Our 2018 in Brief

This is one of the first photos I shared in 2018, along with the caption “it’s tough my dear, but so are you” - we had just found out we would need IVF in order to have a family, and were readying ourselves for what we figured would be a pretty difficult year. 

Little did I know that getting through 2018 wouldn't just take courage, but some yet unknown force I didn’t know I had in me, that we didn’t know we had in us. 

It was without doubt the most challenging year of my life, the year I felt what it was like to have to reach out and grab bits of myself to stop them floating away, to have to physically hold my heart together and claw my way through the days. It may not have looked like it, and I’m not sure it’s even a good thing but I’ve become an expert at putting on a brave face, at holding tight.

In January, we had our first specialist fertility appointment, and learned we needed private IVF - we were told the chances of D having sperm were very slim and to start readying ourselves for the possibility of using a donor.  I became the manager of the place I work, took on a third more hours, and began the juggle of holding together a career and a very fragile state of mind. 

In February, we had our first appointment at Bourn Hall in Cambridge. We were told D needed surgery to see if he had sperm. He was put on medication for three months to increase the chances and we were given around a 30% chance of success. 

In June, after three months of medication we had finally reached the day before surgery. D was told on this day, with just hours to go before he was due to go under general anaesthetic to find out if he would ever have biological children, that his teaching contract had come to an end and would not be renewed the following September.  

He had the surgery, and after waiting in his hospital room for four hours I realised, at last, and with absolute certainty, that I didn’t care what the outcome was. I just wanted him back, both back from the operating theatre and back from the very dark hole teaching had left him at the bottom of. 

We were told that afternoon that he had no sperm, and that he would never have a biological child. We already knew we would continue with a donor and D said to his surgeon exactly what he had always said to me, they may not have his DNA but our children will have everything else he has to give them. We booked an appointment to discuss donating some of my eggs, and counselling to talk through the legalities and ethics of donor conceived children. 

In August, we had the most incredible family holiday in Cornwall. I watched as D became best friends with our nephew, and looked on with unwelcome envy as my parents showed him ‘our’ Cornwall, something I have dreamt of them doing with our own children for years now.  

When we came home, I trained six new members of staff in the space of two weeks, and had nine blood tests in the hope of becoming an egg donor. D began a new career which has absolutely changed his life. There is a metaphor somewhere in here about the similarities between a cup of coffee and a bucket being lowered down a well to haul him back into the sunlight. 

In October I was told, over the phone, as I walked on my own through a very drizzly Norwich that I have a chromosome abnormality. This means I have a higher chance of miscarriage, I can’t donate eggs and that we couldn’t progress with IVF without having our embryos screened. 

I thought on that day, thirty four months after deciding to try for a baby and £5000 into treatment that my resolve was finally broken.

But on the next day, my Grandad died. 

Somehow, from somewhere, whatever it is that holds all the little bits of me together found the strength to hold on a little tighter. I went to see him at the funeral home, and a week later I watched my family carry his coffin even though the thought of it had terrified me for more than ten years, since I first learned my Dad wanted to do that last thing for him one day. I spoke aloud at his funeral, and I practiced that poem until I knew it by heart, just like he said you have to when you have to speak in front of people.

In November, we went to Addenbrooks and a genetic counsellor drew my family tree. When Grandad became a little box on a screen with a cross through it, I held on tighter still.

In December, our much loved IVF clinic told us they couldn’t treat us anymore, and that we would have to find somewhere new. I managed our little shop through the most hectic week of the year and we had our busiest Christmas Eve ever. 

And now, that year is over and we’re already a month into a year that feels totally different. We’ve started proceedings with the place that will be continuing our treatment and already it feels like exactly the right path for us. It finally, finally, feels like we might have regained some control, like maybe I can begin to let go of the bits of me I've been so frantically holding together, and instead take hold of the wheel of the ship. 

On New Years Eve, we talked about how incredible we are. Not only have we held ourselves together, but we’ve held “Us” together too. We have so much support and love around us and we could never have done it without that of course, but we realised that had things been the slightest bit different, if blame or resentment had been allowed to creep in, directed in either direction, then that invisible force might not have held. But there wasn't even a whisper of it.

2019 will mark sixteen years of “Us.” Moving forward with treatment will require us to display to someone who makes decisions about funding that we’re in a strong relationship.

Strong? 

They don't know the half of it.  

IVF: The Journey So Far

I realised today that it's been almost six months since I last wrote anything about our journey to parenthood. I haven't really gone into too much detail here, because this isn't only my story to share. It belongs to both of us. 

We've both had a lot of time to process what's next for us now, and ahead of another appointment today, and having just returned from an amazing family holiday to Cornwall which seems to have hit some sort of reset button (and explains the photo with our nephew) I thought it was about time for an update.

So, if you've been reading for a while, you'll know that back in November last year, we found out that there was no chance at all of us conceiving naturally, and that IVF would be our only option if we wanted to have a baby through pregnancy rather than adoption. 

D, my husband, had taken a semen sample to the hospital to be tested, precisely timed and nestled in his arm pit so it didn't get too cold. A week later, our doctor phoned while we were on holiday in Sweden, and initially he told us that there weren’t enough sperm in the sample to test, so it would have to be repeated. I was so relieved. So relieved that there was something wrong. My worst fear had that point had been that everything would be fine and we’d be sent away to carry on the monthly torment by ourselves, but no, this was something we could hopefully do something about. Also, not enough sperm must mean some sperm, right?

