blaming as it feels so unfair and I’m by no means perfect, but here are some of my thoughts if you’re interested.


I grew up in a dysfunctional and abusive family. My mum wasn’t able to mother me. She was no narcissist, she was emotionally absent, overwhelmed by the demands of life and occasionally cruel. I would sit dutifully on her Dad’s knee on our Sunday visits whilst he drooled with his hands down my pants and she sat opposite talking about some crap with the air spiky with tension. She would quickly walk out of the room and shut the door when my dad came in to punch and kick me for some invented crime and I felt a sense of gratitude he beat me and not her (or my siblings) because I knew she wouldn’t cope with it. I learned she couldn’t cope with me either, my needs or demands and over the course of my childhood I learned to turn my yearning for her into hatred, because that way I was the one doing the rejecting and there was a comfort in feeling more in control.


When I was 21, during another suicidal crisis which landed me in psychiatric hospital, I cut off contact with my family. I was tired of being laughed at and humiliated for being the odd one out, the mad one, the one who failed to cope. It was a tangibly liberating and empowering decision and one that I have never regretted. I have pushed down any sense of neediness and instead focused on my strength and independence, but there have been times I have longed for the comfort of the mother I never had.


I have had a fantasy mum for a long time. She is bulky and strong and she sits on the floor and holds me in her nest of legs, hugging me in her strong arms rocking me and singing and stroking my hair. I feel very alone in the world and sometimes this image makes me want to cry. The time I have most grieved my mother who never was was when I pregnant with my first child. Out of the blue one day came this deep need to feel held and wanted and nurtured. It was hard to put into words, and confusing, because I knew I didn’t want my actual mum, and it was hard to let myself feel needy, but that deep unmet yearning was full of grief. I have felt guilt for my children not having grandparents or extended family, especially when they have expressed curiosity. I am 44 now – a single lesbian parent to 2 boys of 13 and 10, whom I love more than I thought possible. Parenting with PTSD has by no means been an easy ride but in my love for them, in my determination to provide some basic sense of security, I realise how lacking my own childhood was.


The other day, I was prompted to write a letter to my inner child about my responsibility to parent them which gave me some more insight:


Dear Little One,

Theoretically, I can imagine you exist, but find it hard to get any sense of you, and my immediate response is anger and hatred, so I’m going to talk to you as if you are one of my own children and see where we go from there.

I am gonna feed you and give you snugly blankets and a nice soft bed. A torch you can reach easily should the monsters come. I’m gonna build a barricade in front of your bedroom door and stand there feet apart, daring anyone to come near (just like you tried to do yourself that time you spent ages sellotaping your bedroom door shut), but this time you don’t need to wait in fear of the inevitable because I am there and no-one will cross me. I’m gonna hold you close on my knee, or you can use me as a chair and we’ll watch TV together and eat crisps. I’ll strap a hot water bottle to your belly and you’ll have the softest fleeciest pyjamas and you will know you are loved, because when you are scared or needy, I will not turn my back.

I’ll help you find your place in this world – show you the seat that is yours at the table, equal to all the other seats. And I’ll ask you what you want, encourage you to have your own thoughts and be interested in what you think. I’ll make space for you, want the best for you. I’m gonna stay until you feel safe and you understand that there is a space for you here – show you how to inhabit it and feel comfy there. Let you know that all that is wrong with the world is not your fault. And I’ll stay until you fully believe it.

Love from The Big One.

Posted in healing, mental health, parenting, psychiatric hospital, ptsd, sexual abuse, trauma, Uncategorized | 1 Comment

My week at Heal for Life UK


This is a mug I bought on the way back to remind me of my week at HFL


I finally feel like I am resurfacing after a period in the depths. I just got back from a week at Heal For Life , a programme run by and for survivors of childhood trauma. I’ve been wanting to go for ages after a friend enthused about her experience of the programme, but fear and practicalities of work and parenting kept me away until now. I booked it about a year ago and in the couple of weeks leading up to it I felt in fear and dread and wondered why I was doing this to myself. A lot of my life is spent on that precarious knife edge of just coping, with wobbles feeling like they could descend into full on break down at any time and it almost felt inevitable that this would be the outcome of any in depth explorations of past trauma. I’ve done a fair bit of therapy over the years and spent long periods feeling stranded scared and stuck, and berated myself for not being able to let go and move on. Most recently I had some brilliant psychology support where I came to understand that the main thing I need to do to heal is forgive myself but that’s so much easier said than done. I feared that a week at HFL to focus on myself without the pressure and distraction of having to keep all the other life stuff of kids and work together would mean that I would fall apart.

