Pollyanna

It is so good to be feeling better. 

So, so good.

But I feel like I’ve forgotten how to be normal.

Like I have to overcompensate for my past months of misery by being relentlessly ‘up.’

I feel like people are watching me, waiting for me to slip again. Thinking it’s all an act.

And that makes me worry that it *is* all an act.

If I’m feeling a bit ratty – and don’t we all? – I feel I have to consciously stamp out those feelings. Put on a smile. Be chirpy chirpy cheep cheep.

If I’m feeling snappy hormonal – and yes, it *is* that time of the month – I feel like my husband is watching me, waiting for me to flip out. Overreacting when I rant at the kids. 

It all feels fake.

I feel like I’m being too perky, too ditzy, too Pollyanna. Slightly manic. Slightly fake. And I feel like people are watching me and judging me for that, thinking it’s a sign that I’m going mental again.

Maybe I am. But I don’t feel like I am. I don’t feel sad or desperate or desolate. I don’t want to hurt myself. I just feel like I need to put on this show, this big show that I’m okay. And I don’t know how to do it. I’ve lost touch with how I usually am. What I am like when I am being me. So I’m being this exaggerated version of me. Which is stupid, because I’ve never been super-confident and witty and outgoing and flippant and silly. It’s not me.

And the other dilemma – hot weather. Hot weather that means I am melting in a cardigan. My supposedly well-placed cutting, placed so no one would see it, didn’t factor in summer. So what do I do? Keep my cardi on? Be uncomfortable, and have people wonder why I’m not stripping off? Strip off, and keep my arms artificially pressed to my sides so no one sees what I did to myself? Put a plaster on the worst bits and pretend I’ve had a mole removed? Throw caution to the wind and just let it all hang out, so to speak?

I think I will do the latter on holiday, with my own little family, among people I don’t know and who I will never see again. I think I could even do that with a few close friends who knew what I was doing. But in front of my parents? The playground? That’s where I flounder. Is it better to be honest? Part of me wants to be. But a bigger part knows I will be judged, talked about. The kid gloves treatment will extend even further. And actually, I don’t *want* everyone of my acquaintance to know I’ve been unwell – just as I wouldn’t if I’d had piles. It feels just as shameful. More so, perhaps.

I am so thankful to be so much better, but I’m just beginning to realise that my recovery is only just beginning. I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to navigate it.

Saturday

Full of premenstrual rage.

And regret at late-night drunken Facebooking.

I have flip-flopped from needing people’s support to trying to offer it.

On Monday I will go to see Dr Bagg.

What will I say?

Am I better?

I laughed out loud today, for the first time in ages (my husband got stuck in the car).

Am I better?

I truly don’t know.

If I had a blade right now, I would cut, but is that habit rather than emotion?

I want to hurt.

Eleven questions

I felt very honoured this week, because for the first time ever, I was tagged in a meme by Single Married Mum. The challenge was to answer her 11 thought-provoking questions, and then think up 11 of my own for 11 more bloggers. It’s an interesting one for me, because although I blog a lot about what’s going on with my children, I don’t think I give much away about myself. So, here I am, in 11 random facts…

What word or phrase would you ban?
It has to be, ‘What can I do now?’ as uttered a squillion times a day by The Boy. You have not just a roomful of toys and books, but also an imagination. Why don’t *you* decide? Once upon a time, driven to the brink of insanity, I wrote up a list of 50 ‘things he could do now,’ including tidying his bedroom, dusting the lounge and doing his homework. Strangely, he found something to do then… Continue reading

The quest for shrinkage

I am so cross with myself.

Back at the start of the year, I was the heaviest I’d ever been. At 9st 13lb and five foot tall, my BMI of 27 put me officially in the Overweight category. I knew exactly how I got there; a combination of post-pregnancy sag, reintroducing dairy after six months off it in an attempt to help The Baby’s reflux, reducing to three breastfeeds a day having been doing anywhere up to 12 in a 24-hour period, and, most significantly, too much food and wine.

I hated the way I looked. Until I had children, I’d never had to worry about my weight. As a teenager and young adult, I was tiny. I could eat anything I wanted without changing shape or size. When I got married, 10 years ago, I was under 8st. People used to warn me that my metabolism would change and my weight would catch up on me one day, but I never gave it too much thought. Continue reading

The trials and tribulations of a family cat

We knew our cat was a softy when we got her. The Boy was three and a half at the time, so much as I wanted a cute fluffy kitten, our top priority was a mog who would be tolerant with children. When we met 18-month-old Poppy at the Cats Protection centre, and she immediately prostrated herself at The Boy’s feet, we had a pretty good idea that she’d be good with kids. We weren’t wrong.

Typically, for all his begging and pleading, the novelty of having a cat wore off very quickly for The Boy. DH has never liked her – he’s allergic to cats, and while he’s desensitised to Pops, he resents her on principle. I *do* like her, but I could live without the muddy footprints, wilful destruction of doorframes, dead squirrels and moulting (never get a monochrome cat; they shed white fur when you’re wearing black, and black when you’re wearing white). Continue reading