The test was repeated the following week and we went to the doctors together to discuss the results. It turns out not enough sperm did not mean there were some sperm. While the rest of the sample was made up of everything that’s supposed to be there, in both samples there had been a total volume of 0% sperm. Not even one. 

‘Not even one’, were my first words once we’d heard the prognosis. In that very moment we became part of a whole different system, a whole different community of people. We weren’t trying for a baby anymore, we were dealing with infertility.

The doctor told us about there are two different types of azoospermia, which is the medical name for an absence of sperm in the semen. Obstructive, where the testicles make sperm but it can’t get through because of a blockage or similar, and non-obstructive, where there is a problem with sperm production. He referred us to a fertility specialist at our local hospital to start investigating which D has, and explained that surgical sperm retrieval and IVF would be our only option if we wanted a biological child. 

We had to wait two months for that appointment, and sitting in the waiting room among all the other couples in January felt bizarre. How had we ended up here? This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. 

The specialist booked us both in for more blood tests, to check my egg reserves and to check D’s testosterone and FSH level, and also to check for any chromosome disorders and to make sure he wasn’t a carrier of cystic fibrosis. I also had an internal ultrasound to check my uterus and ovaries all looked ok. I’d been remarkably ok until the nurse turned the screen towards me, just like they do on the TV, when couples get the first glimpse of their growing babies, and showed me how very non-pregnant I was. Everything looked absolutely fine, but seeing something so inherently linked with having a baby when I wasn’t hammered the whole situation home. 

The doctor told us he suspected non-obstructive azoospermia, most likely caused because of an operation D had when he was child to lower his testicles, and that the blood test results would tell us more. This operation was routinely performed later in a boy’s life during the nineties, but more recently (because those boys of the nineties are now men trying for families) doctors have realised that if left too long, it could affect the fertility of as many as 90% of men who have had it. D was around seven when he had his, and it would now be done before a baby boy turns one.

So, off we went to get our bloods done, clutching a slip of paper with the details of Bourn Hall, a private fertility clinic. This set of blood tests would be the last we could have on the NHS because in our area, male factor infertility isn’t funded at all.

A few weeks later, in February this year, we were trapped in the depths of 'the beast from the east.’ However, we battled though the snow drifts to the Bourn Hall clinic in Cambridge to see their andrologist. Up until this point, we had no idea what the word andrologist even meant, but it transpires that it is the male equivalent of a gynaecologist and he would hopefully be able to give us some more answers. 

He looked at D’s test results, and confirmed that his low testosterone and high FSH level indicated non-obstructive azoospermia. He drew us a very nice squiggly diagram to explain, but basically his body wasn’t producing sperm properly, and his pituitary gland was shouting at his testicles to make some, hence the high FSH level.

He prescribed Clomid, which is off-lable and untested for use in men, and usually only prescribed to women. However, he said he had seen some very promising results and that it has been known to trigger increased sperm production in men in a similar position to D. 

After three months of taking Clomid, D would be booked in for surgical sperm retrieval, where the surgeon would search under a microscope for any sign of sperm, and freeze any he found.  

So, three months later, at the beginning of June, we headed back to Cambridge for D’s operation. We had been given a 30% chance of finding sperm, so were prepared for bad news, but I still felt incredibly anxious about how I would feel if we found out we could never have children that were biologically related to us both. I couldn’t imagine looking at our children and not seeing the man I have loved for 15 years in them, and I worried that D would use it as a weapon against himself when he was caught in the sometimes cruel and judgmental downs of bipolar. I was terrified of how I would feel, but tried to remind myself, as Professor lupin once said “That suggests that what you fear most of all, is fear itself. This is very wise.” It didn’t feel very wise, but as we signed consent forms and the very-funny-nurse explained how to correctly wear the paper pants (i.e, not on one’s head) and D strolled confidently down to the operating theatre, I tried to hold that thought. 

Something quite unexpected happened while I was waiting for D to be brought back up to his room. In between trying to drink the nasty coffee machine hot chocolate, listening to the Harry Potter audio books and watching the clock incessantly, I realised I didn’t care what happened. When D had been done for two and a half hours, and I began to realise that this meant the search must have gone on much longer than the anticipated 45 minutes, and this in turn meant that it had more than likely been unsuccessful, I just wanted my husband back awake and safe, and ready to be a Dad however that happened. 

After three hours, he was wheeled back in by the very-funny-nurse and shortly after the surgeon came in to confirm that he hadn't found any sperm. And we were ok. We said that we thought that would be the case, that we were prepared, and that we had been waiting so long for a family that we were almost past caring how that happened. And surprisingly, we meant it too. 

The very-funny-nurse came back to explain how to correctly place gauze in ones supportive pants (with detailed mime accompaniment) and we drove home. The following day we called the clinic to start the process of IVF with donor sperm, and although we’ve been expecting the weight of the situation to come crashing down on us, so far, we’re ok. 

We still have huge difficulty with the fact that we’re not yet parents, and I’ve found myself feeling really angry that this is happening to us. The price lists continue to appear, and  the waiting for appointments seems to go on forever. We’ve recently had to confirm that we’re not at risk of harming any child born as a result of our treatment which was nothing short of insulting, but as so many people have told me, its just another tick in a box.

We’re hoping to glean as much positivity from the situation as possible. As well as having a family of our own, I’m hoping to become an egg donor too so we can help to complete another family too. On the day we found out we would need to use a donor, I couldn’t help but imagine another family, in the exact reverse of our situation, or a same sex couple hoping to have a baby through egg donation and surrogacy. We’ve been stuck in this nightmare for  over two and a half years, and if we can help someone else wake up from it too I can’t possibly not be a part of that. I’ve been provisionally accepted to donate, so I’ll be writing more about that process too. 

