Acceptance

Hello, my name is Georgia.

I'm sixteen-years-old, living in London, and I'm soon to start my A Level courses (*weeps*). I like binge-watching TV shows on Netflix, badly dancing around to the Hamilton soundtrack and drinking all the tea that I can. Oh, and I'm also gay. I hope you don't mind that.

I was thirteen-years-old when I suddenly developed this crush on a girl in my Year at school, and I was terrified. This was my first major crush, and it was on a girl. I was terrified. I didn't know what to do or who to speak to. Homophobia was a very big problem at my school, and in some cases, it still is. I knew someone who was badly bullied at my school for who they were, they were thrown down the stairs, spat at, verbally abused, etc, to the point that they had no option but to leave the school. Seeing this frightened me, I was already being bullied by a group of girls in my Year, and if I went to somebody about my thoughts and feelings I feared that my bullying would worsen. So for two years, I pretended to be someone I was not, and it made me miserable. I was desperate to fit in. In this space of time, I dated a couple of guys, not because I had a crush on them, but because I still feared what could happen to me if anyone found out that I liked girls. I know that sounds unfair and selfish, but I was suppressing these feelings because then I could be seen as "normal" in the eyes of my peers.

A year later or so, I decided to talk to one of my friends about this crush that I had. He replied saying: "Well, you can't be gay, you've never dated a girl in your life. You're being silly". He then later added: "you might be bisexual". After that, he walked away, and never really spoke to me again afterwards. I nearly cried. I thought that I could trust this person, that they would give me helpful advice, but instead, they came off rude and spaced themselves away from me. It took me several more months to come out to my best friend, who was actually happy about who I was. This gave me some confidence about being proud of my sexuality, and I slowly began to label myself as gay. It was during this period of time where I came out to my main friendship group. where I had found that most of my friends were in the Community themselves. Then I found Youtubes, Dodie Clark, Miles Mckenna and MacDoesIt. All three of these YouTubers are in the Community, Dodie is bisexual, Miles is trans* and Mac is gay. The best thing that I found about these people was that they open about their sexuality and they celebrated that. Seeing this made me so, so happy because it inspired me so much. These LGBT* YouTubers allowed me to accept who I was at a much quicker rate, their videos were so inspiring to watch, and their positive vibes were reflected onto me the more I watched them.

So by late 2016, I had fully accepted the fact that I was gay, and that fear that consumed me and controlled me melted away. For the very first time, I embraced my sexuality with open arms. So in December 2016, I came out to the girls that I had grown up with, and that I was close to. They were overjoyed. But other people started to learn about my sexuality. some didn't care...and others were not happy, let's say. After Christmas break, I experienced my first bout of homophobia. I was getting changed for my PE lesson, where it was only me, a few of my mates and two girls who never really liked me. When my mates had left the changing room, these two girls came up to my face and started to say some horrible things. They went on to call me a "dirty f**king gay", and some worse things, and then they shoved me into the pegs. I left the changing room quite quickly, and I sat in the hall with my friends. A little bit later on, I had a basketball repeatedly thrown at my by a boy. When my friend sprung to my defence, the boy said that he was doing me a favour as he thought he could "beat the gay out of (me)". Needless to say, I was utterly shocked by this.

Around April time, I had to write a speech and present it to the front of my class so that I was allowed to take my English GCSE. It could be about any topic, so I decided to write about my experiences with homophobia. When it came to presenting this speech, I was nervous, but I knew that people needed to know the severity of homophobia. By the time I had finished the speech, I had people come up to me telling me they never knew that homophobia was that big of a problem. My English teacher told me that she was proud of that speech and that I should be proud too. And I was.

If I could go back in time and tell 'lil ol' self that I'm an idiot for hiding from my true self, I would. I was miserable for those years, and now I'm happy with who I am. I get homophobic comments directed towards me every now and again, but I've learnt to ignore them. It took me so long to accept who I was, and if anyone thinks that they can make me feel any different, they are wrong. No-one, and I mean no-one will ever make me feel bad about my sexuality. I'd like to live in a world where homophobia was a thing of the past, and that it doesn't matter how a person identifies, but at the moment, that future is just out of reach. There is no reason to hate someone based on how they identify because, after all, we are all made of the same flesh and blood.