I’ve not done much conscious processing since I’ve been back, it’s like I’ve slammed the lid back on that box for now in an attempt to re-orientate and adjust back into my home life, but the week, it spoke deeply to me. There is so much I could say, but I’ll try and stick to the headlines. Firstly (because it’s the most straight forward), the setting was idyllic in the grounds of a massive estate far from civilisation and other people. There were trees in the woods I’ve never seen before, magnolias in flower, cherry trees laden with blossom, the rich purple, green and white of bluebells and stitchwort, abundant cowslips and primroses, and hidden away, the biggest badger set I’ve ever come across with their amazing excavations out of the chalk and flint. I saw hares, deer and a fox. Wondering amongst that generous beauty was a great source of comfort and felt like a gift.

On the night we arrived, we were given an overview of the week where one of the team said it was basically about love, to which my automatic cynical response was “yeah right” and I had no concept of what that meant. But the love that was offered over the week was consistent, open hearted, boundless and profound. I have never known or experienced love like it – total unwavering acceptance from each member of the team throughout the week – they were really there for us without agenda other than to support. Love indeed was the key and it moved me deeply, was something I had never imagined possible, and I feel so so privileged to have experienced that. It questioned my fear of people and made me wonder about the possibilities if I could allow myself to be more open in my wider life.

The week was long and full and structured and held. I realised that I have been locked in a battle between my wounded child and punishing parent since my kids were born. I was able to tolerate listening to a bit of what the child part of me had experienced all those years ago and understand the importance of being open to listening more and experimenting with some compassion towards her and to allowing her to have a voice. I need to work a whole lot more with breaking down my resistance to that, but I have some great models from the love of the team to help me internalise. We learned about practical ways to de-trigger and were shown ways to become better parents to ourselves. We were given space and structure to explore our pains and remember our strengths – it was great to remember what a feisty rebellious girl and young woman I was because she has somehow been forgotten and to remember that fearless spirit surviving however she could gives me hope that there must still be some of that fight in me somewhere.

There’s lots more to say, but I’m going to leave it there for now. If you are still battling your demons though, I would say that going on a HFL week might be the greatest gift you ever give yourself. And we deserve it. We deserve to be deeply moved by love and acceptance, and support in finding ways to move forward….  Love love love. Love love love. Love is all you need.

Posted in healing, mental health, ptsd, sexual abuse, trauma, Uncategorized | 2 Comments

#FacesOfPTSD not all wars take place on the battlefield



#FacesOfPTSD not all wars take place on the battlefield

This is a post in support of the #FacesOfPTSD campaign challenging the idea that most people suffering from the effects of PTSD are survivors of military trauma. You can find out more about it here:

I am such a techno dinosaur that I’ve spent ages trying to insert the image I created but have still not managed so this will have to do.

For me, living with PTSD is the electric shock jolt of an over active startle response to any sudden noise or movement, it is shouting at my kids when they think it is funny to make me jump and feeling like a fool in the park when I drop to my knees with my hands over my head because a tiny dog has suddenly come from nowhere into my line of vision. It is my kids having to repeat something simple to me 3 times before I can hear it because I just can’t focus. It is shaking and sweating in the dentist chair. It is the inability to filter our unwanted stimuli so I get sensory overload in many situations, but most annoyingly in the supermarket sending me into panic even though I tell myself nothing is wrong. It is the nausea caused by full on smells you know cannot really be here now in this moment. It is the difficulty managing everyday stress like the dog barking and the kids trying to tell you something whilst your head feels like it will explode. It is me berating myself for being triggered again.  It is the unpredictable dark shadows and the dreams that mean sleep is not your friend. It is having a very small life because it takes all your energy just to manage that. Generally my PTSD is at medium volume,  on rare occasions low volume and at times of stress so painfully loud it feels like my skin is peeled back.


Posted in mental health, parenting, ptsd, Uncategorized | 1 Comment