So that's where we are Today we’re having counselling, and an appointment with our consultant, and then there will be another long wait for my final blood tests to come back to confirm I can donate eggs, then it should be full steam ahead with our first cycle. 

I’ve you've made it to the end of this - thank you! The support I've found online, particularly on instagram has been incredible and I cannot thank the people who are also sharing their stories enough. I’ve said it before, but this can be a very lonely place to be, and having other people to call on who know exactly how it feels is absolutely invaluable. 

Some Grateful Thoughts on Friendship

I've never been one for big groups of friends. I am a definite introvert (well, webtrovert really but that's a different story) and crave my own company, so without really being aware of it, I've always been quite selective about who I choose to open up to and spend time with.

I've been thinking in the last few weeks about the types of friend I have in my life. One of the lovely, and absolutely unintentional things that happens when you're honest about struggling with something is how many people rally round to prop you up. I've been feeling so lucky to know so many people who may not have any idea what this feels like, but who somehow seem to know just what to say...

There are the friends who were once colleagues and who I miss everyday. The ones I cleaned up bodily fluids with, looked out for and kept safe, argued with over the best approach to a situation, and compared bruised shins with after one of 'those' days. To quote J.K Rowling 'there are somethings in life you can't share without ending up liking each other' and it turns out working in SEN is definitely one of them. When you've wiped someone else's spit off each others faces, laughed till you've cried about how ridiculous your job is, asked 'is my forehead bleeding?' and inadvertently shown them your boobs while trying to prevent a child pulling you over by your clothes, there really is no going back.

There are the friends who were once 'best' but who, as often happens when you go on separate adult journeys, I don't see very often anymore. Every few months, or maybe even longer, we meet up for a catch up and put the world to rights over eggs benedict and tea, and at the end of the conversation she simply says 'let me know if you need anything.'

There are the friends I call family, the ones I've known since we were both babies. The ones who I forget to reply to and catch up with via our parents letting me know what they've been up to but who still know exactly what I'm thinking. The ones who pop in to see me at work, and forgo all the 'stay positive, it'll happen, at least you have an answer' conversation and just go right in with 'this is shitty isn't it, and it's bloody unfair that it's happening to you'.

There are completely unexpected friendships. One of the people I most enjoy spending time with is 13, a big fan of sausages and Mr Tumble and technically my employer. I love hearing about his day, teaching him how to buy his shopping, watching him carefully make choices and most of all hearing his jokes. He is the epitome of doing what makes you happy without giving two ticks about what anyone else thinks; whether that's echolalia re-runs of countdown, jumping, flapping and clapping as fast as you can or telling me, with half a grin and twinkle in his eye 'giraffe, hippopotamus and elephant are too big for a pet.' He has no concept of the worries of adult life, as long as there is gravy, he's happy and that's so refreshing to be around.  

There's the friend affectionately known as 'work-mum', who would be the first person I'd call on if my  actual Mum was away. The one who I have the same shared experiences with as my other colleagues but with whom I also share a love of sewing, house plants, swapping books, drinking coffee and 'putting the world to rights in a safe space' (read: bitching) Always on hand to help me out with the above friend, and he loves her just as much as I do.  

There are the friends I talk to everyday and who I tell absolutely everything to. The ones I send pictures of my dinner to, who know when all my appointments are. The ones who's conversations start with 'what's a Prince Albert?' and who I messaged within 30 seconds of flushing my moon cup down the toilet. The friends who talk so often I wake up with 85 unread messages if I have an early night, and who I can message at midnight with 'who's awake' when I'm feeling like a horrible jealous person and someone will be there to say 'I get it.' These three girls get me through my days.

There are friends I haven't known for very long in comparison to some, but who I knew immediately would be in my life forever. Who I can be completely honest with, cry in front of and tell off for not eating any lunch! The type of friend who knows the minute they look at you that you're not ok, and who will rush over to give you a hug.

There's the friend I hadn't seen for five years, but who can still effortlessly teach me things just like when we were at uni together over a decade ago. Who I can talk with all day as if we've never been apart, and who I'm still convinced lived a parallel childhood to me.

There are the friends I've met online who I've never met in real life. The ones who message after I've shared a vulnerability to say, "me too, I know just how you feel.' The internet has many flaws, and I've fallen victim to lots of them, but one of the things I have always found, particularly on instagram is how supportive the community is, and I'm still always surprised by the number of people who pop up to say, "I'm with you. I've got your back."

There's my best and oldest friend who I sometimes don't see for months or speak to for days but it just doesn't matter. Long distance friendship is a tough thing to deal with sometimes. It's rubbish when all you want is a Chinese and a chat with the person who knows you the best of all, but when you both understand that life just gets in the way sometimes, when you've both got jobs and mortgages and no money left to buy fizzy sweets, never mind train tickets or petrol, you get by with making plans and reminding the other that you love them lots.

I'm pretty lucky, don't you think, and I'm grateful for that every day.

Letting Go Of What Was Supposed To Be

D and I met when I was 14 and he was 15. He was older and cooler and two years ahead of me at school. I took GCSE music in a bid to impress him (daft idea) and we quickly became pretty inseparable.

He asked me to be his girlfriend in April 2003, when he had just turned 16 and that was the beginning of the last fifteen years. In 2007 we went to university in Leeds and in a damp and draughty back to back terrace we made our first home together. In 2011, in the week before we came home from Leeds, we bought an antique diamond ring and managed to keep it a secret from everyone until D proposed on a clifftop over a year later. We had an engagement shoot in that spot a few weeks later, and swiftly went into full time wedding planning.