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You're a Weakling

You're weak. The weaker sex. Weak in mind. Weak in everything. You can't even open a bottle of water. Life is about survival of the fittest, weaklings don't survive. What is the point to you?

These are thoughts that have been whirring through my brain for the last few years. Despite the fact that I knew I wasn't well, despite knowing that my lack of strength wasn't entirely my fault, my brain liked to convince me otherwise. And the problem is that the longer my brain poked at me and told me that I was, essentially, a pathetic human being, the weaker I felt myself becoming. I didn't want to fight the voice any longer. I didn't want to survive much longer either.

And this is just one of the issues I have with my brain. Sometimes it can be a struggle to get out of bed. And one point it was because my body was physically unable, sometimes it is because my brain made it emotionally impossible for me to gather up the motivation.

Yet through it all, I still tried to convince myself that I wasn't that weak. Growing up, a lot of my personality stemmed around the fact that I was strong. Not mentally because I don't think I've ever been mentally strong. But physically. I was the one in our female only household who could open the tough jars, the one who could carry the heaviest items. I helped at school doing the things with the boys that some of the girls shied away with. My strength and my muscles made me feel less conscious of my weight. I wasn't just overweight I told myself, I was also overweight because of my muscles that made me strong and capable. 

I never wanted to be one of the men and I never wanted to be one of the strongest women ever, but I was proud of the fact that I wasn't weak. 

So becoming weak has definitely taken it's toll on me. 

It didn't occur to me until recently just how weak my body has become though. After being physically ill for over two years and still not doing much strength exercising, I am at a point where I can barely carry a handful of books without it hurting my arms. And it sucks. 

It occured to me the most when I was moving my furniture and my little sister who was always weaker than me was able to carry items effortlessly whereas I stood with arms shaking and sweat pouring out of my skin, barely able to keep holding on. 

And then on holiday when I went to Go Ape and didn't have the strength to lift myself up over some of the obstacles or even keep myself in a sitting position for a small portion of time. 

My physical strength has gone and it is going to take a lot of emotional strength for me to get it back up to speed. Now that I am feeling better - albeit that's a swinging roundabout at the moment - it is time for me to start getting my strength back. It's going to be a tough and long uphill battle. It is the longest time I've ever gone without properly exercising but I can do it, right?

So every day I am going to wake up and tell my brain that it is wrong. 

I am not a weakling, I am weak today but I will be strong again. You just wait and see.

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Being a Mum with Birth Trauma Related PTSD

In a couple of weeks my son will turn six. It's a time of year that brings up mixed feelings for me. He got so big and he is growing so fast! I enjoy seeing and sharing in his birthday excitement: the joy of him opening gifts, eating cake, having parties with his friends and family, and being the centre of attention. But, it is also a time of sadness and reflection. It's normal, I think, to to be a little nostalgc on your child's birthday. I know people who do this; my Nana enjoys telling me each year about how she remembers the very first time she held me.

 

For me, it is different. My reflections are more specific: 

 

• Midnight: this time 6 years ago I was in hospital
• 11am: this time 6 years ago they took me to theatre
• 11.08am: this time 6 years ago he was born
• 11.12am: this time 6 years ago he took his first breath
• 1.45 pm: I made it out of theatre
• 24 hours later: I held him for the first time

 

Some years, the memories have been overwhelming, the nightmares in the build up to the event focusing on giving birth all over again but never getting my baby. Other years, I have obsessed over what I remember and what I have been told, and the gaps in my own memory terrify me. One year, I tried to hold my breath for the 4 and a half minutes it took him to breathe to see if it was possible (spoiler: is isn't). I can lose hours to just staring and remembering, or trying to; running the story over and over in my head until I make some sense out of it, or asking ridiculous questions of my husband. 

 

I suffer from birth trauma related PTSD. I promise that's a real thing. I've had many people suggest to me that PTSD isn't something you get from giving birth- after all childbirth is completely natural and wonderful and women do it every day. They do. But for some women it is horrific, terrifying and as far from natural as you could possibly imagine. I'm one of those women (if you want to read more about it, I've posted on my own blog here and here). 

 

I've been told that I shouldn't dwell on these things, as though it is entirely within my control. Being a mum with a mental health difficulty (particularly one surrounding your child's birth), seems to open you up to a lot of criticism and judgement (mainly from other mums). Because you are a mum you are supposed to be perfect, you are supposed to think all things related to your child are the best things to ever happen to you, and you are supposed to constantly feel #soblessed. 

