I am challenging myself to write a post every single day in May, to kickstart my writing again. I will be following some prompt words that I ‘stole’ from somebody on instagram. Here is my eighth post.

Sometimes you think someone is playing a prank on you. Someone very close to you.

But then reality creeps in. Rears its ugly, ugly head. And five years of relative bliss flood down a slimy drainpipe.

Because no. It is not a prank.

It is very real.

People surprise you everyday. Don’t trust anybody but yourself.


I am extremely nervous. I start my first day at a new job tomorrow – as a supply teacher! I don’t know which school I will be teaching at, I don’t know where it is or how far it is. All I know is that I have to be ready by 7:30PM sharp, and will have to leave at the drop of a hat.

I don’t know what kind of kids I will be teaching, and that worries me the most. I am really good with the younger ones; its the older ones I am dubious about. You can get some right messes at school; and its dealing with them delicately whilst grasping at shreds of wisdom that is tricky.

I am afraid of KIDS. But I will not show them, of course. I will march in there like a Trunchbull and show them who’s boss. I can be quite mean when I want to be. But I have never been in that situation before, so I really don’t know what to expect. You never know with kids.

I am exiting my comfort zone, that’s what, and the thought of it churns in my stomach like acid and worms.


My mother doesn’t like to talk about things. I don’t know why, she is just like that. My mother is half blind because of an accident leading to a retina detachment. It hinders her greatly, because it would anybody – to go from being able to see just fine to being part blind.

She still carries on with life, though. And she never ever talks about it. And she gets very annoyed when I ask her about it, so I don’t.

I respect that she doesn’t want to talk about it. Maybe that is her way of dealing with it.

I don’t think I understand my mother very well. I think we are very different. She is more similar to my sister than she is me. They are both very stubborn, which is why they don’t get along most of the time. It isn’t pretty. It makes me very sad.

Today I accidentally found out that my mother might have cancer. She would never have told me. She doesn’t know yet. She is still waiting for results. But she has cysts in her uterus and a high number of white blood cells. But the specialist will be able to determine if she does or not.

She did not want to tell me because I worry too much. Which I understand and respect. But I wish she did tell me. I told her I was not worried and will only worry when the time is right to. I don’t want her to worry about me worrying. I want her to be relaxed and peaceful.

So I left my mother’s home and came to where I live and I have sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. Which is so ridiculous because nothing is definite. But. I just. I just thought about all the suffering she goes through. And how rude and disrespectful my brother and sister are to her. And how upset that makes her. And how nasty I used to be back when I was a rebellious little witch.

And. How I can never forgive myself for putting her through hell.

And. How she sacrificed EVERYTHING for me. For us. Her health. Her happiness. Her stability in marriage. Her life. Her career.

And. If it is bad. And if she is sick. I want her to be happy. I just want her to be happy. I just want


to be


I am really upset. And I shouldn’t be because this is not about me, it is about her. So I am only going to show her happiness. I am never going to cry in front of her because that will hurt her. I am only going to be good and kind and make her laugh with my ridiculous stories and listen to her and take her out and treat her to a John Lewis facial because those are super luxurious – and I am going to make sure my siblings buck up and move their sorry asses and help her out.

If they don’t they will have a furious big sister to deal with.

And I just want my mother to be happy. Did I mention that?

My mother is everything to me. She is my whole world. She made me who I am today. I hear her voice in the background of everything that I do. I hear her encouragement and her soft support behind all these words that I write. My mother is one in a trillion humans. There is nobody like her on earth. I know she will love me when all my hair falls out and when I am a fat blob of misery. She will tell me to dry my tears and stop being so silly. She will stomp on my self doubts and tell me I am so beautiful and wise and interesting.

If I don’t have my mother, I don’t have the earth at my fingertips.




I want an epiphany moment.

I want to just get in my car and drive somewhere nice and have a right laugh and just.. let… go.

I realised that I have never, in my entire life, ever, ever ever ever let go.

Just let go.

Sometimes I have to force my mind to enjoy something I KNOW I love, but it is not truly carefree or heartfelt.

I always worry!

Even my laughter is checked. My hand will shoot over my mouth, and I will hunch my shoulders a little. I have never thrown my head back and laughed truly, deeply from the pit of my stomach. I worry my teeth might be too ugly and I hate my smile. I think it’s the cheesiest smile ever.

I have laughed myself to tears, of course. But never a belly laugh.

My sense of enjoyment and humour is checked too. I used to be a witty creature, back when my friends and I would hang out all day at school then call each other after school under the pretext of homework but we would always end up chatting about everything.. four hours.

I was with the kids yesterday and it was a party day because it’s the penultimate day of school, and I couldn’t get myself to really laugh and enjoy the moment. I worried the teacher would disprove or that I was doing something wrong. I wanted to make up and play so many games but I was worried the kids would think it was lame.

I worry too much about how I will end up looking or sounding that I end up stifling myself.

And I don’t want to do that! I am 22, almost thirty!