Little did we know that the planning would be somewhat interrupted. In 2013 we bought our first house. We'd fallen in love with it and somehow managed to completely miss that it needed a huge amount of work doing to it. We spent the next year, and rather a lot of money, completely overhauling it and ended up with a beautiful, very stylish, teeny-tiny home that wasn't big enough for a normal sized sofa but which we were so proud of.

In 2015, 12 years after we first got together, we finally got married and as much as I know it's the worlds most often used cliché, it really was the best day of our lives. I said in my vows that on that day, we became part of the same team, and we had a pretty clear vision of the next move for our little alliance...

I remember asking D when he was about 17, 'You do want to have kids one day, don't you?' and can still see the look of fear in his eyes as he tried to work out what the right answer was! I'm pretty sure at that point he said 'yes' just to make sure I didn't break up with him, but over the last decade we've moved on from discussing names and cooing over tiny clothes. We've imagined Christmas morning, discussed our thoughts on schooling, dreamt about teaching a little tribe about life and generally planning for our lives as parents.

Just a few weeks after we got back from our honeymoon we put our tiny cottage on the market and sold it in less than 48 hours. After an incredibly long and stressful few months of arguing with the land registry and spending half our waking hours on the phone to the solicitors we moved into our current home. It has three bedrooms and a downstairs toilet, a safe back garden and double doors into the living room that we immediately pictured throwing open on that fantasy Christmas morning. We'd bought our family home, team Nickerson-Smith HQ, and all that was missing were the final members.

We'd decided when we were planning our wedding that we'd start trying for a baby the January after we got married. When January 2016 arrived and I didn't fall pregnant straight away we remained excited, optimistic. My Mum had fallen pregnant with both me and my sister in the first few months of trying and I was sure I would too. We started talking names, looking at nursery decor, even buying the odd tiny item of clothing. I bought D a mug with the words 'The Adventure Begins" emblazoned on the side and imagined handing him a coffee with a grin on my face and watching comprehension dawn.

But then six months went by. Then nine months. In September 2016 one of my best friends had her baby girl and it hit home then that whole human lives had been created in the time we'd been trying to make one of our own.

It was around this point the we started to feel a bit panicky, and that I started to feel emotions I hadn't expected to associate with starting a family. Guilt, fear, resentment, even jealously. It's the most horrible feeling when you realise your first reaction to a family member announcing they're pregnant isn't joy, but to burst into tears because you wish it was you. Of course the joy and happiness is there, but it's accompanied by a bitter side note of 'it should be us by now.' I think I'll write in more depth about this as it's been something I've really struggled with. D has continually tried to remind me that we don't know everyone's stories, and as more and more people around me (both in person and those I follow online) seemed to be announcing they were pregnant, I've tried really hard to remember that not everyone shares their story and they might have gone though the same torment as us before sharing their joy. That's part of why I'm so keen to talk about our journey. Every time I've mentioned it briefly on social media I get messages from people saying 'us too' and while sharing is a completely individual decision, I think we'd all feel less alone if more people who felt able to talked about it.

I've been through numerous cycles of thought about changes I can make; I've given up caffeine and drunk green smoothies, cut back on red meat and spent £30 a month on the best fertility supplements I could find. I've practiced fertility yoga, carried crystals in my pocket, used a fertility monitor and hounded D the minute he got through the doors because 'the egg is showing today and we only have 12 hours before we've missed this month'.  On the other hand I've also somewhat hit the self destruct button, thought 'f**k it, it's not working anyway so I'm going to drink all the coffee and wine I like and see if that works because celery and water clearly doesn't!'

Of course, none of this made any difference, and in February 2017 we decided to start investigating. My first round of blood tests came back fine and it appeared I was ovulating normally. The doctor told us that 80% of fertile couples will conceive in the first year and that of the 20% that don't, half of those will conceive in the second year. He told us that in his experience, once couples start looking into why it's not happening, the reassurance that everything seems to be fine is enough to take away the stress that was preventing them falling pregnant. I went away feeling sure that it would happen soon - what were the chances of us being in that 10% that don't manage to fall pregnant in the second year...

We carried on trying for another nine months, all the time getting more and more certain that there must be something going on with one or both of us that was preventing us from becoming parents. We started decorating the smallest bedroom in the hope it might instill some positivity, and every so often I'd get out the little collection of tiny clothes and blankets we'd accumulated and hope it wasn't all pointless.

Then, in November last year, we got the results back from another round of tests and discovered that we were indeed in that 10%. There's a reason is hasn't happened for us and without intervention there's no chance at all of me falling pregnant naturally. It's been bizarre to realise that all the stressing and worrying and day counting and supplements and laying upside down would never have made any difference.

I'm still not sure it's really sunk in. We have our first appointment with the fertility team next week, and after that we'll being the process of IVF.  I feel like we've suddenly become part of a whole new community, and while it's a relief that we don't have to 'try' any more, it's going to take a while to come to terms with the fact that our journey to become parents now will be largely a medical process.

Mostly we're hopeful, a bit of us is even a little excited. Meanwhile a lot of us is terrified and there's definitely still a bit of us both grieving for the way we thought it was supposed to be.

But theres no point dwelling on that. This is the way it will be and as usual, we'll meet each new challenge together.