 

I've had many people say to me:

 

• You'd do it all again though, wouldn't you?
• At least you're both alive.
• You have a child now, this isn't about you. 

 

To respond in order: no, I would not; that's great but it doesn't change my feelings; I complained about that particular midwife. 

 

Let me be clear: I don't want to dwell on these things. I want to enjoy being a mother without the upsetting memories. I want to celebrate my friends' pregnancies without fearing for them; I want to celebrate births without feeling a stab in the heart of envy and grief for the happiness we didn't get; I want to not feel guilty and second guess all the parenting decisions I made in the early days. I want to be completely okay and happy with the fact that I will only ever have my one child. I want to not care what other people think about this. 

 

My child is one of the best things to have happened in my life, but his birth is the worst.  

 

 

I am learning to separate these things, and I wish others would too. 

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I am Charlotte, Somewhere: wife, mother, cocker spaniel owner and someday Queen of the Universe. I can almost always be found with my face in a book and a coffee in hand. When I'm not reading, I also like writing, knitting, crafty things, baking, eating, walking, taking photos, watching traumatising medical dramas and nurturing a close relationship with my sofa and blankets.

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Another Year Further Away

Friday it was my birthday. It's not often something I shout out about and so this post is an odd one for me. Personally I very much dislike being the centre of attention. I much prefer hiding away in the background and just nodding along rather than having everyone look at me. I like the parties and gathering with friends and family to celebrate but only when all eyes and attention isn't stone focused on me. I thought I might grow out of this as I got older but no. So instead I use my birthday as a day to just enjoy being me. Whatever that means. This year it means I am on the last day of my holiday and I am treating myself to food made for me, lunch with my family and then an evening meal out with a handful of friends. Because that is what I wanted to do. And that is the only thing about birthdays that I like.

It is my day to do what I like and everyone just accepts that. 

But that is not what I want to talk about today. Today I want to talk about how I am now 27 and life isn't exactly going to "plan" and how I've come to terms with it - sort of.

When I was a naive teenager and we talked about THE FUTURE, I was always sure that at 25 I would have a child. Not the normal way mind you - I have NEVER wanted to be pregnant - but I imagined that I would have adopted by now and be all settled down and enjoying life and looking after a loved one. I also believed that I would be with a guy and that we would be close if not actually married. Of course, I was just sixteen and unaware of what would happen but all I can think now is how far away I am from those things happening.

So far away in fact that I'm starting to wonder if they'll ever happen.

I still want a child or two and I still want to adopt. But because I want to adopt and not just have a baby the natural way, I know that it will be so much harder to do. I will have to prove that I am a GOOD person and that I am financially stable and that I can keep a roof over their heads. I have to show that I am basically not going to fuck up the childs life. And doing all of this without a partner? Yeah, I'll have to work twice as hard.

And at the moment I am so NOT READY for that. As you may have read last week, I just moved back to my mums so I am certainly not able to provide a roof for a child. I am also working two jobs in two towns that are TWO HOURS away from each other. I can't exactly continue doing that if I want a kid. And I cannot even fathom being financially stable. In this climax where it is staggeringly hard to get a job with a decent income to cover the expenses of ONE person let alone TWO just seems impossible in this financial climate. And if I can't keep my own head above the water, I certainly don't want to bring a child into the mix.

So yeah, the kid or kids will definitely not be happening soon. At the moment I can't even forsee it happening in the next three years which is actually making me pretty sad to think about.

Then there's the partner. As you may know, I am an asexual. Which should not effect my relationships but it does but because I don't feel COMFORTABLE with the idea of being in a relationship. I've always told myself that I just need to feel more settled in my life and then I can focus on the other half but now I'm worried I'll never be settled but also that it has been SO LONG since I was last in a relationship that I won't be a good girlfriend anyway. I like my independence and freedom too much to even imagine someone else filling a room. I want to find love, I do. But I also feel like I don't need it to complete me. So I'm not exactly LOOKING. So who knows if that will ever happen. And then when it does, how do I let them down by admitting that I will never want sex. Who would want a partner like that?

So yeah, no marriage on the horizon either. (Although I also don't know anymore that I even want to get married anyway)

So none of my plans have happened.