When I am cycling freely down a hill, wind whipping through my hair and slamming into my face, cool and refreshing, I worry about my brakes and the hard concrete below. It’s adrenaline inducing, and not an entirely unpleasant feeling, but it stops me enjoying the freedom and going as fast as I want to go.

So. I haven’t yet had the epiphany one has, at an age of their life, when they shrug off all concern and worry, and just enjoy the moment for what it is.

Sometimes my moments are horrendously ruined for me because I am a morbid old soul and think about death on a roller coaster, or my manipulative and abusive tormentor when I am on a special date. Then it all goes sour and what is supposed to be a great memory is marred by anxiety and sadness.

I am worried in the cinema because I don’t want to die in the cinema. It’s too loud and crashy and my soul doesn’t feel that great there. Weird, right?

My soul is special needs (insert joke face here). It doesn’t feel comfortable in some places. Or maybe it isn’t my soul and just my mental state.

So, folks, I want an epiphany. I want not to worry. I want a ‘hurrah’ moment where my shoulders are suddenly so light and airy and I can sail down that hill without ruining my joy.

What was your epiphany, if you have ever had one?


How to Stop Worrying and Start Living

I think that all of our issues and situations are what we make them. We can tolerate things that are beyond our control. We can react calmly, and assess the situation logically. Or we can have a panic attack and roam the airport waiting room, sad music of our own creation resounding in our brains as we bemoan the imaginary loss of an unformed infant.

I think that I learnt this very profoundly this week.

My body was aching and exhausted when the cramps began. Then the blood began to flow. I panicked and googled feverishly, but I carried on as usual. I told myself I wouldn’t cry until I knew for certain. When ‘it’ happened, and I was sitting in the bathroom staring at ‘it’, there were no tears. After I emerged, and my eyes met my husband’s across the hotel lobby, and he nodded at me and picked up my bag, we walked for some time in complete silence. In the airport it hit me with full force and I reacted as a child might have done. I was moody and off with anybody who I had to talk to, even my husband. I cried a little in the bathroom.

“Stay with me. Stay strong” my husband said, numerous times.

‘What does that even mean?’ I wondered.

I wasn’t breaking down. I wasn’t saturated in grief. I was still me.

When the plane took off, and my fear of flying began to kick in, my fingers gripping my husband’s until the area where my skin met his was white and bloodless, I felt a panic attack coming on.

Oh no. The plane is shaking. The seatbelt sign came on. God why did it come on. Why is the attendant speaking to the pilot. Does she look worried? Make that man shut up, I can’t hear the engines. Why are the engines making that noise. Oh my GOD. Oh My God. I am going to die, this is it. It’s over. Ok. We’re going to crash. We’re shaking so much. This cannot be normal.

Heavy breathing. Heart pumping. Blood roaring in my ears. It was happening. My vision was suddenly clouding.

Then I sat up a little and took my hands back. Why? Why worry. Why dramatise things. Why live in my head and not in reality. Yes. You lost a pregnancy at 5 weeks. Did you really lose it? You aren’t sure yet. You haven’t seen a doctor. Are you a doctor? No. Why jump to conclusions. Yes, the plane is shaking. Doesn’t it always? And don’t you always go through this gut wrenching fear? Whatever for, for heaven’s sake! You’re still here aren’t you!

Is it worth it?

I found out what Damian means when he says ‘stay with me’. He wants me to stay in reality with him, and not migrate into my head, and live my own dramatised, illogical life there.

I don’t know if a lot of people are guilty of that. If any of you are, it’s going to be okay. A few sleeps, some hours, and you will emerge again. And if you don’t, you’re dead, and it won’t matter anymore.

My grandmother was a worrier. She worried until her poor heart gave up on her. She worried until her last breath, over the slightest thing.

She owned this book:


On Matters of the Heart

I think Downton Abbey ‘triggered’ me yesterday when I watched the *spoiler* scene where Lord Grantham’s ulcer burst while at dinner, resulting in an explosion of blood-vomit all over the table and the shocked diners.

It would have been quite a comedic scene, if it wasn’t for its sobriety. It was quite uncharacteristic of Downton Abbey, and then when Lord Grantham lay in a puddle of blood and his wife told him she was there for him, and not to worry, I began to cry uncontrollably.

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t upset about Lord Grantham, I am not so invested in the characters of Downton Abbey that their fates would bring me to tears.

That scene made me think about things which are very close to my heart. Namely that my father who is 53 (which isn’t very old, but he is an overworked gentleman and it shows) lives abroad and works very hard to support his wife and children, his mother and his widowed sister. He works at all hours, and lives alone in a lonely country.

And if anything were to happen to him, like what happened to Lord Grantham, nobody would know, and nobody would be there like Lady Grantham was for her husband. We wouldn’t be there for him and that hurts so very badly, so I spent the rest of the episode sobbing my heart out. I called my father straight away, and didn’t tell him how worried I am about him, but we spoke of cheerful things and it was lovely, but my heart hurts.

I think that enough is quite enough, and it’s time he came home to his family.

 I miss him very very much, and it’s been five years of hurried glimpses, a two week span here and there, and I just want my father back now.