Some Thoughts on Mental Health

Yesterday (October 10th) was world mental health day. I wasn't going to post anything, but this morning I woke up feeling like there were things I wanted to say.

To me, having periods during your life where you need some extra support with your mental health is absolutely normal, mostly because nearly everyone close to me, including me, has had some experience of struggling with theirs.

My first experience of this was seeing my Dad suffering with depression when my sister and I were young. Of course at the the time we didn't really know what was going on - Dad lost lots of weight, wasn't going to work and the smallest little thing would make him snappy. My Mum then went through a similar thing a few years later, and was diagnosed with SAD, or Seasonal Affective Disorder and continues to feel like doing nothing but sleeping every time winter rolls around.

When we got married two years ago, all three of my bridesmaids were taking some form of medication to support their mental health. In fact, I've just done a quick count and I can think of 11 people in my life who have sought medical help at some point. Some have had a short course of medication, some have been referred for CBT or other forms of talking therapy, some will take medication forever and others have chosen not to take medication at all.

The person who's mental health has the biggest impact on my life (apart from my own obviously) is my husband's, and its because of him that I've decided to write this. He's bipolar, and is quite clear that it's something he is, not something he has...

When I first met D, he was 15. He had always been ahead of his peers academically, but he approached his GCSE years, that thing that happens to many of us happened and people started to catch up with him so he wasn't the clear high flyer that he had been. His ability hadn't lessened of course but the pressure of achieving to the level he felt people expected started piling on top of him, and he started punishing himself for not doing well enough. He started to fear failing, to fear letting people down and adopted a self-sabotaging mentality that if he didn't try his hardest, he couldn't fail. He's pretty sure now that this was the trigger for it all, and many of the feelings and behaviours he experienced during this time still affect him 15 years later. We got together when he was 16, and when I found out he had been self harming I made him promise he would never do it again - I realise this probably wasn't the most sensible thing to say, but it scared me and I just wanted him to stop. Self punishment and self sabotage is something he still struggles with, and he's since found new, less obvious ways to self harm.

So, what's it like to live with someone who is bipolar? Sometimes it's the best fun ever. Part of D's experience with it is periods of 'mania' where he is effectively stuck in a super excited state. He'll play silly games, come up with elaborate stories about characters he's invented, he'll be really spontaneous and fun and confident and get loads of things done. He'll invent elaborate theories and problems to solve, get really stuck into things and try to make everyone laugh. But he'll also be unable to switch off and sleep, absolutely useless with money and get frustrated when I remind him that we really can't afford to go out for dinner again, or buy something elaborate that we don't really need (a fire pit being the most recent example of this.) He can't sit still, has a really short attention span, and relies on games on his phone to keep his brain moving. So it's not that much fun really.

On the other hand, there are the down periods, and they're really no fun at all. If I could sum up in a sentence what it's like during these times, I would say he feels absolutely worthless and subconsciously sabotages everything he does. He forgets to eat, he could sleep for 20 hours a day, and everything that is of any benefit to him, including self care becomes a struggle. He feels like the 16 year old who purposely didn't try his hardest so that he wouldn't fail. I've come home from work to find him laying on the floor in the kitchen because he was supposed to be having an interview the following day and didn't want the job, but had got himself in such a state about having to tell people he wasn't going because he didn't want to let them down. Food is a huge issue for him, especially when he's in one of these down periods. Since I told him not to self harm in the way he used to as a teenager, he's used binge eating instead. I didn't know the full extent of it until I found the wrappers and packets hidden in his car one day. Obviously, he knows about a lot about food and what he should and shouldn't be eating, and food is a massive passion for both of us, but this is something completely separate. Sometimes he's bought and eaten things before he's even realised what he's doing, and the worse for him it is, the more punished he feels.

It's a pretty exhausting thing to live with. Sometimes I'm able to be completely supportive and after 15 years I've learned when he needs me to lay on the floor with him, and when he needs me to be firmer with him, and be the person that pulls him out of it. Sometimes though, and especially when my own mental health is a bit wonky (thanks to my friend Dave for that analogy) I'll admit I can't deal with it. Sometimes, when I'm met out of work by a person who hasn't had a shower and hasn't eaten all day or considered what we're having for dinner that evening I just can't do it and I want it to go away. I've been known to get really cross with him, and to tell him I don't get why making a sandwich or booking a haircut is such an impossible task, but that's neither helpful or true.

Would I really change it though? Obviously I'd rather he didn't struggle so much with day to day things sometimes, but for the most part, no, I really wouldn't. Something D is adamant about, and which I totally agree with is that being bipolar is something he is, not something he has. He doesn't know who he would be without it, and as much as he struggles sometimes it's definitely made him more determined to beat the things he finds hard. So much of what he's achieved wouldn't have happened if he hadn't been in one of his super motivated manic phases, and I would never ever want him to stop telling me stories and playing daft games in the middle of the night. As for the days when he doesn't want to get out of bed, it's best explained by an analogy borrowed from Stephen Fry: without the demons in life, he wouldn't know the angels.

He hasn't always been open about his struggle, but for the first time in his working life his current employers are fully aware of it (and are amazing which is something to hope for for everyone!) Yesterday he shared a little on Instagram so I wanted to elaborate a bit further. D's particular flavour of mental health has a name, but I really don't think that you have to have a diagnosis to need some support with it. I've never been diagnosed with depression, or anxiety or anything with a word that defines it, but I have definitely had times during my life where I've struggled. Before we went to uni for instance I lost an awful lot of weight because I was so anxious about it all, I've had some time off work in recent years when everything going on became too much and I just needed to remove something from my life for a few weeks in order to get things back to a more balanced state and I've written at length about my suspected orthorexia. I also had some time off school when I was around 11, and at the time the doctor suggested medication to my Mum. I vividly remember her saying 'No, it's ok, she can do it on her own'. Now Mum, if you're reading this, I am not in any way blaming you, and I know you don't even remember saying it...but what a daft thing to say!! For years I felt like I wasn't allowed to feel down for no reason because D was the one with the diagnosis, like I couldn't talk about things because people were struggling more than me, and I could do it on my own.  