I am 27 and I am living with my mum. I am 27 and I don't have a career. I am 27 and I have no savings. 

But I am also 27 and enjoying my independence and freedom. I am 27 and I have my own business. I am 27 and I am more or less happy. 

I am 27 and I have hopes for the future.

So I'm not where I wanted or expected to be but that's okay because I'm still alive and I'm still on a journey and I am sure that one day things will come together. Maybe not as I always imagined, but maybe it'll be better.

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Moving House with OCD and Anxieties

If you've been keeping an eye on my twitter lately than you may have noticed that I recently moved house. I knew that this was going to be tough. As someone with OCD and anxiety, change is not easy for me to deal with. But I didn't quite realise just how difficult everything was going to be. I've been putting on a brave face in front of people, because even though I know my mental health does not make me weak, it still makes me feel weak. But in all honesty, this past month I have struggled more than I have in a very long time. It was enough to make me wonder if my meds weren't strong enough.

I want to say that one of the saving graces was that I was moving back to my mum's house but I think actually this made everything - mental health wise at least - that little bit worse. Because as much as I love my mum and my sister and my step dad, living with them is a very different thing. More than that, I know that they know I have issues but they're very much "get over it" people as opposed to "it's okay" people. Which is obviously difficult but totally fine because I know they love me. But living in that environment is quite different to living more or less alone. 

So my brain has had to get used to this and I'm feeling a bit better. Being in the house has definitely made me realise that if things get too much, I can just escape to my bedroom. While we do like to spend time as a family, we are all also very considerate to know that alone time is okay too. And this has helped me to calm my OCD and anxieties about moving home.

But with moving home also came getting rid of stuff. I really wanted to move from my shared flat to my own flat. Then I could have taken all of my belongings with me and it would have been fine. Instead I had to downsize. I moved from a fairly decent sized single (it could have fit a double bed in it) room into what is essentially a box room. It is literally a square room. The length of a single bed, the width of a single bed. This meant that I couldn't have all the furniture I once had. (Bed, bedside cabinet, desk, two bookcases, chest of drawers, double wardrobe) I now have a bed, bedside cabinet, one bookcase, chest of drawers and have since purchased some more plastic storage drawers - NO wardrobe). With less furniture comes less space to store my belongings.

And thus, for the last month and a bit I have had to go through everything I own and decide if I want to keep it or throw it away. And I know for someone without mental health issues this can be tough, so for me it was horrid. It took me longer than it should have because I kept having to stop to collect my thoughts and ground myself. Remind myself that it is okay to get rid of things. That they would be going to better places, potentially helping someone else who needs them.

In the end it took four trips to the recycling centre to get rid of all of the stuff I had to dispose of. Plus it has taken a lot of trips to the post office to send out book post to friends and bloggers and quite a few trips to charity shops to get rid of the rest. Heartbreaking isn't really a big enough word to describe my feelings on it all. I keep panicking that I've made a huge mistake. What if I got rid of the wrong books? What if I got rid of something I really need?

But aside from just the packing and chucking, there was also a massive issue with the actual move. As you may have noticed I took some of my furniture with me to my mums but I wasn't able to sort this on my own. In fact, I didn't really move any of my stuff on my own because ever since getting ill but strength has been sapped away from me. (more on that later, I'm sure), and so I had to enlist people to help. Which is normal and should have been fine, right?

Except it wasn't. Because watching someone else carry my things, no matter how careful they were with them, was soul crushing. My control was gone and I wanted to just sit and cry. I felt uncomfortable and lost. It was so, so difficult. It had to be done but I think a part of me felt like it was dying inside.

Now I have a room that is mostly finished. Most of the boxes have been unpacked and my things have been given new places to live and it feels like mine and me and I like waking up in the morning - and the cats being around is also definitely nice - but there's still a part of me that is devastated that it's not the place I woke up in for the last three years nor that it is my own new place.

As far as I'm concerned, I've gone backwards.

But what is ultimately worse is that the move has been so stressful and soul wrenching that I don't know when I'm going to be ready to do it again. I know I have to because I do not want to live with my mum forever but as much as I don't want to still be there a year from today, I also don't want to have to go through all of this again in a few months time.

For now, I guess I just need to wait and see how it goes. To try and just let myself get settled in the place I'm in and go from there.

I still don't feel okay within myself but maybe one day soon I will be.

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