I suppose what I'm saying is that actually, while the much bandied about phrase of "it's ok to not be ok" is perfectly true - there must come a point when it's really not ok, to not be ok.  If you're struggling, talk about it. If you feel like you can't deal with something, or your mental health is negatively affecting your life, talk about it. Nobody is happy all the time and being sad and upset is totally ok, but once it starts affecting your sleep, your eating, your energy levels or your job - talk to someone about it! If you choose to go to the doctors, you're not wasting their time. Your friends and family won't think you've 'gone mental' or that you're making it up or looking for attention.

Unfortunately not everyone finds it as completely normal as me and my family, but the more we talk about it, and the more people who are honest with their employers about why they need time off, the more accepted it will become and the more supportive we will end up being as a society. People will still have complete meltdowns because they can't bring themselves to take down the Christmas tree and they've got to go to a family party later on (I'm looking at you, husbundo) but hopefully with the right information we'll all be more able to support each other when these meltdowns do happen.

Here are some links to places I think you'll find interesting if you've made it to the end of this post:

Kat at Blue Jay of Happiness writes extensively about mental heath. The first post of hers I read is about the language we use when discussing mental health, and it's definitely worth a read.

My beautiful friend Ria was featured in a short BBC documentary recently  'A Tattoo to Change your Life about getting a tattoo to cover up her self harm scars - I can't watch it and not cry.

This CEO who's response to a colleague being honest about the reason for taking a day off is perfect!

And a couple books we've both loved, not specifically about mental health, but definitely useful:

Ice Cream for Breakfast by Laura Jane Williams
Instrumental by James Rhodes

And of course, if you're struggling and don't feel you have anyone you can reach out to, The Samaritans are fantastic, and you can call them free 24/7 if you need someone to talk to.

Mind can also help you get urgent help, and have a plethora of information about mental health issues and how to help other people who may need your support.

Some Thoughts on Balance

This week I spent some time with my grandparents. While I was there something happened which made me recognise quite how far I've come in the last few years, nothing groundbreaking or exciting but something which two or three years ago would have made me panic. 

My Nanny offered me a sandwich! 

I know right - shocking! I'd arrived just before lunch and while I was too late for shepherds pie, there was a ham and mustard sandwich on offer, and without thinking I replied 'Oh yes please, that would be lovely!'

A few years ago I would have made an excuse and left before dinner, but I was enjoying talking to my Grandad - he's not been well in the last year or so, and a conversation with him these days can be hard work sometimes; he forgets peoples names and misses out crucial words or starts a story from the middle and you end up trying to piece together what he's trying to say, but today he seemed quite bright, and we sat in the conservatory with a cup of tea while he told me all about his new glasses, Nanny's hospital appointment, how my Aunty and Uncle are getting on with renovating their house. Before long we were back to the story of how he converted the loft fifty years ago, how he met my Nanny and what happened after he was demobbed from the RAF (which I've heard dozens of times but will happily listen to over and over!)

But, back to the sandwich! From the age of about 20 I suffered with acne, and after trying everything under the sun to get rid of it, I finally cracked it just in time for our wedding with a combination of diet, amazing skincare (from wonderful Louise at U and Your Skin who I've written about before) homeopathy (from Kathy, another huge support) and I think most importantly - changing my mindset! While changing my diet did help cure my skin to a certain extent, the way I went about it wasn't especially helpful for my relationship with food! As you know, I am a massive food lover, recipe book collector and fan of exploring new cafes and restaurants. However, I took the advice of the wonderful dietician I saw WAY too far and ended up completely destroying this healthy relationship! Overnight I gave up sugar, wheat, dairy, caffeine, red meat, alcohol, anything refined and basically any chance I had of eating anywhere socially! I stressed myself out so much over what I could and couldn't eat, I overdosed on herbal tea in a quest to find a 'builders brew' replacement, and I cried in the city centre because I was hungry and couldn't find a single thing I deemed myself allowed to eat! I lost a lot of weight, and it wasn't until I saw a video of myself that I realised how thin I was! I've since heard the word 'Orthorexia' being used to describe this fear of eating or drinking the wrong foods, and while I'm not sure I'd go as far as saying I had an eating disorder, I certainly wasn't very far off and my mindset definitely affected my way of life for a while. 

It also dawned on me around this time that my skin was changing, but not necessarily as a result of my crazy strict eating. I know that too much still sugar makes me feel awful, and that too much dairy gives me a bumpy forehead and spots on my back (glamorous!) but the acne I experienced on the rest of my face was so much better because I had started to balance my hormones and, crucially for me, I had stopped looking at my face! I was so bored of thinking about it all the time that I covered up all the mirrors in the house and made a conscious effort not to look at it!

So, I decided to relax my food choices a little and see what happened! I went with the mentality that I would only eat something I previously wouldn't have done if it was really worth it: the best sourdough bread, organic cheese (goodness I missed brie!) and I started saying yes to pudding in restaurants if there was something I loved the sound of. I started baking at home again which I used to adore and I suddenly felt like I'd got my recipe books back after discounting so many of them because the recipes didn't fit with what I was 'allowed'. 

This is how I continue to eat most of the time, very low sugar, not too much dairy, lots of vegetables and the best indigents I can find; if I fancy some chocolate it'll be the darkest organic I can find, or I'll make the molten chocolate pots from the Hemsley sisters book. I started drinking tea again, mostly organic decaffeinated (Clipper is my favourite) and after searching for a non-dairy milk that didn't split and failing to find one, I started using organic whole milk. I slowly let the things I thought were terrible creep back in occasionally, and you know what - my skin was fine! In fact, my more relaxed mind set combined with some light therapy (again at U and Your Skin) made my skin look and feel better than ever! I also remembered how much I love food, how a glass of red wine makes a meal a little more special, how much better fish and chips taste when you're sitting on the beach, and how visiting Cornwall without eating a scone with cream and jam is something close to sacrilege! 

So, was a ham and mustard sandwich worth it? Was it the best wholemeal bread I could find, filled with free range organic pork and perfectly seasoned with great quality mustard. No, it was a day old white sliced loaf from aldi with wafer thin ham and fluorescent yellow english mustard. But was it worth it - it definitely was! 

My Nanny used to cook the best food. I spent a lot of time at her house when I was growing up, and a lot of my favourite food memories are there. Her chicken korma with raisins and coconut that always felt so exotic, butterfly cupcakes she taught me to make all by myself (along with the wisdom that you never beat with a metal spoon and never fold with a wooden one!) ham egg and chips on a tray in front of the tv, a slice of warm tea cake in the afternoon, and the best porridge in the world, made with whole milk and finished with double cream, and big knob of butter and a sprinkle of brown sugar! 

There's been a long running joke that you can't go into my Grandparent's house without being offered something to eat or leaving with a food parcel. We used to get told off for eating Grandad's yoghurts or ice creams and they really do have a jar of Werther's Originals in the dining room (and the living room for that matter!) Nanny has always fed people, but she hasn't cooked for me in a long time. I know it was only a sandwich, but she cut the crusts off the bread, sliced it into four triangles and offered me crisps, an apple, a yoghurt, a cereal bar and a Kit-Kat, trying to make sure I was full enough! My Grandad set the table just like he always has. I got moaned at for having my fringe in my eyes and tutted at when I said no to sugar in my tea, and we sat at the table to eat together just like we always have. 

So, I think I've finally got things balanced. I feel really lucky that I know how to cook and eat well, and that I live in a privileged country and earn enough money to have such an amazing choice of food to buy. I love to cook and eat healthily, but I also love to eat with people and let people make food for me, and that is sometimes just as important.

Oh, I said yes to that Kit-Kat too...

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The Good Life Experience 2016

One month ago today we were on our way to the Hawarden Estate farm shop in Flintshire, the car full to bursting with tent, blankets, welly boots and marshmallows and positively fizzing with excitement about arriving at The Good Life Experience festival!

The lovely people at Pedlars invited me along, and I really couldn't be more grateful! The Good Life Experience was founded in 2014 by four friends who shared a vision for a festival unlike any other, one that reflected the need for a return to a simpler way of life, a life closer to that of our grandparents, where we shopped local, our food came from the ground, we supported makers and craftspeople, spent less money on 'stuff' and more time creating memories and relishing in experiences, particularly those that took us outdoors and got us using our hands. Pedlars founders Charlie Gladstone and his wife Caroline, musician Cerys Matthews and arts consultant Steve Abbott could not have got it more right!

When we arrived at the Hawarden Estate we were greeted with the most beautiful blue sky, the sound of music drifting through the trees, campfire smoke still lingering in the late summer air and the promise of an amazing weekend ahead. It felt totally different to any other festival, it was possibly the epitome of laid back, and every single element so carefully considered and soul nurturing. As we wandered around trying to take everything in, a vintage helter skelter loomed above us, there were hay bales, tents and pumpkins aplenty, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I cried with joy at how perfect it was. I felt like I'd come home, like some one had reached inside my heart a spread it out in front of me and every single person there totally felt it too!

I also felt rather overwhelmed because there was so much I wanted to do and see. We walked around the festival site for a while and booked ourselves some workshops for the afternoon then went to put the tent up. I love that even the campsite was relaxed, no pitches or rows but a simple instruction to find a gap and get comfy! It's situated under both the imposing Hawarden Castle and the Old Hawarden Castle ruins (which are just stunning) and after having a nose at some of the beautiful bell tents as we wandered through the site in search of a good spot, then putting up our rather flimsy Argos tent (coupled with me later telling D every five seconds not the touch the inside) we've started some research into buying a bell tent of our own. We actually had a couple of tent related mishaps, one snapped pole and the realisation that we'd brought the wrong air bed pump, but after borrowing a knife and a foot pump from some friendly neighbours, we replaced the pole, pumped up our bed for the night and rejoined the action.

I honestly can't explain how simultaneously excited and serene the whole place made me feel. We explored slowly, stopping to listen to music as we passed, and watching the various workshops taking place. In the Fun Fair field D found a coffee (as ever!) and after discovering that maybe I do like gin after all and getting a taste for something alcoholic I went for a dark and stormy. We watched as children learned tree climbing and an old man who looked like my Grandad rode the helter skelter! The Fun Fair Field also contained the first of two Makers Rows. There were floristry, screen printing and pumpkin carving workshops, leather work, a fascinating knot tier and spoon carving. The Bicycle Academy were building a bike from scratch over the course of the weekend, and the rocking sign atop the Black Cow Saloon welcomed people in for a drink around the camp fire.

We headed to Speakers Corner to listen to Tom Herbert (one half of The Fabulous Baker brothers) and I was again reduced to tears - I totally wasn't expecting his talk 'Which Side is Your Bread Buttered?" to be so inspiring. Over the hour or so he talked, the audience passed around a mixing bowl and whisk, and all together we slowly turned cream into butter. This for me was the essence of Tom's talk, and in a way the whole festival. It was slow. He talked about how the magic of bread happens in the rise, at the point where you've done all the hard work of mixing and kneading and you've looked after it, tucked it up somewhere warm and left it. In this pause, the yeast is given the time and space to grow, and that couldn't happen if you didn't let rest. This same principle could be applied to us as humans, and our attitudes towards self care. Sometimes we get so carried away with the notion of being busy, we forget to stop and give ourselves the time and space to grow. You know how sometimes you have no words for how deeply something resonates with you and you want to clench your fists and screw up your face and shout. That. I was so full of that feeling right there I could almost feel it bubbling up under my eyes!

In the second Makers Row, I fulfilled two of my dreams, one I've held since childhood! Firstly, I got to sit in a real life coracle! A coracle is a type of boat, and I am maybe the only person who remembers this so vividly, but in an episode of Rosie and Jim, the pair snuck off the canal boat and into the workshop of a coracle maker to watch one being made, then went back to the canal boat to make one of their own out of tissue paper and glue. I was seriously obsessed with making a coracle and used to recreate the paper version over and over again so when I realised that the Coracle Society were going to be at the festival you can imagine my excitement! Unfortunately you couldn't have a go on the water, but a real life coracle was good enough for me!

I also signed up to the Raku Firing workshop, something I've been fascinated with since university when the ceramics technician introduced me to it. I'm going to write a post about it in more detail as I adored the whole experience, but in short, it's a glazing and firing process involving sawdust and fire and I am completely in love with the pot I produced. The glazes were applied in a really fluid way and because of the unpredictable nature of the firing there's no way of knowing what your pot will really look like until the very end. The people running the workshop were fantastic, so helpful and inspiring and it was while chatting to one of them that I introduced myself as a blogger with some real conviction for the first time! While we waited for our pots to fire, I chatted with a women from the WI about the importance of making things with our hands, about how fantastic is was that children were getting muddy and setting fires and staying up past their bedtime to eat marshmallows. How the impressionable little people walking round with feathers in the their hair, mud on their faces and carrying their handmade bows and arrows with pride had felt the spark that we both knew so well, the spark of joy that making something with your hands ignites.

The whole festival site felt different as the sun began to set. The lighting was atmospheric, the music a little louder, and the queues for the various food stalls and bars began to lengthen again. The festival was very family friendly (and all the workshops are aimed at adults and children alike) and it was lovely watching children playing outside, wrapped up in wellies and coats well into the evening, so excited that they were still rolling down hills and having hay throwing fights in the dark. And of course, Fairground rides take on a whole new magic when they're lit with fairy lights and the glowing red harvest moon!

We decided on crab rolls and chips from 'Claw' (excellent decision!) and shared a picnic table with some people we'd never met before, and their dog helped us out with our chips! We grabbed blankets from the tent and laid on the grass outside the main stage listening to Fanfare Ciorcarlia, and couldn't feel further away from the stresses of the world.

I felt so grounded and alive and full of magic. This was me. The inside of my head and my heart spread out in front of me under the stars. I tried to sum up that feeling, the one that doesn't have words and makes you've want to screw yourself up into a ball and scream. I just ended up whooping in a field of corn and laughing till I cried.

We awoke to calls of 'Morning' called out between strangers, brushing their teeth or dressing their children outside their dew covered tents. We went in search of breakfast and quickly happened upon porridge and bacon.

The Market Place was next, and it was full of some fascinating people, tea sellers, a lavender farm, vintage shops and indie makers. I met the lovely Amanda Banham who I'd seen previously at a Makers Market in Norwich (a small world indeed!) and added another Observer book to my collection.  Talking of books, Dylan's Mobile Bookstore were running a Blind Date Book club which is a genius idea, a wrapped book with only a hint of the story contained with in. A risk yes, but you might find something wonderful! 

We made our way over to the Campfire Cooking tent and again watched Tom Herbert, this time making sourdough bagels with his family's decades old sourdough starter which totally inspired us to start our own, and we actually went back to the market place to buy a book all about it.

D was booked into a coffee workshop with Allpress later on, and while he got geeky about grinders and weighing out beans I sat in the sun, taking in the atmosphere and wishing I didn't have to leave and Ben Fogle wandered past with his family looking totally at home!

In the afternoon, we went over to the lake to watch the Coracle Society Regatta, and needless to say I loved it! I look about 4 in this photo, wide eyed with excitement - real life coracles!

It was one of the best weekends of my life, and just the perfect way to see out summer. Such a sense of camaraderie and belonging, and I felt like I'd found my tribe. Everything the festival represented for me is everything I want The Salted Tail to become - slow, local, crafted and considered, enlightening and inspiring and dream realising. About moments and memories and only the most beautiful things.

I want people to leave full to the brim with joy and magic and solid understanding of who they are and what they believe in, just as I did as we packed the tent up with heavy hearts on Sunday evening.

Thank you to Pedlars for inviting us along, I could not be more grateful and we're already so excited to return next year. I think this weekend will become tradition for us and I just can't wait to watch the festival evolve even more.

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